Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel) (7 page)

Chapter Eight

“You’re good.”

Owen grins at me as he swims past. I quirk a brow.

“Good at what?”

He turns in the water. “Swimming.”

He’s got the smooth, even, extended strokes of someone with obvious experience. I tread water as I watch him.

“Not nearly as good as you are. Swim team?”

He gives a shrug as he turns back to face me. “Yeah, in high school. And college.”

I nod. “It shows.”

“Well, I was never great at competitive team sports and I hated shit like golf and tennis, so I tried swimming as a freshman and I loved it.”

I push out away from the side and do an improvised freestyle in a circle around him.

“I only ever did theatre in high school. Well, and cheerleading.”

Owen chuckles as he reaches the side of the pool. He backs up against the wall and leans back, propping both of his elbows up on the edge.

“A cheerleader, huh? Were you a base or a flyer?”

I tilt my head in curiosity. “You know cheerleading terminology?”

He grins. “My little sister was competitive. She actually works at a dance studio now and she credits her cheerleading for her skills.”

“Wow, that’s awesome.”

I come over to the other side of him and press my front up against the side of the pool, suddenly reminded of how revealing this non-revealing suit ended up becoming on my body.

“So, base or flyer?” he asks again.

“Base,” I say. “But I liked the dancing best. The tumbling and stuff was what I lived for. When I got my back handspring mastered, I felt like a rock star.”

He nods. “That’s what Beth—my little sister—that’s what she says, too. She loved the athletics and the gymnastics of the entire thing.”

I cross my arms and lay my head down on them, looking at Owen. Something about the pool and the water makes him look younger. I know that we’re the same age, but the whole “him being my boss” thing makes me feel years younger than him on most days. Right now, we feel . . . equal.

It’s like we’re on a weird, wet pool date.

And, let’s face it: I can’t deny the sexiness of the surroundings. The dim light and cool, blue pool make everything seem somehow otherworldly. Which, I guess, is what makes this entire scenario so acceptable.

“So, if I ask you to do a cheer for me, would you do it?”

I look over at Owen with wide eyes. He’s grinning, clearly pleased with my reaction, and he looks so damn sexy with his hair slicked back away from his face.

“Um, no. Never.”

“Why not? Would your boyfriend mind?”

I freeze. He’s watching me, gazing at my facial expressions so closely, and I snort a laugh.

“So, was that your incredibly non-subtle way of asking me if I have a boyfriend?”

Owen shrugs, then pushes off from the wall, swimming backwards. Swimming away from me.

“Perhaps,” he says over his shoulder. I can’t help but grin as I shake my head.

“Don’t you think I would have mentioned a boyfriend by now?”

Owen turns back around. His eyes appear uncharacteristically dark in this light. He looks almost swarthy. That trademark shadow of stubble on his jaw is adding to the overall impression. God, I could cast him in a fucking stage revival of
Magic Mike
and, as long as the man could do the Electric Slide, we’d be in business. I’d make legit money off those abs and that face.

He runs a hand back over his hair, looking suddenly self-conscious. “I mean . . . you didn’t have to tell me. It’s not, like, a job requirement.”

I almost wince at the job reference, but I shake it off. The truth is that, despite having seen Remy, Cyn, and Carson over the last week—three of my favorite people, three of my best friends—this evening’s swim is the most fun I’ve had in longer than I want to admit.

“Well, no—I don’t have a boyfriend.” I pause for a second, leaning back to glance up at the enormous glass windows.

“Now, how is that fucking possible?” he asks, raising a brow. I shrug.

“I was seeing someone pretty seriously in college. He entered the military and I started grad school. It just . . . didn’t work, I guess.”

“What does that mean—‘it didn’t work’?”

I duck my head back, wetting my hair. It feels like the most effective method of avoidance. Finally, I look back up.

“He cheated—he wasn’t the first to do it to me, but he’s the one that hurt the most.”

Owen doesn’t say anything, but I can feel his eyes on me.

“So, yeah. Not much for relationships, I guess. I’ve been hurt enough to know that commitments usually lead to someone getting hurt.”

