Page 43 of The Best I Never Had

“Why didn’t you?” The question rang in my head all the time. There was plenty of tension between us that weekend. I knew he wanted me, but he never made the move.

He pulls back, a crease forming between his brows. “I was paying you to pretend. I wouldn’t have put you in that position.”

The fact that I hadn’t even considered how inappropriate that would have been is another sign of just how much better he is than me, contrary to what he believes. He’s the best guy, kind and genuine. The complete package. Way too good for an emotionally unavailable, unemployed hot mess.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a small piece of him.

I look at him, my fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. His eyes flare, the blue barely there, when I tug him another inch closer. “Are you always this good, Owen?”

He lets out a ragged breath. “Hard to remember what good even is right now.”

This is the tipping point. The moment where I decide what’s next. I can still walk away. We can pretend like this is nothing, another moment of the act we’ve been putting on for his family. But he’s so close, and that scent—the sweet, earthy smell mixed with something so uniquely Owen—is short-circuiting my brain. No warnings from best friends or requests from sisters could compel me to walk away from him right now.

I push up on my toes, our lips mere centimeters apart. “Then stop trying.”

He groans and wraps his hand back around my neck, hauling my mouth to his. Sparks shoot through my veins, setting every atom on fire. I slide my hands through his soft hair, tugging at the root and giving him back every ounce of passion he pours into the kiss as our mouths open in unison. He tastes fresh, the sharp minty bite of toothpaste flooding my senses, like he’d been planning to go to sleep before getting the request for help from his cousin.

His hand slides down to my leg, wrapping around my thigh and hitching it over his hip as he grinds against me, hitting the perfect place that shoots off fireworks behind my eyes. This isn’t how I’d imagined Owen would kiss. I’d assumed he’d be sweet and sensuous. But this? It’s a claiming, and I give myself over to him willingly.

I rip my mouth away from his, letting my head thud on the doorframe as his low moan echoes around us. Owen never stops, moving his mouth down my neck with nipping bites and the smooth run of his tongue. He bites the sensitive spot where my neck and shoulder meet and I moan again, both hands settling on his waist as I pull him against me hard.

“So much better than my dreams. God, your taste,” he pants into my skin.

A shaky breath escapes me. “Pretty fun down here in the gutter, isn’t it, golden boy?”

He yanks back so quickly that I would fall on my ass if it weren’t for the frame behind me and the strong pressure of his hand on my thigh. Those fingers flex so tightly I wonder if he’ll leave marks, and part of me relishes the thought of walking around tomorrow with the evidence of Owen’s desire for me written out on my skin.

But the anguish in his face is enough to toss a bucket of cold water over my libido.

“You are not the gutter, Thea.” The shock and anger in his tone make me want to disappear, to melt back into this wall until I’m a part of the hotel.

I force a laugh, pushing lightly on his stomach. The tree of a man doesn’t budge. “It was a joke.”

“I don’t think it was,” he says.

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because you have no sense of humor.” The insult—my obnoxious, destructive attempt to force attention away from my insecurities—hits its mark. His beautiful face crumples and he nods, looking away from me. I remember too late his reaction when Gabriel made the same comment our first night here. “Owen, I’m sor—”

“No, you’re right.” He lets go of my leg, and my foot lands on the floor with a thump.

He doesn’t move away, both our chests still heaving and his expression somewhere between resignation and betrayal. I stare, desperate to come up with a way to heal the wound I inflicted but unable to think of anything that wouldn’t leave me bleeding out instead.

A squeak sounds down the hallway, and we both jump. When we turn, we spot Camila, eyes glued to us with delight on her face. Before we can speak, she twirls on her toes like a prima ballerina and shoots around the corner.

Owen groans. “Camila’s the biggest gossip in the family.”

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” I mutter, pacing the hallway.

He grabs me by the arms, forcing me to stop. “I’ll go after her and make sure she keeps her mouth shut.”

I scoff. “Sure. How do you control the family gossip?”

“She didn’t see anything. We were just standing close.” By that point is left unsaid. “I’ll make sure she knows there’s nothing between us.”

There really is nothing between us besides a single—scorching—kiss. So why does it hurt when he confirms it?

“Plus,” he continues, “we’re the closest in age. I’ve got plenty of blackmail on her.”

His devious smile is so at odds with his normal hometown hero facade that my knees go weak all over again.