Page 16 of Midnight Lessons
Owen pulls his mouth from mine, breathing raggedly. I suck in an unsteady gulp of air as he nips at my neck.
“Sweet,” he murmurs roughly. “You still taste so fucking sweet.”
I trace his brows and his nose, sinking my fingers into his hair, my fingertips gliding through the thick strands.
“What are we doing, O?” My question is husky, and heat climbs my cheeks at the undisguised need in my voice.
But I need reassurance. I need to understand what this is between us after so many years apart. Sure, we made out back then, but Owen never pressured me for sex. I always thought he was respecting myboundaries until I heard his cruel words that day outside the changing rooms.
Owen pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against mine as he catches his breath. His hands slide down my waist, lingering at my hips as if afraid to let go. His eyes are dark, swirling with desire but softened with something deeper.
“We’re figuring it out, Low, because anything else is unacceptable. Not being with you isn’t an option,” he says, his voice hoarse.
I almost smile as I absorb his words. They fill all the spaces I thought long emptied by his betrayal. I search his face, looking for any sign of insincerity, any hint of the boy who shattered me. But all I see is a man who’s lived with regret. A man who’s standing here, offering me the truth. And I realize I don’t want to cling to the hurt anymore.
He cups my face, his thumbs brushing away the tears I didn’t realize had fallen. “No more wasted time, no more bullshit. Just us.”
I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. It’s been so long since I’ve let myself be vulnerable like this. “Owen?—”
My words are cut off as his lips find mine again, this time slower, more deliberate as if he’s sealing a promise with each soft kiss.
A sense of starting anew infuses me, like we’re finally on the same page, ready to turn it together and discover what’s written in our next chapter.
Chapter 6
Willow
The soft chime of the doorbell pulls me from my last-minute dinner prep frenzy. I wipe my hands on my apron, flour dusting off in a small cloud, and take a deep breath before opening the door.
Owen stands there, all tall and dark, his easy grin not quite reaching those deep blue eyes that are always watching, always thinking. There’s a slight tension in his posture that only I would notice. We’ve had dinner together several times over the past three weeks, here or at one of the local eating spots. But the dinner we had at my parent’s house last weekend still lingers in my mind.
They saw him briefly at his parents’ funeral, but it was the first time they’d spent any timewith him since he left town for the city. Mom and Dad were good friends with Leah and Henry, so I knew seeing Owen again would be tricky and awkward for everyone.
My mom was polite, welcoming him with her usual warmth and saying how good it was to see him again. But my dad? Despite his impartial advice that evening at their house, all his protective hackles went up when he saw Owen. Dad’s jaw clenched when Owen hugged my mom, and his eyes lingered a little too long on my hand when Owen brushed his fingers against mine.
Dad’s protective nature kicked in the moment he realized how badly I was hurt all those years ago. He was the one to pick up the pieces, listening to my tears over endless cups of tea and silent hugs on the porch.
But that night, something shifted. Mom noticed it first, the way Owen’s attention never wavered from me, even during the most mundane conversations. He listened attentively, his gaze softening whenever I spoke. It was small, but Dad noticed it, too.
What really got him, though, was when Owen mentioned—almost offhandedly—that he was trying to track down whoever was behind the betting pool causing me so much grief. My dad’s eyes narrowed, suspicion melting into something more like curiosity. As Owen explained his plans and the lengths he was willing to go to keep me safe—having his friend Mark investigate using the resources of his IT company—I saw Dad’s shoulders loosen and his expression thaw.
By the time we were clearing the plates, Dad was even laughing at one of Owen’s jokes. A real laugh, not the forced, polite kind. And when we left that evening, I could’ve sworn I saw a glimmer of approval in his gaze—a tentative acceptance I hadn’t seen in years.
And it’s not just the effort Owen has been making with my parents that’s reassured me his intentions are genuine; he’s also shown me with his actions that he cares. He stops by the bakery whenever he gets the chance, bringing me flowers or small, thoughtful gifts. He holds my hand when we walk down the street, opens doors, and pulls out chairs for me. All in all, he’s been the perfect gentleman—and I’m unsure if I’m happy he finds it so easy to keep his hands to himself.
I guess he’s giving me the time and space to adjust to this tentative new relationship we’re building. But we’ve had years of space. Six years of pining and not communicating what we truly want.
I almost laugh at my thoughts. Who would’ve thought that three weeks ago, I’d be contemplating seducing the man who broke my heart?
Owen Callahan was hard to resist in high school—not that I wanted to back then—but it’s nothing compared to the pull he has on me now. The walls around my heart, built brick by brick since he left, are crumbling like old plaster under the weight of time. Every touch, every look, causes the cracks to spread, and I know it’s only a matter of time before they collapse completely.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. Maybe we’re building something stronger than we had before—something that even my father’s protective instincts can’t help but trust.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into the warm glow of my apartment above the hardware store. His presencefills the small entryway and makes my heart skip a beat. He smells like fresh air and pine. Like home. How the hell did I manage to stay away from him for so long?
“For dinner.” He hands me the bottle of wine he brought and leans in to kiss my cheek, lingering long enough that the heat from his lips teases my skin. “Something smells amazing.”
“It’s just lasagna,” I say with a nervous laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. I’m suddenly hyperaware of everything—the flour on my apron, the way my hands are still a little shaky from the anticipation of seeing him.