Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 49416 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 247(@200wpm)___ 198(@250wpm)___ 165(@300wpm)
“Hello to you too,” I say to Gregory as he pads over to me, giving me two brushes against my ankle before he glares up at Owen, then dives immediately into his food.
“I put two extra treats in that bowl today, cat,” Owen says, returning Gregory’s irritated look.
I chuckle. “I keep telling you he took weeks to warm up to me too. You’ll get there.”
“I’m determined,” he says, and his tone is so serious it makes me laugh.
He smiles at me, but the smile falls the second Gregory is finished, the cat dutifully winding through my ankles again before ignoring Owen completely and then sprinting back toward the woods.
Owen shakes his head, helping me clean up the dishes and lock the back door, heading out the front entrance and locking it too.
Relief barrels through me as we head toward our cars parked next to each other, noticing my letter-free windshield, and the complete lack of activity we've seen in the last week. My hopes are high that Spencer has found better judgment, but it’s hard to know for sure.
“At least the long day isn’t topped off with another letter,” I say, motioning to my car.
“For sure,” he says. “I have days like that at the club sometimes too,” he continues, opening my car door for me as I slide inside. “Days where the checklist is long but ticking off every mark has me feeling accomplished, if not wrung dry.”
I smile up at him from where I sit behind the wheel. “And what about when you're playing bodyguard? I feel like that would wear you out more than your nightclub.”
Owen shakes his head, leaning slightly to catch my eyes. “There are several ways I’ve thought about you wearing me out, Kitten, and none of them have to do with protecting you.”
A warm shiver of delight dances over my skin, and I smile brightly up at him. “Nice to know I’m not an exhausting job.”
“Never.” Owen winks at me. “I'm going to follow you home,” he says, like he does every night. “I'll wait until the garage door closes and then I'll text you when I get back to my place.”
I nod, and he gently shuts my door.
I’m distracted the entire drive home, my heart racing with memories of what he did to me in the stairwell, and how sweet he's been all week, bringing me my favorite iced coffee, checking in on me between clients to see if I need anything, not to mention his actual job which has made me feel so safe.
I know our texting relationship has only added to the depth of my feelings growing deeper every day, and I know there are complications, professional boundaries that we’ve upheld in my office, but outside? We've definitely blurred those lines.
And I want to keep blurring them.
I’m always professional when I’m Dr. Casson, as I should be, but Owen brings out another side of me, a wilder one. And I love that side of myself. I love that he makes me feel safe enough to let go of all the control I hold onto so tightly in my career and allow him to take care of me. It’s freeing, addicting even.
That’s it.
I’ve made up my mind.
When I get home, I won't close my garage door. That signal will be clear enough for Owen to follow me inside. A thrill of anticipation blazes down my spine at the decision, and I’m grinning from ear to ear as I pull onto my street and turn into my driveway.
I’ll invite Owen inside and then—
Something is all over my front porch. It’s barely visible by the muted glow of the porch light, but it stops my train of thought.
I park in the driveway, not bothering to pull into my slowly opening garage. Owen parks in the street and meets me as I'm walking toward my front porch, but he gently tugs on my wrist, drawing me back.
“What the hell?” The words leave me on a gasped breath as we draw closer, realizing that all of my beloved potted hydrangeas have been smashed.
Not knocked over by some wild animal, or even an accidental trip-up from a delivery person. My flower pots have been picked up and thrown against my house, the evidence clear with the ceramic that's shattered on the ground, the soil clinging to the siding of my home, the flowers ripped to shreds.
And sitting in the middle of all the destruction? A letter.
My skin tightens, fear dousing me like ice-cold water.
Adrenaline floods my veins, my fingers trembling and tingling at the tips as I move to pick up the letter and to start cleaning up the mess.
Owen wraps an arm around my shoulders, ushering me back through the garage, closing it behind him as we enter my home. He disarms the alarm he installed two weeks ago before guiding us into my kitchen.