Page 33 of I Love You, I Hate You

“I know him from work,” she said vaguely, which earned Owen another pointed glance from Mark. “Are you a lawyer too?”

“Ugh, no,” Mark said, wrinkling his nose. “Oh, shit—Sorry, didn’t mean to offend you. But no, I’m a gym teacher.”

“None taken. And what about you?” Victoria said, directing her attention to Priyanka.

“Grad student; English lit,” she replied. She shifted her chair closer to the table. “I thought Owen worked for himself?”

“He does. We’ve just met through a couple of cases,” Victoria said smoothly. “But grad school, huh? Are you doing an MA or a PhD?”

Priyanka launched into an explanation of her doctoral work on the colonialist underpinnings of eighteenth-century environmentalist poetry while they waited for their food. But Mark wasn’t to be dissuaded. He waited until Priyanka was finished, watching her the whole time with a soft smile, and then turned back to Victoria. “When you say you know him from some cases, what does that mean, exactly?”

Owen glared at him, but Victoria took the bull by the horns. “It means I work for Smorgasbord. I’m their in-house counsel,” she said, and Mark’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

“But youhateSmorgasbord. And you hate—” Mark’s brain caught up with his mouth and he broke off. “You hate, uh, big corporations,” he finished awkwardly.

“Good cover,” Victoria said drily. “You definitely weren’t going to say he hates me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“You were, though,” Priyanka chimed in, grinning at Victoria. “You’re a really bad liar, babe.”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t going to—” he spluttered.

“Sure you weren’t,” Priyanka said and patted his hand on top of the tablecloth. “But obviously, if you’re here with him, Owen must not hate you that much,” she added.

“Honestly, I think the jury’s still out on that one,” Victoria said.

“Are either of you going to let me defend myself?” Owen asked.

“No,” Victoria and Priyanka said simultaneously, and burst into laughter.

Mark looked at him from across the table. “I think we’re screwed, bro,” he said, resigned.

Victoria and Priyanka shared another smile. “You are,” they said in unison.

The rest of the dinner went quickly. Victoria seemed to genuinely like Mark, which warmed Owen’s heart more than he could say, and Mark spent a considerable amount of time enthusiastically gushing over Priyanka’s research. Mark was smitten, and Owen didn’t blame him—Priyanka was smart and funny and sharp, and watching her and Victoria unite to tease him and Mark was his favorite part of the night.

The official first dances finished and Owen looked over at Victoria, surprised to find her shrinking back warily. She had been vivacious all through dinner, but now she looked hesitant. Their table emptied out as people rushed to join the crush on the dance floor, and Owen lifted his eyebrow. “I don’t dance,” Victoria said.

“Everyone dances,” he countered.

“Not in public.”

“But you were getting along so well with Mark and Priyanka,” he argued.

“Exactly. That makes it worse. They’re your friends. Strangers, fine, but—” She broke off and chewed on her lower lip. This shyness didn’t fit with the confident, fearless woman he’d met in the courtroom, but then again dancing was slightly different from litigating. Oddly enough, not wanting to dance in front of people she knew made him think of Nora, but it felt vaguely deceitful to both of them to be here with Victoria and thinking of her. Impulsively, he stood and held his hand out. “Come on, with me,” he said, and when she slipped her fingers in his he wanted to crow with triumph.

It took a little more coaxing—and a lot of Owen’s beatless flailing—before she fully got into it, but once she did, he was right: she was a great dancer. And she seemed to play to an audience, which didn’t quite square with her earlier reticence, but he decided he would puzzle that out later.

A soft, lilting cover of “Can’t Help Falling In Love” kicked in. Mark had his arms already wrapped around Priyanka’s waist, sap that he was, and Victoria turned to go but once again Owen caught her hand and spun her back around. “Really?” she asked.

“If you’re willing,” Owen replied, but she was already stepping into his arms. This close he could smell her perfume, the subtle, rich scent stirring his chest. He closed his eyes and she leaned her cheek against his, sighing softly. In her heels, they were almost the same height. Owen readjusted his hand on her back, pressing her closer until she was molded against him.

“You know, as cheesy as it is, I prefer the Elvis version of this song,” she said quietly.

“I’m never going to be able to pin down what type of music you like, am I? Nirvana, Elvis—nothing about you is what I expect,” Owen replied.

“And that’s the way it’s going to stay,” she teased. “Where would the fun be in knowing everything about each other?”