Page 26 of Stud

Owen tossed back his head with a hearty laugh. “You’re probably right. Maybe we could hook him up on Match-dot-com.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “His profile would read: ‘I like hairy butts and I cannot lie.’”

“He also enjoys nuts by the mouthful,” he added.

I guess Lucifer was gay, too.

We laughed. We grinned. We shared a moment of levity.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Owen had a sexy sparkle in his eyes. The kind that led a buckaroo such as himself to go all “giddy-up” and “ride ’em cowboy.” But I was a cowgirl. Still, this was nice. Easy banter. Jokes. I could even flirt with him, for shits and giggles, without consequences. I wouldn’t have to worry about it leading somewhere. I opened my mouth to test this theory, when I spotted a man approaching Nick.

He was tall and thin, with short red hair. His thick-framed glasses looked familiar. I blinked once. Then again. I leaned forward and squinted until my eyes stung.

No way. No freaking way. It couldn’t be.

The man twisted, taking in the building site, and I smacked my forehead with the heel of my palm. “Holy shit.”

“What?” Owen spun to follow my incredulous stare.

He may not have been in a paper Chucky’s Chicken hat, but fate had just dropped Anton Bickley at my feet. The boy who’d ridiculed me. The boy who’d caused my claustrophobia. Next, thunderstorms of fire would surely rain down. Or Hammer pants would come back in style. His attention shifted our way, and I gripped the back of Owen’s shirt, ducking behind him.

His shoulders shook as he laughed. “Did I miss something?”

He tried to move, but I pressed closer against his back. “I’m hiding.”

“I noticed.”

“From that guy.”

“Which guy?”

“The redhead. I know him.”

Even with Anton across the site, being plastered to Owen was heavenly. The soft swells of my breasts met the hard planes of his “erector spinae” muscles. (Last week’s crossword clue just got sexier.) He smelled like unadulterated masculinity. Like salt and apples and cedar. I leaned into his rigid spine and inhaled.

Did that moan come from me?

“Who is he?” Owen sounded like he’d swallowed gravel.

“Anton.”

“No shit.” His body stiffened.

“Yes, shit. And why are we always talking about shits? I need to get out of here.”

And figure out what Anton’s appearance meant. I still despised what he’d done to me as a teen, but I’d neglected to tell Owen how I’d sought revenge.

Anton had been a relentless bully. The villain had reduced me to cold sweats and nausea every work shift. Still, my innocent prank was anything but. Leaving him a cockroach-filled gift box on my last day should have been amusing. But I’d misjudged how apeshit Anton would go. His freakout ended with him burning his hand in the deep fryer and shattering his right leg.

I’d learned the hard way that getting revenge didn’t feel good. My shame chased me to this day.

Seeing him now was worlds-colliding bad. I was doing better. Volunteering. I should be on my way to earning my wings and fulfilling my birthday resolution. Or was this karma sending me a swift kick in my DKNY-clad ass? Maybe I needed to do more to become a better person, including apologizing to Anton for my mean prank.

Either way, I was unprepared to face my nemesis.

“Come out with me,” Owen said, his muscles still coiled tight. “That’s why I came over. I thought we could grab an early dinner. Make up for our missed lunch. Have a drink.”

I could seriously use that drink, except… “I’m not exactly dressed for it.”