Love Me Tomorrow: Put A Ring On It Read online

  “She,” the beefy one says, wincing. “The boss is a she.”

  “She’s not in though,” Kurt pipes up. “Handles everything through email. So far, at least, since she’s been out of the country. I hear she’s pretty though. That’s what Chad said. He’s done work for the family before.”

  “Dude,” mutters another guy, this one in the back of the pack, “d’you have to say everything that goes through your head?”

  “Honesty is the best policy.” Kurt elbows his friend in the side. “Ain’t that right, Chad?”

  I don’t know how it’s possible, but these dudes might have Shirley beat when it comes to gossiping. And that’s saying a lot, considering the woman only shows up to bingo so she can get the 411 on the elderly community in her neighborhood.

  Give me the strength to not punch Tweedle Dum right in the mug. Exasperated, I pass a hand over my jaw. “I’ll take a phone number.”

  Five sets of horrified gazes swing in my direction.

  Chad’s the first one to speak. “We can fix it, man. Tomorrow—first thing. No need to get the boss lady involved.”

  Kurt thrusts a hand up in the air, only to have it swatted down by the same dude who called him out earlier. Scowling, the kid clutches his hand to his chest and solemnly vows, “Screw tomorrow, I’ll fix the wall right now.”

  When he moves to leave, two different pairs of arms pin him in place. “No,” both guys mutter emphatically. Kurt frowns, and I stop just short of rolling my eyes.

  Time’s up.

  I’ve got a cannolo with Shirley to eat, three more stars to ink, and that’s not even factoring in the next two clients that are booked for this afternoon. The first one is getting an easy tat—a skull-and-crossbones combo that I could sketch out in my sleep—but the other scheduled appointment is gonna be a doozy. Covering up some old ink, lots of colors, intricate shading that’s going to take me hours. I don’t have time to be worrying about a random hole in my wall or having to listen to . . .

  Christ, is that Nickelback playing on the radio?

  I meet Chad’s gaze because, out of the lot of them, he seems the one most likely to pull himself together and rise to the occasion. Though if he’s the one responsible for the boob video, maybe I’m wrong.

  “I’ll be sure to mention it was an accident,” I manage tightly, “no harm, no foul. But I need that wall fixed, and I don’t have time to wait for the boss to show up whenever she damn well feels like it.”

  Almost as one, the group shifts their attention to something or someone coming down the hall. I hear the staccato of heels striking concrete. The sharp breath of Kurt, who honestly looks like he’s about to piss himself. The scrape of my shoes as I twist around, fully prepared to take in what has everyone else looking like petrified hens.

  Fuck me.

  I wish I hadn’t looked.

  Because there, walking toward me, is the one woman who took my dead, neglected heart and dropped the damn thing right in the meat grinder. Even now it beats irregularly, like it’s not sure whether it’s acceptable to launch into a sprint at the sight of her or shrivel up and retreat into hibernation.

  If I were anyone else but me—cool, calm, and collected, twenty-four-seven—I’d set a hand on my chest, just to ensure I haven’t suffered a heart attack at a critical time, like Peggy’s husband.

  After all, it’s not every day you come face to face with the woman who chose twenty-six other men over you.

  When Savannah’s sky-high heels careen to a halt, I know she’s spotted me. Panic floods her gorgeous face, widening her gaze and parting her full lips and making her fingers, which are wrapped around a thick stack of manila folders, clench.

  “Owen?” Her voice cracks on the second syllable of my name, and then she swallows, audibly. Shifts her weight from one foot to the other. And I’m just enough of an asshole that I don’t answer, not right away, because the last time we saw each other, she looked me dead in the eye and told me that she felt nothing for me but friendship.

  Pure, platonic friendship.

  Savannah Rose is a lot of things—sweet, ambitious, a defender to every person around her, even to her own detriment—but I never took her for a liar.

  Not until that night.

  I feel the tension simmering in the air between us, and it’s not just the New Orleans swampy humidity kicking into gear. It’s us, this tangible chemistry that I wish didn’t exist but always has, from the very first moment we met, when I was dating her younger sister.

