by Julie Olivia
I laugh and continue.
He peers over at me, leaning the side of his curved jaw into his palm. “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?”
Although I want to come back with something sassy, his current smoldering stare only spurs my pride onward.
“Have faith,” I say.
Owen chuckles, and the sound is deep and throaty like he just woke up from a long nap or is lacking sleep. Now that I am taking a good look at his open program and parsing through the issue, I can understand why.
When Owen finds his place closer to me, angled so he can see the screen I’ve commandeered, his arm inadvertently touches me. My shoulder reaches only midway up his, but I can feel the bulge of his muscles pressing into me, his scent warming me quicker than the heat from his jumper seeping through my denim jacket. Any other bout of laughter I had coming on is now completely stifled by his touch.
I don’t remember the last time a man was this close to me, at least not by choice. I’m bound to be back to back every time I ride the subway, even once standing so close to a man nearly double my height that his arse was able to fit right atop mine like a very uncomfortable and unwelcome puzzle piece. But Owen’s shoulder leaning close to me is not the result of a midday rush on the train or some awkward inconvenient situation in which you have to exchange pleading smiles, hoping the stranger next to you isn’t a complete creeper.
Good lord, any closer and I might be drooling down my front—but I’m better than that. I’m here to help with computer issues as requested, not be a silly fangirl falling for this deliciously geeky man.
“Oy,” I state, jutting out an elbow to scoot his shoulder away from mine.
Owen shakes his head, laughing before leaning back in his chair once more. The distance between us helps me breathe again, though I do wish I had allowed him to stay.
“Okay,” I say, shaking out my hair and pulling it up into a ponytail, straightening my spine, and clearing my throat.
“Are you building up to something great?”
“Remember, you called me,” I say, running my hands over the keyboard before letting them puppies fly across it of their own free will.
I try to concentrate on the screen in front of me rather than the most seductive shoulder in history. “Have you tried…” My voice trails off as I whip through every option bouncing through my head.
BOMP.
“Yikes, that is a frightening sound,” I whisper, more to myself than him, seeing only a distant waving of arms in my peripheral vision, what I can only assume is an agreeing gesture from Owen.
I continue onward, receiving only a few more BOMPs before Owen begins reaching over my forearms, no doubt to mute his computer, but in one swift movement, I slap his hand away and continue typing.
“Let’s not disturb—” he says, but I slap his wrist again, and I try not to linger on his partially laughing “Hey!” afterward. One more second, two more, then I barely hear myself mutter, “Another try…” before pressing the ENTER key and hearing no resulting error message from Hell.
I inhale sharply, turning at the waist to look at Owen, whose eyebrows are furrowed inward once more, flabbergasted by the error-free screen in front of him.
“Wow.” The words leave his mouth like air finding its way home but taking the scenic route. His long fingers grasp the corner of the laptop’s base to slide it back to his side of the table. I can see the screen reflected in his glasses as his eyes bounce across every bit of code as if trying to decipher it himself. But no, sir. That was me. All me.
“Yeah, I know,” I say simply. “I’m brilliant.”
“You did that so fast,” he says breathlessly.
I narrow my eyes instinctually. His voice, though still amazed, rings with disbelief as well. Almost sarcasm, if I had to guess, but I also don’t know Owen very well. From the little interaction I’ve had, it could also just be his timbre and how he addresses an unsolvable issue that is now magically solved.
“Was this just a way to make me feel useful?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.
His eyes jolt to meet mine, like a spark of lighting finding its rod. It takes a small moment of his eyes searching mine before the corner of his lips tip up.
“If you knew how much sleep I lost over this, you wouldn’t be asking that question.”
I smile at the bluntness of his answer. The dark circles under his eyes provide all the evidence I need that he’s telling the truth.
Owen exhales, scooting his laptop away and standing to give a large stretch, like a man relieved of a giant weight on his shoulders. The taut pull of his jumper against his arms is not overlooked by me, or probably anyone in the café. It’s only a second before—oh, yes, there it goes—his top tugs just slightly above his jeans and there’s the sliver of hardened stomach and a rolling abdominal ridge.
Please and thank you.
“Can I get you a tea?” he asks, mid-stretch. His voice is strained, and I have to work hard to garble up some form of intelligible answer.
“I’ll get my own, thanks,” I say, throwing a thumb over to the counter.
“No way. I’m buying it. You really saved me there.”
“Please let me buy my own drinks,” I repeat, pressing my back into the chair and crossing my arms.
He lowers from his stretch, letting his arms swing down and rolling his neck from side to side like a boxer prepping for a match. “So defiant.”
I smirk. “A defiant woman who just fixed your issue.”
Owen extends an index finger in my direction. “Which I would like to discuss, by the way.”
My lips twist to the side. “No, I think I’ll keep it my secret.”
“But it was my issue.”
“And my solution.”
Owen looks off to the side, biting the inside of his cheek, as it seems common for him to do, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he can deal with my attitude at the moment. When he returns his eyes back to me, crossed arms follow.
“Do you commonly work in teams?” he asks.
“Oddly enough, no.”
“That’s probably not as odd as you would think.”
