Page 33 of Surrender to Me

And how could I be upset about Poppy Wellington when Owen Lowell had called himself mine? I felt like a tomato with the way he was making me blush.

“Have you thought about New York?” he asked.

I nodded. “So I think—”

“Lowell!” Bobby shouted. “Owen! Whatever! Get your fine ass over here and help me win back my honor!”

A group of customers walked through, one after the other, and so I went to the register while Owen arm wrestled at the back of the cafe. As I finished punching in the codes for the last customer, a man dressed in black walked up. I knew that figure; thin, taut, slick blond hair. Michael sneered down at me.

“I need to talk to you,” he hissed.

“We have nothing to talk about,” I said. “What would you like to order?”

“I lost my space in the program,” he said. “The least you can do is give me ten minutes of your time.”

Owen was watching us from behind the group. I locked eyes with him. “Fine,” I said quietly to Michael. “Five minutes.”

As soon as we stepped outside, Michael clenched his fists. “This is your fault, Riley,” he said. “If I hadn’t looked out for you, if I hadn’t felt bad for you, I would still be—”

“Oh please,” I said. “You wanted to fuck me. It’s not like you did those things out of the sheer purity of your heart.”

He punched the wall next to us and I jolted, stepping back. “You fucking bitch,” he said. “Do you know how hard I worked to—”

“What’s the problem?” Owen asked, stepping outside. He stepped in front of me. “Lauder.”

Michael nodded at me. “This fucking cunt—”

“Back off, Lauder,” Owen growled. Michael tilted his head to the side.

“You think because you’re rich, you’ve got nothing to hide,” he said. “But you’re a freak of nature. Torture gets you off, Owen? That’s what Riley likes, isn’t it?”

“Take ownership for once,” Owen said cooly. “You’re pathetic.”

Michael reached back to punch Owen, and I yelped. Owen dodged the throw, shoved me out of the way, and knocked Michael to the floor. He pulled Michael into a headlock so fast that I was convinced he must have martial arts training. That, or he was a damn magician. Michael’s lip was bleeding.

Clay and Bobby joined us, a few customers hovering behind them.

“He’s got it, Owen,” I said. Owen let go of his grip and Michael stumbled to the ground. He wiped his lip with his sleeve.

“That was a good punch,” Clay mumbled.

“Cops are on their way,” Bobby said.

“Got it on film, hot shot,” said a customer. “No one punches Owen Lowell and gets away with it!”

I turned to the customer, a regular of ours. “Police evidence only?” I pleaded with the best puppy dog eyes I could muster.

“Whatever,” he shrugged.

Owen held my hand, squeezing it, a small but public gesture of affection that, for once, I didn’t run away from. I knew he was glad I had said that, looking out for him, like he always looked out for me.