“I wouldn’t say all that,” Owen argues. I shrug.

“How many relationships have you had that have lasted?”

He gives a rueful smile. “Fair enough.”

We go quiet again, with nothing but the lapping water as the soundtrack to our swim.

Finally, I say, “Why, do you have a girlfriend?”

He shakes his head.

“I don’t. I had a fiancée a few years ago, but it didn’t work out.”

I raise a brow and sweep the water back and forth in front of me with one outstretched arm.

“What happened?”

He shrugs. “Honestly, we were just really different people. She thought I’d be taking over the family business. When I decided not to, she was a little less than thrilled with my chosen life plan.”

I frown at him. “That sounds absolutely shitty—what was your family business? Was it really that much more worthy than what you’re doing?”

He shoves a hand back through his wet hair and little droplets shoot out in various directions.

“Worthy of admiration? No. Worthy of crazy-ass money? Absolutely. My dad’s the CEO of Prototech.”

I look up at the ceiling, trying to place the name. “Should I recognize it?”

“It’s a software company. They work with a lot of car manufacturers to add automatic features—like sensory brakes and back-up cameras.”

I nod slowly.

“It sounds familiar . . . I’m sorry, I’m not really that tech-oriented.”

Owen grins. “Trust me. It’s not a problem. Being recognized for my family’s work, not mine, is just about the worst thing ever.”

He inches closer to me then, until he’s practically within arm’s reach, and his caramel-colored eyes are tinted with a golden glimmer of interest.

“So, did you think I had a girlfriend?”

I look down at the rippling water, trying to seem unaffected by his closeness.

“I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well, if I did have a girlfriend,” he says slowly, his voice lower and deeper than usual, “I don’t think she’d be thrilled about me having an impromptu swim session with one of my coworkers.”

I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t say “employees.” Still, I’m stuck on the “no girlfriend” part. I lick my lips, feeling slightly nervous.

“But, I mean . . . we’re just swimming. We’re just coworkers. What’s the big deal?” I ask, attempting an innocent expression.

Owen, however, looks as though he’s reached his limit of honest, innocent flirting. He advances, effectively boxing me in, the water rippling around us like an energy source all its own.

“Is that all we really are, Rainey?” he says quietly. “Coworkers?”

I blink rapidly, unable to look away from those golden eyes. They almost glow from the water’s reflection.

I bite my bottom lip and watch his expression. His eyes flare immediately. Flare brighter. Flare hotter.

Oh, yeah. This shit is so on.

“I mean, we’re also friends,” I say coyly, tugging on the ends of my wet ponytail.

But Owen isn’t having it. I don’t know if he’s just reached his fill of his self-imposed professionalism or if he feels the same heat from me as I feel from him. Regardless, we’re surpassing some kind of tenuous invisible barrier as he backs me against the wall.

“I don’t want to be friends, Rainey,” he almost growls, his gaze flitting back and forth between my eyes.

“You don’t?” I ask, legitimately caught up in his gaze and his heat.

Please make a move. Please make a move. Please make a move.

Owen swallows hard, his Adam’s apple moving down, then up his neck. Without thinking, I reach out and touch his jaw with one wet hand. I lick my lips.

And that’s all it takes for both of us to break.

My first kiss with Owen Marshall is probably the least graceful or romantic thing on earth. Owen and I meet in the middle of the open space, what little there is between us, as equals, and that means an equal amount of overenthusiasm. Our lips mash against one another and it takes a second to catch our breaths and pull back to allow for more air and movement between our mouths.

But when we do? When we do, the kiss is fucking stellar.

In some ways, it’s more than a kiss. More than mouths and tongues and lips. Our entire bodies are pressed against one another in a way that feels like a form of communication. Our skin needs that proximity—especially since we’ve been denying the attraction. Or, at least, I have been denying the attraction.

Owen pulls back slightly, allowing his mouth to travel along my wet jawline until it meets my ear. He tongues at my earlobe as he whispers, “Have you thought about this as much as I have?”

He pulls back then to look me in the eye, and I blink at him, then nod slowly.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Does that mean you want this, too?” he asks.