  My molars grind together. “Rose.”

  She sucks in a harsh breath, as though she can’t believe I have the balls to use my nickname for her. Twisting away, she gives me a view of her profile and one slender shoulder. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you busy with . . . aren’t you busy next door?”

  Ice thickens in my veins.

  Did she plan on speaking to me? Or did she seriously think that she could waltz into the storefront next to mine and pretend that I don’t exist? Something tells me it’s the latter, and I feel emotion—anger, bitterness, and worse, embarrassment—clog my throat. Clearly, this joint is about to be converted into one of her family’s many restaurants, which means she’ll be in and out of here for months during construction. And then later, too, when the place opens and patrons flock to yet another Edgar Rose Restaurant Group establishment.

  As if the city isn’t already overrun by them.

  I imagine Savannah sneaking in and out the restaurant, always checking to see if I’m on my way out of Inked, or always heading left, toward St. Peter Street, just so she won’t risk me catching a glimpse of her out my front windows.

  The embarrassment recedes, scattering like confetti on a windy day.

  I step in her path.

  Because I’m feeling ticked off.

  Because I am ticked off.

  Still, after all these months.

  Her thick hair falls in waves down her back, nearly to her waist. Like a curtain, it shields her face from scrutiny. Much as my fingers itch to tuck back the strands—refusing to let her hide from me—I casually hook my thumbs in the belt loops of my jeans instead.

  “Don’t,” she warns on a shaky whisper.

  “Don’t what? Be here?” I drop my voice to a low, unforgiving pitch. “Hate to break the news to you, but I’ve got an appointment with the boss.”

  That gets her attention.

  Her eyes are almond-shaped, lashes thick and batting quickly as she stares up at me, though not at all flirtatiously. She’s confused, on the verge of calling me out, I’m sure, when Kurt clears his throat behind me and ventures, “We, uh, screwed up, Miss Rose.”

  He points to the wall, and she follows the length of his arm with her gaze.

  “Crap.”

  Whether she’s talking about the inevitable repairs or the fact that she’ll now have to interact with me for the foreseeable future, I’m not quite sure. Either way, it’s almost grossly satisfying to know that as much as she wants to be done with me, the universe has pulled a giant middle finger and flashed it in her direction.

  Somehow, I’ve found myself with the upper hand and I’m not about to squander it.

  I drop a hand to her stack of folders, careful not to touch her, and lower my head so we’re at eye level. For a second, I let myself remember before. All the times she sat in Inked, watching me work. The first time she asked if I could tattoo something on her skin. The first time I touched her skin. Soft. So fucking soft. I’d gone home, fully prepared to do the right thing and go straight to bed, and instead found myself standing beneath my shower head, my hand wrapped around my dick. Because, Christ, everything about this woman calls to me, no matter the fact that, in theory, she’s never been mine to want in the first place.

  “Send me an invoice,” she clips out, clearly striving for control of her emotions, “and we’ll take care of the repairs.”

  An invoice isn’t going to work for me.

  “Thirty minutes,” I tell her, not bothering to temper the hard note in my voice. “I’ll be waiting next door.”

  Her brows shoot up. “We shouldn’t.”

  I let out a short, caustic laugh. “When has that ever stopped us before?”

  2

  Savannah

  When life takes a shit on you, it does so in epic proportions.

  I’m talking epic proportions.

  In the last twenty-four hours: I’ve lost my luggage—according to the airline, both suitcases are currently vacationing in Tokyo; spotted my face on no less than three tabloid magazines while hustling through the New Orleans airport—“America’s Sweetheart Spotted Returning to the USA!”; and sat down for lunch with my parents, expecting at least a hug, considering I’ve been traveling with Amelie all over Europe for the last four months, but instead was given the “big news.”

  Apparently, I’m the newly minted Vice President of the Edgar Rose Restaurant Group.

  My dad beamed at me with pride from across the oak table.

  My mom offered a warm smile and a toast of congratulations with her second glass of merlot.

