Page 36 of Unplanned Target

MIRANDA

Oops. Definitely did not mean to do that.

Probably.

I just wanted to tell Owen he needed to take back his room. That I would be perfectly fine in the room he currently occupies. There’s no reason he should uproot his entire life just so I can have a little extra space. It sounds like he doesn’t get to sleep in his own bed often as it is, so I hate the thought of him missing out on it because he’s too nice of a man to put me in one of the smaller rooms.

But instead of convincing him to switch with me, I ended up convincing him to make out with me. Honestly, my negotiation skills are unparalleled.

That still doesn’t mean it was a good idea.

Except it doesn’t feel like it was a bad idea. It actually felt like the best idea I’ve had in a long time. And I’ve got to figure out a way to wrap my head around that.

Instead of going back to my—Owen’s—room, I hurry past the door, deciding to go in search of something to eat instead of risking staying so close to where he is. Maybe hungriness can distract me from horniness. Stepping away from him like that was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done. All I wanted was to let him keep touching me. To see where exactly his hands would end up. Where mine might go.

How far we would take it.

I almost turn around so I can find out, my feet slowing as I reach the stairs leading to the first floor. I barely pause, fighting myself.

What would the harm be of going back? I’m an adult. He’s an adult. We’re allowed to do whatever we want. And I really, really want to do downright filthy things to him.

Which is probably the best reason to keep walking I can think of, because who even am I right now? I haven’t been interested in a man romantically in forever.

I might have the flu.

More reasons to go eat.

Managing to get myself moving again, I hurry down the stairs in search of the kitchen. It’s not hard to find. While the rooming house is big, its floor plan isn’t complicated. Like the second floor, the first also has a large hallway of rooms, but they only take up about two-thirds of the space. The other third consists of an open kitchen area, complete with a gas stove, double ovens, three microwaves, and two large refrigerators. There’s a huge walk-in pantry stocked with everything from cereal to snack cakes. I can’t even begin to imagine how much is required to feed a team of men Owen’s size, but apparently it’s a freaking lot.

I open one of the refrigerators and find a good portion of what Owen and I bought at the store lining one shelf. I didn’t even think about the bags of groceries in the trunk when we got here. I was too busy being relieved I wasn’t going to die. That my daughter wasn’t going to die.

That Owen wasn’t going to die.

But Owen clearly remembered they were there. And he made sure everything that could be salvaged was brought in.

Weird.

Fishing out the items I got to make Cobb salad wraps, I go to work. It takes me a few minutes to get the lay of the land, but soon I have eggs hard boiling, chicken chunks in the air fryer, and bacon crisping in one of the ovens. While everything cooks, I chop the lettuce, tomatoes, and carrots.

Once all my pieces and parts are ready, I pull out one of the lavash breads I use for lunch or dinner at least twice a week, and pile ingredients in, topping it off with cheese and a drizzle of bottled vinaigrette, before wrapping everything tightly together.

I’m just slicing the wrap in half when Owen strides into the area, looking confident and capable and like I should lick him

Shit. No. No licking.

I think a decade of celibacy has finally started catching up with me, because I’m no longer hungry. I’m no longer dreaming of stuffing food in my mouth. Now, I’m imagining parts of Owen in my mouth. Wondering what kind of sounds he would make. If he’d fist his fingers in my hair. If he’d be sweet and let me do what I want, or if he’d take charge and fuck my face.

I drop the knife, barely managing to move my foot out of the way before I lose a toe.

“Shit.” I bend to grab it, but Owen beats me, collecting the knife and setting it in the sink.

Turning to me, he looks over my flushed cheeks, but doesn’t mention what we just did.

He actually manages to say something that pretty effectively gets me to stop thinking about sucking his dick.

“Your brother’s on his way here.”

It’s like a record scratching in my head. “Tony?” Of course I expected to see my brother at some point, but I assumed he would be stuck in the hospital a little longer. “Didn’t you say he had to have his spleen removed?”