Page 114 of One Wild Wish

“Of course not. I get to make fun of you for at least a year with that tidbit. What I mean is, stop distancing yourself from him because you’re a second from mauling the guy. Embrace the gay. You can shop together and dish about guys. It could be great.”

Embrace the gay. Huh. I’d been avoiding physical contact with Owen, worried I’d accidentally/on-purpose cop a feel, but this could be liberating, allowing hugs and touches and cheek kisses, knowing it wouldn’t go anywhere. Owen didn’t seem like the shop-till-you-drop type, but I could get some guy intel. Real conversations about what sex is like for them. Learn some pointers.

He could be the Will to my Grace.

“You might be onto something. Sorry again about your mom.”

She avoided the latter comment, and we hung up as Owen stood and stretched. Drool pooled in my mouth. His threadbare jeans emphasized his narrow hips and thick thighs. His ass was a gift from the gods. I continued my creeper staring as he scratched the back of his head, his T-shirt riding up just enough. Flat stomach. A trail of light brown hair. Hip bones. Unf.

Heat bloomed between my thighs, and I didn’t fight it. If I was going to make this friendship work, I’d have to live with this constant ache or become accustomed to it. Sexy exposure therapy. Surely it would dissipate.

He spotted me and tipped up his chin. His long legs ate up the distance between us, his movements purposeful, focused. Like he was about to lift me up, spin me around, and kiss me senseless. I bit down on my cheek, willing these fantasies to subside.

He stopped in front of me. “Sorry I missed lunch.”

I wiped the corner of my mouth, worried the drool had escaped. “Lucifer was particularly ornery.” Because I was embracing the gay, no longer avoiding sexual jokes or innuendo, I added, “I think he needs to get laid.”

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.”