  Meanwhile, I was so caught off guard that I choked on a half-eaten boudin ball and almost needed resuscitation.

  Confession: between the vice-presidency and death by boudin ball, I’d choose the latter.

  And if all of that isn’t enough to make my head feel like exploding, there’s also Owen.

  Owen.

  I spent eight hours formulating a plan of action while flying over the Atlantic Ocean. Eight hours of staring out the small, oval window and picturing his reserved black gaze and his full bottom lip and, oh yeah, thinking of various ways to approach him about the new ERRG restaurant opening next door to Inked, as well as finding a way to discuss everything that went down on Put A Ring On
It . . .

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  I’ve spent the last seven months thinking of ways to apologize for what I did, in front of the entire nation. I’ve mulled it over more times than I can count. I’ve pulled up Inked on Bourbon’s Instagram page—because Owen has never been one for having personal social media accounts—and typed out at least three dozen apologies that have never been sent because what else is there to say?

  I’m sorry. I said that when I sent him home from the show.

  I hope we can still be friends. I told him that too.

  Please don’t hate me. I whispered those four soul-crushing words just before he stormed out of the mansion, his broad shoulders tense with fury. He’d turned back to me, then, with his normally aloof, dark eyes blazing and all that ink at the base of his throat rippling, like he was struggling for control. His mouth had parted, words clearly ready to launch and take aim, before he shook his head sharply and disappeared out into the night.

  We haven’t spoken since.

  So, yeah.

  Two hours ago, I was fully prepared to finish up my meeting with the construction crew and then stop by next door. Bury the hatchet, once and for all. Come to terms with the fact that while I won’t be at the new Bourbon job site daily, I will be down there frequently and the chances of Owen and me running into each other are definitely greater than zero percent.

  But after actually seeing him face to face for the first time in months . . .

  I don’t think I can do this.

  Nerves pulse wildly under my skin as I stare at the antique doorknob that leads directly into the tattoo parlor.

  Thirty minutes. That’s how long he gave me to get my butt over here.

  I’m down to twenty-nine minutes and a handful of seconds.

  I’m not the sort of woman who heeds a command without a sharp retort on the tip of my tongue—unless your name is Edgar or Marie Rose, in which case, all I do is obey, earn a paycheck, and wonder how I can love and hate a job all in the same breath—but the last thing I want is Owen Harvey barging into the construction site next door and causing a scene because I failed to show up on time.

  Not that I’ve ever known him to cause a scene.

  Not until you lied to his face and told him that you thought of him as nothing more than a friend.

  A friend.

  Honestly, it’s a miracle I wasn’t struck down by hellfire on the spot.

  Unexpectedly, the glass door swings open before me, narrowly missing the pointed toes of my pumps.

  I don’t need to glance up to know who it is. My senses are honed to everything that makes him him: the woodsy scent that reminds me of hiking in City Park, the way he instinctually favors his left arm, the cowlick in his hairline that causes the dark-as-night strands to lay boyishly across his forehead.

  His gravelly voice resonates within me like an earthquake shuddering beneath my feet. “You stand out here any longer and the cops are gonna think you’re plannin’ a burglary.”

  I almost laugh.

  Seven months ago, I would have laughed.

  But already I can feel the awkwardness rifting between us, and I curl my toes in my heels to keep from turning tail and running away. I smile, all teeth and please-don’t-make-this-harder-than-it-needs-to-be vibes. “With any luck, Gage would be the one to show up and I won’t have to worry about being arrested.”

  At the mention of his twin, Owen rests a hand on the doorframe and bows down, so that we’re eye to eye, the way he’s always done to put us at equal height. In a soft, lethal tone, he murmurs, “Oh, you’d have to worry, all right.”

  I shiver. Right there on the sidewalk, in the witheringly eighty-six percent humidity, I shiver like winter is coming and my only hope for survival is burrowing in Owen’s warm chest.

  The way I see it, I have two options here: cower under Owen’s tangible anger or push back and stand my ground.

