Page 34 of Pick Me

We stopped by CPA on the way to Owen’s to grab our gym bags, which meant we wouldn’t be completely dependent on his hospitality.

We all had toothbrushes at least.

As he’d mentioned, Owen’s townhouse was just a quick walk from the club, which was great, considering the rain hadn’t stopped

all day. We wound up in a beautiful neighborhood, sharing umbrellas on a street with brownstones that had impressive Sex and the City staircases out front. It was the land of giant windows, flower-filled planters, and climbing ivy.

Not at all where I’d envisioned him living.

“This is me,” he said as he jogged up a set of stairs to a shiny black front door.

I shot a look at Wes and he widened his eyes.

Marti greeted us at the door, spinning with delight when she realized that she had three additional admirers to charm.

“Oh, I love your dog,” Claudia cooed, dropping to her knees to pet her.

“Thanks,” Owen said as he collected our umbrellas and placed them in the tile anteroom. “I need to warn you that she might

end up sleeping with you. Hope that’s okay.”

“Our bed is open to all animals,” Wes said as he squatted next to Claudia. “We’re hoping to adopt a pup soon. A little Barnham mascot.”

I followed Owen in, and when he flicked on the light in the foyer, I had to stifle a gasp, because the space to the right

of the door featured a room-length, floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.

With a ladder . A sliding ladder that was the stuff of every bookworm’s dreams.

“Wow, you’re quite a reader,” Wes said as he walked into the dim space.

“Oh, I haven’t read all of these yet,” Owen replied quickly. “But I have a lifetime to get through them.”

So his to-be-read list was house-sized. Got it.

Owen tossed his keys on the hall table beneath a big black-and-white abstract artwork that actually was a painting and not

a print.

“What can I get you to drink?” Owen asked. “Wine? Something harder?”

He flipped on more lights as he made his way through the place, and I followed behind him in silent awe, because his home

was nothing like I expected. Not that I thought he lived in a one-bedroom with a mattress on the floor or anything, but given

the way he dressed, I never imagined that he’d be living in a home that could feasibly show up in a YouTube Architectural Digest tour.

It was airy but masculine, with high ceilings and dark walls and an orderly but not off-puttingly tidy aesthetic. There were

a few dirty dishes stacked on the black counter by the sink and a grouping of healthy plants sitting in the deep windowsill,

including an orchid, a plant I’d never managed to keep alive. I could see French doors on the far wall that no doubt led to

an equally delightful outdoor space in back.

“Mate, I’m sorry to ruin the party, but we’re on fumes,” Wes said, glancing at a barely awake Claudia. “Would you mind if we turned in for the night?”

“Of course, I get it,” Owen said. “Let me show you where you’ll be.”

We all followed him down a narrow flight of stairs to a basement that didn’t feel subterranean thanks to windows and a door

leading to his backyard. I wasn’t sure about the mechanics of how the underground-but-not scenario was possible; all I knew

was that it was just as comfortable and well designed as the rest of his home.

Owen walked to a narrow closet and opened it to reveal stacks of perfectly folded linens. “That couch pulls out to a bed.

Sheets and pillows are in here. Towels too. Powder room is right over there.” He pointed across the space.

I forced myself not to let my jaw drop. A basement bathroom ? Owen had hit the housing jackpot and I wanted to know how.

Marti hopped onto the couch, clearly waiting for her bedmates to hurry up so they could snuggle.

Owen turned to me. “You’re on the second floor with me.”

I gulped and followed behind him, up the basement stairs and the floating staircase in the main hallway to a small bedroom

with chocolate-brown walls and white bedding that looked sumptuous even from a distance.

But I wasn’t ready for bed.

“Hey, can I take you up on that wine?” I asked him. “I’m all stressed from the fire stuff. I just need to unplug a little

before I go to sleep.”

“Yeah, I’m not tired yet either, but one more glass of red wine should do the trick.”

I dropped my gym bag in the bedroom, kicked off my shoes, and followed him back to the first floor.

“I wish it wasn’t raining; we could sit out back,” he said as he pulled gigantic goblets and a bottle of wine from a kitchen

cabinet.

“Here is fine,” I said, pulling out one of the modern sling-leather barstools.

“No, don’t sit there!” Owen held his hand out and I froze. “They are so uncomfortable. I’ve been meaning to replace them, but I like how they look, so I only sit in them when I’m going to be quick.”

I smiled to myself. So this glass of wine was going to be slow?

“Here.” Owen handed me an overfull goblet.

“Can we hang out in your library?”

He chuckled. “I wouldn’t call it that, but okay.”

The couch in the front room was dark gray and velvety, the exact sort of spot perfect for sinking in and napping a Sunday

away, especially with rain streaming down the front windows. As much as I wanted to run over and examine Owen’s book stash,

the couch was calling my name after a very long day.

I situated myself in the corner of it. Owen flipped on a small brass lamp behind the couch and opted to sit on the opposite

end rather than the chair a distance away. I took a long gulp of wine.

I forced myself not to ask about his beautiful living space, even though housing was a safe topic of conversation in the city.

There was simply no elegant way to ask how he could afford it on a pickleball instructor’s salary.

But then again, living with Meredith had been a crash course in quiet familial wealth.

She didn’t have to come out and tell me that a distant Waxman had made a killing in real estate; the second home in Aspen and first-class vacations provided plenty of context.

