Owen stands up and grabs another bottle of wine from the rack in his kitchen as we are finishing up dinner together.

“Want some more?” He holds up the bottle.

I really shouldn’t, but for some strange reason I can’t say no to him, no matter how hard my brain screams at me to stop what I’m doing and call a fucking cab to go home.

“Yes,” I respond, and my brain forces me to nod, completely ignoring the rest of my mental breakdown asking me to do the opposite.

“I have a question for you now,” I say as he pours more pinot noir into my wine glass. It makes a glugging sound as it hits the round inside.

“Okay, what is it?” He grins at me with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Why did you come to my office to meet with me this morning? I mean up until then, we were total fucking strangers.”

I can’t help but allow my curiosity to get the better of me in this situation, but I want answers dammit.

“Honestly?” He places the wine bottle on the counter and grins.

“Yeah, duh,” I tease.

“Well,” he crosses one leg over the other and bends his knee as he sits at the barstool across from me, “I saw you in that magazine. Do you know which one I’m talking about? You know…the one with the article on the ten most successful women under thirty years of age?”

I nod, understanding now. “Yes, right I forgot I did that feature,” I shake my head and face palm myself.

“You’re incredible,” he admits.

“I’m glad you can know everything about me by reading a single article,” I joke.

“Hey now, we are getting to know each other, aren’t we?” Owen grins and holds his arms up defensively.

“I guess.” I shrug and smile, looking at the floor. “I like your hardwoods.”

“Did you just say you like my hard wood?” He laughs.

“I mean the floors, asshole!” I roar with laughter and point to the beautiful Brazilian wood in Owen’s kitchen.

“So, is that a no on my other hard wood?” he asks, laughing at his own stupid sexual innuendo quips.

I feel myself blush. “That wood is pretty fucking fantastic, too.”

“Just what I want to hear.” Owen winks, clicking his tongue and pointing at me.

“You sure know how to reel them in, don’t you?” I drone sarcastically, but I’m playful, meaning it all in good fun.

“Absolutely,” he says, full of cocky arrogance.

“Well, I’m glad somebody respects my success as a younger female in the business world,” I say, and sigh dramatically, feeling sorry for myself.

“Why is that?” His features soften.

“My father thinks I’m a fucking joke.” I roll my eyes and cross my legs, taking a huge gulp of my wine.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Parents are the fucking worst sometimes.”

“Thank you!” I shout and slap my knee. “Finally, someone else understands the struggle.”

‘It’s real.” He winks at me.

I rub my arms, keeping the blanket wrapped around my naked body underneath.

Owen notices and apparently decides to continue his chivalric streak. “Would you like to borrow one of my sweatshirts? It’s oversized, so it will probably cover you all the way up.”

I smile at him. “Thank you, yes, that would be great.”

Owen retrieves it and brings it back for me, and I pull it over my head.

“It’s warm and snug,” I confess.

“Great,” he says and gestures to the couch. “Would you like to come sit with me?” His eyes are full of mischief.

“That depends,” I say with a teasing grin. “Is the wine invited?”

“Of course.” He picks it up and pats the bottom.

“Then okay, sure,” I say.

“So, what is this business with your dad?” Owen questions me.

“He’s a fucking jerk face.” I snort as if I’m in the fourth grade.

“Why?” Owen’s face etches concern.

I blow out a puff of air and look at the ceiling, watching the fan blades spin around and around.

“He doesn’t take me seriously. It’s like he ignores me completely and gives everything to my fucking loser older brother.”

I’m bitter, and I know that Owen’s getting a first taste at how sour I can be about this sensitive situation.

“Is your dad the owner of a business?” he asks.

“Yep,” I nod. “He’s in the ‘entertainment’ industry,” I say with air quotes. “Ever heard of Quinn Industries?”

“Yes,” Owen admits, and he looks a little serious for a fleeting second.

“I don’t usually talk about my problems with my father to anyone,” I confess.

“Thank you for venting to me,” he says. “I appreciate how you trust me.”

“You’re surprisingly easy to talk to.” I glance up at him and smile.

“I’m going to take that as a compliment, but I’m guessing given my track record with women, it probably could be construed either way,” he laughs.

“You seem like a nice guy,” I admit with a shrug. “So, what about you?”

I face him on the couch and lean my arm against the back while I hold my wine glass in the other hand.

“What about me?” Owen fidgets.

“What’s your family like? On a scale of one to ten. Ten being totally batshit crazy and one being loving and normal,” I say playfully, eager to learn more about him.

“Maybe somewhere in the middle,” Owen chuckles, and for the first time ever, I can read a slight apprehensive energy expelling from him.

“So, you can relate to me?” I ask.

Owen shrugs. “Kind of, I guess. I am considered the black sheep of my family, there’s no denying that.” He looks down at his feet.

“Join the club,” I say in a joking tone, but he just gives me a half smile.

“My parents don’t approve of either my lifestyle or my chosen profession,” Owen says bitterly.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I say in shock. “You’re totally successful, and I’ve seen like…every one of your movies.”

I feel giddy and comfortable with him, and my playfulness is rising, thanks to the alcohol currently taking the lazy river stroll through my veins right now.

“Apparently, that’s not good enough for Martha and Joshua Wolfe,” he states sarcastically.

“Well, what the fuck makes them so special?” I ask.

“They’re doctors.” Owen rolls his eyes.

“They wanted you to be a doctor, too?” I guess.

“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner.” Owen points to me and uses a game show host voice.

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. At least we can relate to each other as we drink ourselves to oblivion, thinking about our failures to our parents.

Owen looks at me with crystal clear genuine affection. “You’re fucking cute,” he says and grins.

“You aren’t bad to look at either,” I joke.

“I don’t usually have this much fun,” Owen admits.

“You mean with another girl or with life in general?” I tease.

“Maybe a little bit of both.” He smiles.

“I’ll drink to that,” I say and guzzle down the remainder of the wine in my glass.

All my reservations and intuition regarding decent life choices are cast to the wind and all but forgotten on this lovely night with Owen.

I don’t even fucking care right now. I’m embracing my inner wild child and taking risks, just like my sullen father tells me to do.