Page 28 of I Love You, I Hate You

“Twelve, maybe?”

“You decided that young?” she asked, and he shrugged again.

“My dad hated lawyers, and I, uh, sort of hated my dad, so I figured that was it. And then I turned out to like it and be pretty good at it, so I guess it all worked out.”

“Mmmm,” she said in response, his slow, steady touches easing her dangerously toward sleep. He fell silent, and she might have been about to drift off when he spoke again.

“Hey,” he said, moving his arm underneath her. “Hey—you said no sleepovers, remember?”

“Mmmph,” she said this time, reluctantly rolling to her side to let him sit up. “I should—I should walk you out,” she said, but a jaw-splitting yawn caught her off-guard.

Owen touched her cheek. “Don’t worry. I’ll lock up on my way out.”

Part of her wanted just a little more time with him, but another part of her was already three-quarters of the way asleep, and when Owen pulled the comforter up around her shoulders, she let that side win.

Direct Messages: Nora @Noraephronwasagenius

@Lukethebarnyardcat

Sick days for me were a lot ofThe Price is Rightand soup made by the housekeeper

@Noraephronwasagenius

Okay, I don’t normally say this seriously, but poor little rich boy.

That is depressing as hell and makes me want to build a time machine and take care of you.

Chapter Eleven

Owen checked the phone number three times before hitting dial. It wasn’t strictly something that needed to be done today—or at any point in the next three weeks, really—but he was just a mere mortal and Victoria was, well, Victoria. And maybe he felt like hearing her voice.

The phone rang and a young administrative assistant answered, his tone robotically professional but pleasant as he ran through the corporate-mandated greeting. “Victoria Clemenceaux, please,” Owen requested.

“I’m sorry, she’s out today—would you like to leave a message with me, speak to another attorney, or would you like her voicemail?”

“She’s out?” he said, suddenly tripping over his words. “I was just calling to schedule—It doesn’t matter. Is she sick?”

“She didn’t say. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Uh—no, I’ll call back another time,” he said, and hung up. He looked at the time, debated briefly, and then decided to hell with it.

The soup from the deli was starting to cool when he arrived at her apartment. He had planned on leaving it with the front desk, but then he realized if she were sick, she might not want to walk all the way down there to pick it up. Instead he took the elevator to her floor and knocked softly.

But before she could open the door, doubt seized him.Wait. This is creepy, isn’t it? What if she isn’t even here? Her secretary said she was out, maybe she’s just at a deposition for another lawsuit or something. Oh fuck, abort, abort, abort—He set the soup down in front of her door and was halfway down the hall, almost free, when he heard her voice.

“Owen?”

Slowly, he spun around. “Uh, hey.”

“Is this . . . soup?” She appeared perfectly healthy, the cylindrical container clutched in her left hand.

“Yeah, uh . . .” He looked around, hoping a hellmouth would open and swallow him whole, but he was completely out of luck. “I—I called your office this morning and they said you were out, and I thought you might be sick, and I, uh, jumped to about fifteen assumptions that were clearly incorrect,” he stammered.

Victoria bit her lower lip but couldn’t quite smother her smile. “You thought I was sick so you brought me soup?”

“Yes?” he said, answering her grin with his own hesitant one.

She shook her head and gestured towards her door. “Come on in, then.”