  Desperate to reassert some control over the situation, I choose the latter with probably more gumption than is necessary.

  My fingers land on his solid chest and I give a sharp push. He concedes without issue, drifting backward so I can ease my way into the air-conditioned parlor. It’s exactly the way I remember: black-and-white parquet floors, nineteenth-century barge-wood walls, frames of tattooed artwork hanging tastefully throughout the space.

  A half-eaten cannolo abandoned on the receptionist’s desk.

  The dessert I don’t remember being here, but since I wouldn’t mind eating my feelings right about now, I pay it no mind.

  Spinning around, I plant my hands on my hips and get right down to business. “ERRG bought the souvenir shop next door three weeks ago. They went bankrupt, my dad saw an opportunity to open another restaurant in the Quarter, and the deal was done before the realtor even uploaded the listing online.”

  Owen stands with his feet spread apart, hips straight, bulky arms folded over his chest. He’s big and brawny and I hate that even now—after everything that’s happened between us—I can’t help but stare at the way he’s rolled up the sleeves of his blue flannel to expose his steely, tattooed forearms.

  His expression remains impassive under my scrutiny.

  I tap my fingers on my hips, a silent beat that does nothing to mitigate the excess energy firing through me as I wait him out.

  And wait him out.

  And wait him out some more.

  My tapping dies a slow, slow death. “I should have sent you an email when the deal went through, just as a head’s up that I’d be . . . that we’d be opening next door to you.” Another composed email to match the dozens of others I’ve written to him that sound stiff and completely unlike me. This latest one is still sitting in Draft mode in my inbox, never to be read again. Or sent. Just like all the others. “I’m sorry for that,” I add softly, “I planned to stop by after my meeting next door. Obviously”—I clear my throat awkwardly—“I wasn’t expecting you to be there. That’s not . . . that’s not how I wanted you to find out. I know you don’t like surprises.”

  Surprises like the way he showed up in California and shocked you right down to your core?

  As if he’s recalling the same night as I am, his black eyes gleam as he levels me with a swift, thorough once-over that starts at my professionally blown-out hair and ends at my chipped, end-of-vacation pedicure.

  Clearly content to let me run circles around myself like a dog chasing its own tail, he doesn’t say a word.

  Dammit. Can’t we do this civilly?

  “Owen, I—”

  “You’re not wearin’ a ring.”

  Words die on my tongue at his succinct pronouncement. Like my hands belong to someone else, I hold them up in front of me. Nails painted a pristine summer white. Skin the color of café au lait. Slim wrists with silver bangles tinkling noisily as they clink together.

  What Owen said isn’t quite true—I am wearing rings, just not where they count.

  And not on the fourth finger of my left hand.

  Has he really not seen any spoilers online? Footage leaked months ago, over the winter, that I turned down both final contestants. And there’s been no shortage of talk about it everywhere else. Even while traveling in Europe, I couldn’t stand in the checkout aisle of a local grocery store without seeing my face staring back.

  That woman on the front pages of those magazines—she looks like me, smiles like me, but God, I feel like we might as well be two different people. Pre-Put A Ring On It. Post-Put A Ring On It. I didn’t fall in love on the show—not the way that I hoped I would after that very first night—but somehow those three months traveling the world with a bunch of strangers changed me anyway.

  I can’t help but wonder if Owen sees those changes now. He’s always read me like an open book—peeled back my layers as though my spine is only his to crack, my pages only his to flip.

  Slowly, I shake my head. “No, I’m not.” I pause, steeling my spine for his response. “Engaged, that is. I . . . I’m not engaged.”

  Owen’s expression reveals nothing. He’s completely aloof, and that ambivalence threatens to spark my anger in a way that dating twenty-six strangers never did. The producers lamented my level head, even when shit hit the fan—like when one of my final two contestants, Dominic DaSilva, came clean during our overnight date about how he’d been paid to come on the show. I never once screamed. I never once lost my temper. I’m sure the producers would have loved the added drama of me throwing a vase across the room or bashing Dominic in the face with my fist, but I stayed calm.