Chapter 12

Mira

“Here we go. Stay close to me,” Owen says.

He throws his coat over my head, like it’s a puddle of mud he’s helping me step over—except the mud in this scenario is last night’s hair and makeup.

I remind myself that I have nothing to be ashamed of.

Owen is merely covering me up to protect my privacy.

I can hear the clicking of cameras all around me, but Owen’s coat is so far over my head, that I can only see the photographers’ shoes and the occasional flash of light shining on my legs

“Mr. Westbrook! Mr. Westbrook!” a photographer yells. “Who is this woman?”

I’m not used to being at the center of so much attention.

So, I’m grateful when Owen puts his arm around me and guides me through the crowd to the limo, where the driver is waiting with the passenger door open.

“Where are you two going?” another photographer asks.

“Is that your shirt she’s wearing?”

The questions keep coming, and Owen and I keep moving silently forward.

It’s not an easy thing to do in stilettos. I have a new appreciation for the tabloid sluts who have to put up with this shit every week.

“Three more steps,” Owen says.

I count to three, and the step to the back of the limo appears at my feet.

I lift Owen’s coat just far enough to take a peek at his face.

“I guess this is it.”

“I guess so.” Owen’s response is terse and void of emotion, but I can see a glimmer of affection in his eyes as he helps me into my seat.

“My driver will take you anywhere you want to go. Make him take the long route, so no one follows you. And tell him to bill me later.”

I think he’s going to kiss me goodbye, but instead, he leans over me to grab my seatbelt and buckles me in. As he pulls the strap across my body, his arm grazes my breasts, and I’m tempted to pull him inside the limo with me, so we can finish what we started.

I can tell he wants it, too. The way he’s going out of his way to touch me, even while he’s shielding me from the cameras is clearly him lingering, taking advantage of our close proximity.

It’s setting my body on fire.

God. This whole situation is so fucked up.

If my mom wasn’t married to Owen’s brother, this wouldn’t even be an issue.

And what’s more annoying is that he’s not even a blood relative.

But here we are, hiding our faces from the world like a couple of vampires avoiding the sunlight.

Like my mom always used to say, life is unfair.

I never knew how true that statement was until now—sitting in the back of my barely related step-uncle’s limo, wanting to fuck him.

“Do you have everything you need?” he asks. “Your purse? Your underwear?”

“My dignity?”

“That too.”

“Yes, I think I’m ready to go. Except for this.”

I lean forward and meet Owen right in front of his lips. He still has bedhead from last night, and it’s really turning me on.

Well really, everything about this moment, and him, makes me hot and needy.

All things considered, he’s handling this situation like a true gentleman. I’d like to find some way to thank him. And I know just where to start.

I close my eyes and wait for the feel of his lips on mine.

After a few seconds, I’m still puckering up to the air. I open my eyes again and see Owen glaring at me, unmoved by my advances.

“Let’s not get into this right now,” he mutters, looking over his shoulder.

I’m surprised by his sudden prudishness.

What happened to the guy who liked to leave the door open?

There’s nothing for him to worry about. Owen’s body is completely blocking the open door.

From all other angles, we’re completely hidden behind the tinted windows of the limo.

No one will notice if we steal a kiss before I go.

But the idea that someone might see us together has me salivating for another slice of that man cake.

Now that I’ve gotten a taste of his musky and sweet spice, I never want to go back to vanilla.

“Get into what, exactly?” I ask in an innocent tone.

One by one, I open the buttons on the shirt he gave me.

“I’m just saying goodnight. Or good morning.”

Owen looks pained.

“I wasn’t planning on saying this to you right now, but you’ve left me with no other option. This, right here, is where we say goodbye.”

I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. He can’t be serious.

“We’ll still have to see each other on holidays, you know. Thanksgiving happens every year. Then there’s New Year’s Eve, Arbor Day, Flag Day…”

“I’m sure we can manage to work around that. Take care of yourself.”

I feel like such an idiot.

This is what I get for trusting a man I first saw having sex with another woman on top of a wedding cake.

And now I’m stuck with him for life.

“I’ll see you later, Uncle Owen,” I spit out, slightly pissed.

Without another word, he backs away from me and shuts the limo door. He raps on the hood of the car, and the driver pulls forward, away from the photographers, away from Owen’s building, and away from the curb where Owen just turned his back on me.

I rebutton Owen’s shirt, cursing the way his cologne clings to the collar and teases me with the seductive scent of what could have been.

“What a hypocrite,” I tell the driver, who is now involved in this relationship whether he wants to be or not.

“All this talk about letting go of inhibitions and living for the moment, and the minute he has to stand in front of the world and admit who he really is, he can’t handle it.”

The driver peers at me in the rearview mirror.

“How well do you know Owen?”

“Not well at all. We just met.”

“Well, I’ve known him for many years. All that playboy stuff is just an act. He usually plays it up for the press to draw attention away from the fact that he doesn’t come from money like his brother. But the way he put his coat over your head just now? I’d say it means he likes you.”

“What makes you think that?”

It’s exactly what I want to hear, but I’m still not convinced it’s the truth.

“He’s got his own reputation to protect. Didn’t you hear the part where he told you he didn’t want to see you anymore? There were a lot of reporters around,” the driver reminds me.

“He wanted to get you the hell out of dodge before someone got a good look at you. If you try him again when no one is looking, I bet you’ll get a very different response,” he continues.

“I hope so.”

I look out the window to think about what he’s said, and the unfamiliar street in front of me reminds me that I haven’t told the driver where to take me yet.

“Do you need my address?”

“Ready when you are.”

I give him the street number, and he punches it into his phone to start the GPS navigation system.

The traffic is terrible, as usual, so while we’re waiting for hordes of tourists to cross the street, I continue to pry, hoping to get more information.

I’m going to take advantage of the talkative and candid driver for as long as this limo ride allows.

“What do you mean he plays it up for the press?”

“The man is a walking sex scandal. No matter what he does or how successful he is, all anyone can talk about is how his lingerie model mother trapped his father into giving him a name, which isn’t even the whole truth. So, Owen’s just trying to give them something else to gossip about.”

Now that’s a problem I can relate to.

Carol Wilder-Westbrook is not what I’d call a traditional mother, but at least she’s not a world-famous lingerie model.

I realize now that Owen isn’t trying to protect his reputation; he’s trying to stop me from ruining mine.

But it’s not his decision to make.

I’m a grown woman, and I’m done playing it safe. I might’ve promised him that I’d leave us alone, but a woman can change her mind.

Especially if her body is begging her to.

The driver pulls right up to the curb in front of my new apartment to drop me off.

Before I go, I lean across the center console to the front seat and plant a kiss on the driver’s cheek.

“Give this to Owen for me the next time you see him.”

The driver blushes.

“Damn!” He shakes his head and laughs. “No wonder Owen was in such a hurry to see you off. You’d better get out of this car before you set it on fire.”

The driver opens the door for me, and I exit the car.

He waits at the curb, watching me to make sure I get to the door safely.

I dig my keys out of my purse, unlock the door, and send him off with a little wave.

“Thanks for the ride,” I call out to him as he pulls away. “I’ll see you soon.”

And I know I’ll see him soon because I know Owen wants to see me again—whether he’s willing to admit it or not.

I start writing a text to Owen, telling him that if he ever wants to see his shirt again, he’s going to have to rip it off my hot, naked body.

But I can’t bring myself to send it.

If he still wants me, he knows where to find me now.