Cole

* * *

Owen raised a hand toward the setting sun, waving at a passing lobster boat. The captain returned the gesture.

"That's the O'Keefe boat," he said, tipping his chin toward the green and white vessel. "They live north of town."

He ran his hand over my shoulder and I leaned into his touch. It was different now that we weren't working our asses off to avoid each other as a poor form of lust concealment. I enjoyed the easy affection he offered, and the freedom to reach for him whenever I wanted. It was a weightlessness I'd never before experienced, and it forced me to realize the ways in which I'd narrowed my life back in California.

I didn't date, I didn't flirt, I didn't have sex. There was no romance, no intimacy. I'd convinced myself I needed it that way. My existence was far too complex to add any human variables, and I was hardened by the fear of betrayal. Books featuring the sordid details of my company's inner workings—and my colorful leadership style—routinely landed on bestseller lists. Click-baity blogs went crazy every time I dined at a restaurant, splashing photos of me and my party. They'd make ridiculous comments about the people I was with and analyze the hell out of my meal. If they were lucky, they'd get a quote from a server about how much of an asshole I was that night.

There was no room in my world—the world I left in Silicon Valley—for a simple relationship. I couldn't determine whether I could change that world, make room. Whether Owen would be able to carry the weight of that world on his broad shoulders.

If I indulged in fanciful thoughts, I'd allow myself to believe I was meant to find Owen, and Talbott's Cove. I was meant to lose my title, leave California under the cover of PR bullshit, and nearly crash my boat on Maine's rocky coast.

If any of that was true and not merely the thing of fairy tales and dreams, I was also meant to tell Owen the truth about me and trust that his feelings wouldn't ebb. All this time in this cozy seaside town, all that had changed between us, and I still hadn't put my cards on the table with Owen. Not the ones that mattered, the ones revealing my true identity.

But it wasn't for lack of trying.

There was always something. An important ball game. A town council meeting. A breakthrough on one of my projects. A debate about nothing. A devious grin that turned into blowjobs behind the boat's bridge. Of course I could've put a stop to everything and forced him to listen but I didn't. With each passing day, it became more difficult to speak the truth when I'd let it linger in the shadows all this time.

When I was in college, one of my professors liked to say, "The longer you put off a task, the harder it is to get started." I couldn't remember the class but that adage stuck with me. I couldn't stop thinking about it, and watching the interest compound on this long overdue conversation.

"It's Thursday," I murmured. "Annette's staying open late for you."

Owen squeezed my shoulder, and I rubbed my cheek against his knuckles. "Don't remind me."

"Come on," I said, laughing. "You're a tough guy. You can handle a sweet little book mistress who hides her fangs incredibly well."

"Not sure about that," he said under his breath. "The fangs, that is. She's a nice lady. She means well."

"Another one with the good intentions." I ran my hand down his back and slipped beneath the worn fabric of his t-shirt. "I'm sure there's a nice guy—one who likes vag—who will make her very happy."

Owen snickered. "Add that to your list of projects. Get on the dating websites and find Annette's perfect match. I'm sure you can make a spreadsheet or something. All scientific." He shifted to face me, a thoughtful wrinkle across his brow. "What are you working on? You never talk about your projects."

I cut my gaze toward the ocean as I answered, "Nothing you'd find interesting. Interfaces and apps, that kind of thing."

That was the truth. Mostly. It wasn't inaccurate. It only omitted a few details.

He nodded and turned his attention to the boat's controls as we headed in the direction of the fish market. I kept my hand on his back, right up against the strong dip where his torso disappeared under his shorts. I loved dragging my fingers through the dark patch of hair there.

"I am interested," he said quietly. "Just because I don't do the internet thing doesn't mean I don't care about your work."

"Oh," I managed, the sound sticking in my throat like a fish bone. "Oh, I know. I didn't mean to suggest—"

"You didn't," he interrupted, his words tempered with charity and patience. Two things Owen rarely offered. Two things I didn't deserve. "I know I've been something of an ogre about my low-tech lifestyle, and I'm sure it made you feel as though I didn't value your work." He stared at the docks in the distance as he chose his words. "I didn't mean to make you feel unwelcome in any way. I'm sorry."

I couldn't believe this. If anyone was due to deliver an apology, it was me.

"You were not an ogre," I shot back.

"You can say it," he replied with a baleful shrug. "I was an ogre. It happens."