But then again, he’d told me that his father was a mechanic and his mom was a hairdresser.

“What?” Owen asked me, wearing a bemused smile.

With Owen, nothing went unseen, even something as fleeting as a frown of confusion. I’m sure it was somehow related to his

gift for coaching—the ability to notice something as seemingly unimportant as pointer finger placement on a paddle—but it

meant that I needed to stay on top of my poker face. He probably knew exactly what I was thinking about, but I wasn’t going

to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.

“Nothing. Just feeling very mellow.” I drew my legs up and crossed them under my skirt. “Although I think I was back to hypergripping

today. My forearm is killing me.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it happens when it’s an important game. We forget our basics. Try this.”

Owen set his wineglass on the marble table in front of the couch and pressed his thumb against the middle of his arm up near

his elbow, rubbing in slow circles.

I mimicked what he was doing on my own arm.

“Good, right?” he asked.

“Eh.” I frowned. “I don’t feel anything.”

He tsked disapprovingly and moved down the couch to me, abruptly taking my wrist in one hand and pressing his thumb against

my skin with the other before I could even comprehend what he was doing.

His knee wound up just a couple of inches from mine.

“Can you feel this ?”

He smoothed a firm circle against me, and I melted from the unexpected mix of sensations. My arm was sore enough to feel bruised from the abuse of the game, but the way he was massaging it made it hurt in a good way.

“Oh my god .” I sighed. I had to fight to keep from letting my eyes roll back in my head. “That’s it, right there.”

It was such a tiny, forgotten junction of muscles, but the way Owen was working it made me understand just how crucial it

was. He pushed his thumb against the skin in the center of my forearm up by my elbow, then moved it an inch outward, unleashing

a completely different painfully delicious sensation.

His hands were dangerous, even on my freaking arm.

“Are you kidding me?” I let my body sag as he continued massaging. “That is...”

He moved his thumb a quarter inch down and I shivered.

“Let me guess; you also did an intensive massage apprenticeship in Sweden?” I asked.

He let out an appreciative laugh. “Not quite. But I did plenty of time on the rehab and massage table back in my tennis days.

I picked up some pointers.”

“Do tell,” I gently encouraged, hoping he’d open up but not stop touching me.

“Can’t. I need to focus on your fucked-up flexor carpi radialis.”

“That’s your official diagnosis, Dr. Miller?” I laughed softly. “Fucked-up?”

“Unfortunately, yes. That’s what happens when you don’t listen to my advice. But I’ll get you all fixed up.”

As usual.

We both went quiet in the dim stillness, the rain on the window providing a gloomy soundtrack as his fingertips punished my

aching muscles.

Owen and I were back in that hazy, undefinable space where the pull to be close, touching if possible, was hard to resist. Be ing near Owen felt natural now. Necessary. I knew he thought getting close was a mistake—I was holding my breath, waiting for him to angrily retreat from me like always—but

I couldn’t write off the way I felt in the moment as being touch starved or horny.

No, I wanted him .

I wanted Owen. Not Kai.

Owen.

It was as if he could read my thoughts, because he slid his hand from my arm as I admitted it to myself.

“You might feel a little bruised tomorrow, but it should fade quickly,” he said as he grabbed his glass and retreated to his

corner of the couch.

He downed the wine quickly, like he was ready to be done with me. I didn’t want to say good night yet. I reclined so that

I was facing him, my back against the arm of the couch.

“Hey.” I stretched my leg out and poked him with my big toe. Owen jumped, startled out of whatever had him now frowning. “You

still haven’t sent me your chapters.”

“Right, I keep forgetting,” he said, leaning forward so he could pull his phone from his back pocket. “I’ll do it now.”

I watched his profile in the glow from his phone. I felt like I knew every inch of it.

“Sent,” he said. “Please be honest.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “But I have a good feeling. I know how you teach; now all you have to do is translate it to the page.”

“Yeah, easier said than done.” He let out a hoarse laugh.

“That’s why I’m here.”

A beat while he seemed to consider what sending his pages to me meant. I understood the naked feeling of taking a precious

idea and sending it out into the world.

“Thank you.”

I now knew better than to suggest that it was a payback for his generosity and instead just gave him a soft smile.

Something was happening and we both felt it. The stilled air, dim light, and memory of his hands on my skin were guideposts

on the way to the inevitable.

His eyes found mine in the darkness, and we watched each other wordlessly. My leg was still stretched across the couch, dangerously

close to his thigh. I willed him to shift his hand a few inches, so I could feel his palm on my skin again.

My heart thumped so forcefully that I wondered if he could hear it. I crossed my arms, hoping to muffle the sound, only to

have my breasts nearly spill over the edge of my tank top.

Owen’s eyes slid down my torso slowly to take me in, then back up to meet my gaze. He didn’t hide his appreciation, and his

expression seemed to suggest what he was thinking.

Mine.

I tried not to visibly tremble at how obvious he was being, even without words.

But this time, it wasn’t Owen fighting off what was to come. He was enjoying the wait.

Everything in our surroundings seemed to be conspiring to push us closer... the rain, the wine, the cloudlike couch, the

dim lamplight... but I wasn’t about to test my theory.

I didn’t want to get rejected yet again.

Owen cleared his throat softly and shifted so that he was fully facing me in a way that suggested a lion about to pounce.

“I’m going to kiss you now, Brooke.”