“Meaning?”
He laughs, deep where I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing in enjoyment of it all. “You don’t work well with others.”
“I like things done right,” I say matter-of-factly.
Owen smiles. “We have that in common.”
I can’t help but smile in return as I lift an eyebrow and nod in the direction of his laptop. “Well then, you’re welcome.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t say anything else, looking me over instead, as if trying to decipher me like my work on the computer. But, as with the work, I’m an unsolvable enigma to this man. I prefer it this way. The men who think they can decode me are the same ones who find a way to break me.
“So, since we’re already here, do you have time to hang out?” he asks. After my bout of disagreement with the tea, I assume he’s called it quits because he takes his seat once more, resting one leg over the other, crossing ankle over knee. “I told my coworkers I’d be back in an hour, but you apparently didn’t need all that time.”
His position irks me, like a tiny tick in my brain I need to extract. It’s the relaxed gesture, the smooth way he transitioned from being shockingly impressed back to maintaining control over the interaction, like me solving his unsolvable problem was startling.
“Do strong women intimidate you, Elijah Owen?” I ask.
I know exactly what I expect from that question. I anticipate a man stunned to silence, stuttering over his own words, blabbering about how he supports all types of women in STEM careers, or how, back in college, he dated a particularly abrasive vice president of a club. But no. I get nothing of the sort.
Owen’s response is instant. A half-smile tugs at his mouth and his head cocks to the side, his raven hair mussed up, pieces curling down to frame his deep gaze.
“No,” he says. “I very mu
ch like strong women, Francesca Evans.”
All of me tightens in less than a second—everything from my gut to the fist curled in the crook of my elbow, all the way down to the muscles between my thighs.
I hear nothing in that moment—not the honking of cars outside, the clinking of spoons against mugs, the clacking of heels and squeaking of sneakers on the linoleum floor of the café. However, I do feel as if I hear the ticking of the watch on his wrist. When I look at it, I notice the seconds passing by as smoothly as its finely crafted face—the slow, agonizing drift of the long arm dipping slightly out then back in to indicate one moment passing into the next.
Everyone has their attraction boiling points: a nice smile, broad shoulders, muscled legs. Mine have always been wrists. Sure, hands are lovely—large, opportunistic, and dexterous. But wrists…it’s something about the bone. The strength behind it. When I imagine what a man can do to me, I don’t imagine his fingers because, quite frankly, I can’t see fingers as they trail my cheek, pull my bottom lip, or curl into me from between my legs. But I can see the wrists, and I know exactly what type of wrists belong to men who know how to navigate a woman: coiled with veins, thick but bony and strong.
I notice in this moment, paired with a slowly ticking watch, that Elijah Owen has quite good wrists.
“You remembered my full name,” I say, surprised I didn’t croak out the words. Not that remembering my name was even the feat—it was the deep tone in which he said it. Here lies Fran, dead from swoony voices.
“I have a great memory. What else impresses you?”
Heat rises up my chest and to my face, lingering near my cheeks, where I hope I haven’t drooled out every drop of water in my system.
“I’ll ask the questions,” I say, a nervous stutter finally betraying me. This breaks the spell. The intensity of our gazes snaps, and a flood of noises comes in. The sounds of New York have never felt so loud.
Do strong women intimidate you? I asked. If so, who cares, because he’s clearly not looking at one. I’m a blubbering fool, malleable like putty for him. Kill me now.
Owen chuckles, looking away once more and running a hand through his hair. “Okay, then ask away.”
Is this how the game is played? A duel of wits and banter? I’m not sure. I never had this type of play with David or Rory. It was cute glances, a well-placed wink, a typical one-liner that kept you begging for more—but all of that pales in comparison to what Owen provides. He can hold his own. His responses don’t want me begging for more; they have me needing more.
It’s absolutely disgusting.
“Now, Mr. Owen, have you always known you wanted to own a business?” I ask, steepling my fingers on the table, trying to gather any part of me back into a reasonable woman.
“You googled me,” Owen responds, faster than a bullet finding its mark.
The corners of my mouth quirk up. “I showed my hand, didn’t I?”
“Flashed it,” he says.
I was never talented at poker, or really any card games. Natalie makes sure to rub that in my face at least once a year at family gatherings. I have a theory that the reason my mum moved was due to the distress of having a daughter who couldn’t properly play Uno, or maybe because that daughter got so irrationally upset when she lost.
“Anyway, no,” Owen continues, sucking in air and leaning his chin on the inside of his palm. “I didn’t always want to own a business. I always just liked pentesting, you know? Getting into the places I shouldn’t and whatever.”
“Were you the type of brilliant adolescent who snuck into abandoned buildings?”
I waggle my eyebrows and he smiles—the delicious smile of a man intrigued.
“Do I look the type?” he asks.
I bite my lip, unable to stop myself. “You act the type.”
“Unpredictable?”
“You’re curious,” I say. “But quite predictable, I think.”
“And why is that?” Owen’s response is quick, eyes narrowed, but I have no answer because he’s been very unpredictable up to this point.
I throw my chin out and up. “Go on with your story.”