This was it. This had to be it. The last straw.

"Actually, we should talk about my business," I started. "There are a few things you should know."

Owen kept his gaze trained on the docks behind the fish market as he maneuvered around other lobster boats. "Yeah, if that's what you want," he said. "Let's finish up here and then you can give me the whole song and dance." He shot me a quick glance. "Will there be any singing or dancing? I get the impression you've got moves, McClish."

"What gives you that idea?" I replied, feigning a truckload of indignation.

Owen chuckled. "The way you move your hips when you like what you're getting. The way you shake your ass when you want my attention."

Was there anything that escaped Owen's notice? There couldn't be.

"Ass shaking aside," I started, sliding a hand down to give his rear end a squeeze, "we're going to the bookstore next."

I was stalling. Definitely stalling.

"The only reason you're pinching my ass is because you want me pounding yours," he warned.

I didn't respond until he stared at me for a moment. "Are you waiting for me to deny it?" I asked. "If so, you're going to keep on waiting."

"Such a smart mouth on you. Where'd you say you went to school?"

"I didn't," I replied. "It's act one in the performance. You'll have to wait to find out, but not until after we visit your dear friend Annette."

"Then after that," he said, steering the boat into one of the empty slips. "It's not like you're going anywhere, right?"

"Right," I murmured.

"Toss those buoys over, would you?" Owen asked, pointing to the dock. "Go ahead and shake that ass a little while you do it."

* * *

"What does Annette have for you?" I asked as we walked through Talbott's Cove's tiny downtown. "Other than a major crush and the names of the five children she wants to have with you."

"You're not funny," Owen murmured, shaking his head while he growled like an angry bear.

"You're cute when you're irritable," I replied. "Lucky for me, you're always irritable."

I glanced at the lovingly maintained sidewalk planters and window boxes on each storefront. This town, with its tavern, general store, inn, and short string of shops dotting the streets around the harbor, defined quaint. It was something out of a magazine, or one of those free calendars realtors liked to send their clients with idyllic scenes from far-off locations. Places that didn't seem real.

"Something about American Revolution battles," Owen said. He shoved his hands in his pockets and jerked his shoulders up as he spoke. "The untold stories and whatnot."

"You like history," I said, studying Owen for any reaction or gesture of agreement. I received none. "And literature."

"Do we really need an inquisition right now, McClish?"

Ah, my beast. There he was.

"I made two observations, Bartlett. That's hardly an inquisition. It would be an inquisition if I asked you to defend your preference for Whitman over Keats, or Melville over Joyce. An inquisition would be me asking you to explain why you'd want to explore the battles of the American Revolution when you probably covered them in high school, whereas you probably did not learn about the Belgian Revolution of 1789. A true inquisition would force you to attribute the success of the American Revolution to one influential individual—not George Washington—and compare that person to—"

"Enough," Owen roared as he ground to a halt. He tossed up his hands, ripped his baseball cap from his head, and ran his hands through his hair. "I'm not in the mood to choke on your huge IQ right now."

I continued for several steps before stopping and pivoting to stare at him. His hands were perched on his hips and I could almost see the waves of frustration radiating from his body. If I didn't know him better, I'd think he was about to go Hulk Smash on this town. But I was beginning to believe that I did know him, and I knew he liked it when I pushed him. When I forced him to interact with me despite his desire to retreat into his thoughts. When he needed to get out of his head—and his worries about damaging Annette's feelings—for a minute.

"But my huge dick?" I asked, waving toward him. "You'd choke on that?"

"Like it's my job." Owen advanced on me, swallowing up the sidewalk in two long strides, and snatched my hand. "Let's get this over with. You'll get your inquisition later."

I followed him into the small shop, a bell tinkling overhead as we entered. I zeroed in on Annette as I crossed the threshold. She was behind the counter, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, making her white dress appear strapless. It was the sexy angel look, and she was nailing it.

A customer stood on the other side of the counter, nodding while she spoke and held up each item in his pile, turned it over, opened the jacket, then patted the front cover. It appeared that she was telling him the secrets behind every book, offering up the special details only a bookseller would know.

If I wasn't busy stewing in jealousy over her baseless stake on my man, I'd want to get to know her. The lady was high octane, and I liked that. I respected it. I also had the distinct impression she had dirt on everyone in this small town, and I respected that, too.

"We'll just wait," Owen said, glancing at Annette before turning away. "I'm sure it will be only a minute."

