“That’s my sister and brother-in-law.” Owen’s right behind me; I didn’t even hear him approach, and I carefully set the frame back on top of his dresser, a little embarrassed I just got caught snooping.
“He looks familiar,” I say lamely, turning to face him. He’s standing so close I can feel his body heat, and my body sways toward his as though I don’t have any control.
Which I don’t.
“He’s Drew Callahan.”
Oh. I blink up at Owen. A living legend around these parts, people still talk about Drew Callahan, especially now that he’s gone on to play for the NFL. Which means …
“Seriously? Your brother-in-law is a professional football player?” My jaw drops.
“Yeah. I thought you knew. Everyone knows.”
“I didn’t.” I tilt my head, studying him. “Is that why you play football?”
“He’s been a big influence, yeah.”
“How about your dad? Does he like football?”
Owen goes stiff all over, his expression eerily blank, as are his eyes. “I don’t know what that ass**le likes. I have no idea where he is.”
“Oh.” I should never have asked. My parents are a sensitive subject, too. I don’t like talking about my father at all, so I get it. “I’m guessing you’re close to your sister?”
“Fable? Yeah, she practically raised me.” The blankness disappears, replaced with a warm fondness that shows just how much she matters to him. “She just had a baby.”
“So you’re an uncle.” The thought warms my heart. The visual of Owen holding a baby in his arms makes me feel all shivery.
“Yeah. She’s cute.” He holds up his car keys. “Found them. Are you ready to go?”
Disappointment crashes over me. No! I want to shout. I want to stay. I want to go back out there and have a couple of drinks. Get a little buzzed. Maybe even “smoke a J,” which I’ve never done before in my life, though it sounds like it could be fun. And after I get a little high and get a little drunk, maybe I could drag you back in here and lock the door so I can kiss you. Fall into your arms, feel your hands press all over my skin …
A rapid knock sounds before I can find my tongue to answer him and the door slams open, revealing a tall guy who’s almost as broad as Owen standing in the doorway on wobbly feet. “You do have a girl in your room,” he says, sounding shocked as he rocks back on his heels. “Shit, I owe that ass**le Des twenty bucks.”
“Get the f**k out of here,” Owen says, though he doesn’t sound that angry. “We were just leaving, so you can tell Des nothing happened. You don’t owe him shit.” He turns to look at me. “Ready to go, Chels?”
I like that he just called me Chels. No one does. I have no cutesy nicknames and I always wished I had.
“Don’t tell me this is the tutor.” The guy trips into the room, stumbling over his own feet until he’s standing just in front of me. “You are, aren’t you? The tutor? I remember you.” He’s pointing at my chest, his tone a mixture of accusations and laughter.
“Um …” I don’t know if I should be honest or not. I’m not a liar like my dad, so I prefer to stick to the truth. And I remember him, too. He was at the diner with Owen along with Des. “Yes, I am.”
“Well shit, Owen. You got her into your room this quick? Sly motherfucker.” The guy grins. “I’m Wade. Owen’s oldest, dearest friend.”
“You’re going to be my deadest friend if you don’t shut your mouth and get out of my room,” Owen says, his voice low and rumbly and sexy as can be. What sort of sick perv does that make me, that I like it when he sounds all angry and growly?
I should be mad. He talked about me to his friends—most likely in a lewd and inappropriate way. More than anything, I should be offended. This means he doesn’t take me seriously.
Instead, I’m thrilled. That he actually talked about me beyond the “I have a tutor and I don’t want to see her” realm fills me with hope.
As though maybe I do have a chance with him.
Grinning, Wade stumbles back out much the way he came, sloppy and a little drunk. The minute he’s gone, I turn to Owen.
“How does he know about me?”
“Uh …” He looks vaguely uncomfortable, so I push for more.
“Did you talk about me to him?”
“He’s my roommate. So yeah, I talked to him about having a tutor.” He shrugs, going for nonchalance, but I don’t believe him.
There’s more to this story than what he’s saying.
“So why would he say that you worked quick and that you’re sly? What’s that all about?” I feel like a dog with a bone, but I have to find out what he might have said.
“You don’t want to know,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze averted.
He has it all wrong. “I definitely want to know.”
Anticipation thrums through me as I wait for what feels like forever. He remains quiet. Runs those long fingers through his hair again, rests his other hand on his hip. He looks frustrated. It’s a good look on him.
Everything is a good look on him.
“You’re going to be offended,” he finally says.
“I’ve been offended since the moment I saw your house and your friend started cursing at you,” I say, because it’s true. Their … colorful language is horrible.