He breathes in, chin tucked as he continues. “Right. So, my old business partner Ryan was always the one who had these big ideas and plans and whatnot.” His hands wave in the air, representing the ideas floating around. “It turns out I was the one with the ‘entrepreneurial spirit,’ as they call it.” He makes air quotes and shrugs. It’s too adorable. “I’m…better with employees, I guess.”
“Seems to me like you only hire friends.”
He lets my small jab settle in, a tick in his jaw twitching slightly before he smiles and answers. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by me or if my quippy comments are driving him wild. It’s a toss-up with most men, but I like to take my chances.
“For the record,” he says, “Emma was not a friend beforehand, believe it or not. She just kind of…pushed her way into our lives.” His hands go palm out into the air. I’m noticing he’s a hand-talker, reminding me of my father’s family. “We like her, though.”
“We?” I ask the question, but I already know the answer. I found his employees on social media. You have Emma, the young fairy, and Taylor, whose profile picture could be likened to a tattooed, graceful Morticia Addams.
Owen leans forward again. I’m starting to resent that motion, because every time it occurs, I get that waft of sandalwood. Plus, normally His Lean ™ comes with an equal and opposite eyebrow arch, and honestly my stomach can’t take another barrel roll.
“Don’t act like you don’t know, Fran,” he says, his voice lowered as if accusing me of a crime. If a few hours of mindless stalking is a crime then sure, lock me up, officer. Guilty as charged. Place me in with the other women who’ve met Elijah Owen. We’re all slowly descending into madness, I’m sure.
“I may have found you have only two employees,” I say.
Two women, to be exact. I never know what to think when I see things like that, and this is no different. Is he into a whole harem deal where he likes to surround himself with fawning women? That was my initial thought, but then the little nagging voice in my head whispered, Oh but what if he’s progressive and wants to promote women in tech? I hate this voice because it sheds a very bright light on him that I really don’t want or need right now. Any brighter of a light on his face and he’d need those Ray-Ban shades that make anyone look like Johnny Depp playing a cool undercover high school cop.
Oh god, his face does look like a young Johnny Depp, doesn’t it?
“Yeah, they’re the only people keeping me sane,” Owen says. I try to focus. “They’re smart as whips too.”
“Smarter than you?” I ask. It comes out before I can stop it.
“Why are you so focused on people being smarter than me?” he asks, leaning back in his chair once more, folding his hands and lacing the fingers together as if in thought. “Because, and I promise you, many people are. I’m just a guy who learned how to code.”
Oh, look at me, I’m a hot man who taught myself a career!
“You’re so modest,” I say.
“And you’re so readily against me,” he says. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Come on, Fran.”
I had a therapist once. My first session started with her hair in a fine bun, pencil poised on the paper, only to end with her locks down in tangles down by her shoulders and pages of her notebook scribbled on everywhere but the margins.
I think she said I have daddy issues. That makes sense. Count David, Rory, and whoever else you like—I tend toward men who leave me.
“Conversation for another day, I’m afraid,” I say.
“Well at least there’s a promise of another day.” Owen’s hands slap his knees as if the decision is final and can’t be taken back. “I’m surprised you’re not running out the door.”
“It’s never too late.”
He laughs, and I want more of it.
“Can I tell you
something, Fran?” he asks, his gaze drifting from out the window and back to me.
“I think you might tell me either way.”
He lets out a small hum of noise that for a split second sounds oddly similar to a low growl, as if he couldn’t even hold the sound back before starting once more. It’s animalistic. Am I driving him crazy? That would be par for the course.
“This is interesting.”
“This?” I ask.
“You and me. This…” His mouth twists to the side in thought before opening once more and pausing, as if the words are rendering in his throat. His mouth closes and he lets out a quick laugh then continues. “Well, this.” He squints. “Am I making any sense?”
“I’m sorry, no,” I respond. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a laugh, but I can’t resist the smile creeping up along my cheeks.
“That’s alright,” he says. “Maybe I’m just thinking out loud.”
“Tell me your next thought then.”
“Boy, I wish you’d let me buy you a drink.”
Like gunfire yet again, rapid and to the point. In a game of Monopoly, he would not pass GO or collect two hundred dollars.
I like our back and forth. I like the mental gymnastics and circular hoops required when talking to Owen. I like the way he smiles, sly and secret as if he’s just planning his next move on the chess board. But I don’t like this direction. I didn’t move to New York to get started with yet another man I don’t know and can’t trust.
The issue is that I’m attracted to Owen, and for some reason, I do trust him.
There. I said it in my mind. It is official—and it’s going nowhere. I can’t shake it off, I can’t stop looking at his wrists, and I can’t stop swooning at every twitch of his lip like a man seducing me into a kiss. It’s almost as fun as having static on your pants after a long day, which is to say I hate it.
My mobile buzzes beside me, which gives me an opportunity to break from his eager glance. It’s a simple work email, nothing serious, a quick check-in from another team inquiring about a backend issue.
“I should go,” I say.
The poor man’s face falls as if I just told him the holidays are cancelled this year. Even in despair, he’s beautiful.