"She talks with her hands," I said under my breath. "Five bucks says it will not be a minute."

"Shut up," he whispered.

The space was flooded with sunlight and books, paperbacks and hardcovers overflowing from every surface. A quick scan of the covers told me I wasn't the subject of any of these books, and that was a relief. Cheerfully painted terra cotta pots and baskets marked the new release section. Hand-drawn signs announced sections for every subgenre. Maine was well represented. There was local history, local cookbooks, local fiction, local nonfiction, local photography, even local romance.

"See anything you like?" Owen asked, squeezing my hand. "Oh—right. You don't read real books."

"That kind of incendiary language is unnecessary," I replied, smirking. "Since you know all the best reads around here, pick something out for me. You know what I like."

His answering smile was dark, almost feral. "Yeah, I do." He inclined his head toward the opposite side of the shop, tugging my hand. "Let's see what we can find for you, little prince."

We crossed the small sales floor toward a section cheerfully labeled with a hand-lettered pennant banner as mystery and suspense. Owen stood behind me, one hand on my waist while he skimmed his free hand over the book spines. His breath was warm on my neck and the scruffy tickle of his beard sent a shiver through my shoulders.

"This is going to be good," I said. "We'll have a little book club situation going. Can we have wine and cheese with our literary conversations?"

He tugged a paperback from the shelf, ignoring me. "This might work," he said, almost to himself. "Cybercrimes. International intrigue. A bit of a love story."

"That's what I like?" I asked, arching back to press my ass to his crotch. "Tech stuff and spy games? Sounds like my day job."

"You forgot the part about the love story," he replied, his words rougher than they were a moment ago.

I laughed. "None of that in my day job."

Owen's arm curled around my torso, his fingers sliding barely beneath my shorts. He pressed his lips to my neck. "Good," he said. "You should save that part for your summer vacation."

I almost replied, telling him that I had saved the love story for this summer vacation, and that he was playing a starring role.

But Annette called, "It's my favorite fishermen!" and the words dried on my tongue.

With a sigh, I dropped my head back to Owen's chest. He pulled his fingers from beneath the waistband of my shorts but I clamped my hand over his, stopping him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm not going to molest you in public," he snapped.

Annette rounded the counter, her perky smile melting into a confused grimace as she approached.

"You've done it before." I hooked my hand around the back of his neck, pulling his face closer. "Kiss me," I ordered. "Right now."

Owen didn't hesitate. His lips met mine with a kiss that started sweet and turned molten in seconds. But neither of us forgot we were in this shop, not more than a few feet from the woman who'd been crushing on my man for ages. With one last peck and a hungry growl, he broke away.

"Hey, Annette," Owen said.

His pinky finger was still in my shorts, and in some small, strange way, that was a victory for us.

Annette hugged a hardcover book to her chest and she blinked at us. Repeatedly. Her gaze followed Owen's hold on my body, each blink growing longer and more exaggerated. It was as though she was trying to erase the image in front of her by closing her eyes and wishing it away.

A fraction of me felt badly for her. I didn't need to have a long balance sheet of heartbreak behind me to know she was watching a relationship end. Even if that relationship was one-sided and nonexistent.

"Good to see you, Owen," she said, a dejected sigh weaving through her words. "You too, Cole."

"You have a great shop," I said. "Awesome selection, fantastic layout."

"Yeah, I try," she said. She glanced away and touched her fingertips to her brow, brushing aside a lock of hair. "Is there anything I can help you find?"

"I think we're good," I replied at the same moment Owen said, "Cole wants a few mystery novels. Can you recommend some?"

"Oh," Annette said, surprised. "Oh, sure." She took one hesitant step forward, another, and then she was scurrying around the store.

"Look what you did now," I whispered to Owen. "You activated her hummingbird setting."

"Me?" he asked, his head swiveling as he watched Annette. "This is definitely your fault."

"Only because I wouldn't let you lead this woman on for another decade," I replied. "We could've paid for your book and left, but you laid down the bookish lady challenge instead and now she's trying to prove a point."

She flew around us, snatching up books and tucking them under her arm as she stomped. "Let me pick out some books for your new boyfriend, Owen. That's what I do, make everyone else happy. Sure! Mysteries. Fantastic! Everyone else gets their happy and I get to pick out books. Fabulous!"

"So," I murmured. "This is really happening."

"It is, and I don't like being the asshole in her story," Owen said to me.