I run my tongue along my bottom lip and he moves in, powerless against the drive and need to keep his mouth on mine. I gasp as he captures my mouth again, spearing his tongue into it, then gentling his technique. This is a guy who has skills. Someone who may not have kissed a thousand women, but definitely should have. This kind of delicious, intoxicating embrace deserves to be shared with the masses.

“You didn’t answer me,” he murmurs against my lips. He lets his teeth scrape lightly along the plumpest part of my lip and I shudder with pleasure.

“Answer you?”

He pulls back and looks me in the eye.

“Do you want this, too, Rainey? I need to know that we’re on the same page before . . .”

“Before what?” I ask, my voice husky with desire.

Owen’s eyes are hooded as he leans even closer.

“Before we turn this into something we can’t walk away from. Before we let our bodies do all the things they want to do.”

He reaches out with one hand and cups my chin. I can’t put my finger on what makes me want him so badly. The truth is that there’s something about the “off-limits” theory. And this moment just feels too good to pass up.

I surge forward, coaxing Owen’s mouth open and delving my tongue inside. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him tightly, sliding a hand up into my wet hair, directing my head to one side. I let my hands move up his slick arms. His breath grows shallow and coasts along my exposed skin. I close my eyes, desperate to feel his mouth on me again—any part of me, at any time. Preferably immediately.

“Rainey.”

He pulls back and meets my gaze.

“What do you want?”

I swallow, watching Owen and feeling a burning deep within me. It takes a second for me to name it, to call it what it is—unbridled desire. The need to get fucked. The desperate urge to fuck him back. I want something physical and satisfying. I want something to feel right, but to be easy and without strings. I want to be naked in this pool with our skin and lips and everything intertwined. Everything
but
our hearts.

It’s not that I never want love. It’s not that I hate the idea on principle. I’ve just managed to avoid falling for someone—falling hard and fast and irrevocably—ever since Phillip cheated. I don’t want to find myself in the same position I was in before—in love with someone who ultimately hurt me, and torn apart from the inside out.

And that’s the hard part—the part that gives me pause. Because Owen is
totally
the kind of guy you fall in love with. The guy you take home to your parents. He’s not an easy lay or a way to pass the time. He’s the kind of man my parents would adore seeing me with. I can almost hear my mother half drawl and half purr his name.

But, fuck. He feels so damn good. He’s all I want right now. I look around the pool—the cool blue water, the wide open space.

“I want you,” I say, pressing a kiss against his neck and locking my arms around it. “Right here, right now. I don’t even care that we’re at work—that’s how badly I want you.”

He stiffens then and I lean back to look at his face.

“Owen?”

His eyes grow wide, and the swarthy, sexy look he’d been sporting is dissolving right in front of me. He starts to back away from me, the ripples in the water a tide pulling us apart. It’s like a spell has broken.

“I’m sorry,” he says, tripping over the words as I watch him move further toward the center of the pool. “It’s not that I don’t want to. I do—want to, I mean. I just . . . don’t want to screw up this job. I don’t want to screw up anything. For either of us.”

I watch him move all the way to the other side of the pool. He doesn’t say anything else to me; instead, he starts swimming laps again. For a long moment, I just stare at him, unsure if he’ll resurface to speak to me. After he glides from one end of the pool to the other multiple times, his long freestyle strokes smooth and uninterrupted, I move to the ladder and pull myself out. As I do, the weight of the water combined with the motion causes my breasts to fall out of the deep scoop-neck front. I have to wait until I get all the way up and out onto the pool’s edge before I can hastily tuck everything back into place. But they’re out long enough—long enough to make me realize that they’re heavy with arousal, the nipples rock hard and begging to be touched and licked and pinched with confident fingers.

My brain may eventually realize that hooking up with Owen is a terrible idea, but my tits are staging a protest and are completely game for a hot one-night go-round.

Even the wet fabric of my suit can’t hide the prominence of their hard peaks. Without another look at the pool or my boss, I cross my arms over my chest and haul ass to the showers, hoping against hope that there’s a way to move past this night without supreme awkwardness. Or, at the very least, less awkwardness than I feel right now as I disappear into the locker room.