"Mysteries. I love a mystery. Sometimes I think I live in a mystery. You know, the what is happening in my life? mystery. Because I sure as hell don't know." She slammed a pile of books on the counter. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No, this is plenty," I replied while Owen said, "Did that special order come in?"

From her position behind the counter, Annette seemed to deflate. Her shoulders fell, her jaw unclenched, her grimace wilted into a frown. "Yeah, Owen, it did," she said. "I'll need a minute, okay?"

She didn't wait for a response, instead smoothing her hands down her skirt, turning around, and heading for the back room.

"It would've been easier to let her think we had a chance," Owen said, loosening his hold on me. "That would've been better than this."

Owen shook his head and walked toward the butcher block counter where the cash register was located, leaving me to chase after him.

"No, it would not have been better," I replied. "You can't continue that way. It's not right, and it's not fair to you."

"It's fine and—"

"It's not fair to me," I interrupted. "It would be one thing if she had a simple crush on you. But it's not a simple crush. It's not the same as that girl at the fish market in Bar Harbor who eye-fucks you every time we stop in. Hell, I've seen half the women on the seacoast undress you with their eyes. That's a different story. It's temporary. This is hitching her hopes to your dick and waiting for you to learn to like the feel of it."

Owen stared at me, his expression impassive as always. Then, "Okay. You're right," he said. "But you should know the other half of the women on the seacoast undress you with their eyes."

Annette emerged from the back room, a book in hand and smudged mascara under her eyes. "Here we go," she said, adding the paperback to our towering pile.

"Annette," Owen started, "about all of this. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. If I did, I'm…I'm sorry."

She waved away his words with both hands, shaking her head. "No apologies needed. I wasn't thinking. I wasn't being smart," she said. Then, softly, "I knew but I still hoped."

They stared at each other, Owen with his furrowed I don't want to hurt you brows and Annette with her big, tear-filled Disney princess eyes. A different iteration of me would've offered a pithy remark, something intended to cut the tension and trivialize the moment. I couldn't do that. I cared about Owen, enough to march him into this face-off. Instead, I scanned the immediate area and found a display of Maine coastline photography books. I grabbed three copies.

"This looks like something my mother would love. My sisters, too," I announced.

Annette dragged her gaze away from Owen only to shoot me the most unimpressed glare in the modern history.

"My mother loves a good coffee table book," I continued. This much was true. "She likes to dig through the clearance piles at her local bookstore. For reasons I don't understand, she hates paying sticker price for anything. Unfortunately, she doesn't live in a region where bartering is part of the cultural norms. She lives in Palm Springs. It's hotter than hell there. Come to think of it, I have a funny story about that."

It was Owen's turn to scowl at me. The upside? They weren't locked in some Romeo-and-Juliet-but-one-of-them-is-gay trance anymore.

"My mother plays tennis with a former Catholic priest," I said, waving my arm as though I was holding a racquet. "They play tennis and then drink boxed wine spritzers. White zin and store-brand seltzer. I don't know how they found each other or why he left the priesthood, but it's sufficient to say they're good friends now."

"Please tell me there's a point to this," Owen said.

Ignoring him, I continued, "The priest—rather, former priest—has an old story about missionaries traveling west. The Church would send one party of missionaries after another to the desert, but they couldn't convert anyone. When asked why it was so difficult, one of the missionaries explained the people in that region didn't need religion because half the year gave them everything they needed to know about heaven and the other half gave them everything they needed to know about hell."

"Great," Annette said, still unimpressed.

Chuckling, Owen roped his arm around my waist. "You talk too damn much."

"I'll just ring these up and you two can be on your way." She glanced up, working hard at a sunny smile that just wasn't there. "Will these be together or separate?"

Owen caught my eye, smiling despite Annette's increasing distress. "Together." He bowed his head toward my ear, whispering, "When we get home, I'm gonna torture you for several hours."

I was all too happy to oblige. "You should do that," I said, keeping my voice low. "Torture. Punish. Subjugate. Whatever you want."

Owen's gaze shifted to Annette and then back to me. "Don't say that," he murmured. "You don't know what I'm thinking."

"That will be one-forty-four fifty," Annette said, glancing between us.

I grinned. "I have an idea," I replied to Owen, pulling my wallet from my back pocket. I handed her my credit card without tearing my eyes away from him. "I have several ideas, actually. I'm in favor of all of them."