Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(24)
Author: Monica Murphy

“Or it can be a verb. Like, ‘Owen really wants to f**k …’” His grin fades, his expression going from amused to sexy in a millisecond. He drops his arms to his sides and shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

Everything inside of me goes loose and damp. I do know what he means. But is he referring to me?

No way.

“Um, yeah,” I finally say, slamming my textbook shut. “I should, uh, really get going. I have to be at the diner soon.” I stand and start gathering all of my stuff, keeping my gaze averted from his. He gets up, too, grabbing our dirty plates and stacking them before he takes them into the kitchen. I watch his retreating back, my breaths coming fast, my heart racing.

There is no way he was talking about me being someone he really wants to … I can’t even think the word. I press my hands against my cheeks, can feel the heat emanating off my skin, and I wonder if he saw me blush.

I hope not.

He comes back toward the table, stopping right in front of me. Reaching out, he grips the top of the chair next to him with one hand, his fingers curled around the metal so tight his knuckles go white. “Did I offend you?”

“What?” I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulder before I turn to face him fully.

“With all my ‘fuck’ talk. Did that bother you? I was just teasing. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He looks remorseful, a little worried, as he flicks his gaze downward at the floor. His eyelashes are long and thick, and golden-brown stubble highlights all the places on his face where I want to touch him. When he lifts his lids to meet my gaze once more, I’m dazzled by the look in his gorgeous green eyes.

Then I remember what he said. What he’s trying to tell me without coming right out and saying it.

He didn’t mean anything by implying he wanted to … me. Heaven forbid he misled me in any way.

“I get it. Really.” I smile, but it feels forced. Like I’m baring my teeth or something. “Don’t forget to turn in your assignments tomorrow.”

I turn away from him and hurry toward the door, ready to make my escape. My heart pounds with my every quick step and I need to get out of here quickly. I can’t take this any longer.

Being in Owen’s presence messes with my head. He’s too much.

And I am definitely not enough.

“I won’t forget.” He’s right behind me, lightning quick, and he reaches out around me, grabbing hold of the handle so he can open the door for me. “I’m sorry, Chelsea, if I embarrassed you. I didn’t mean to.”

I stand there in the middle of the open doorway, closing my eyes for the briefest second as the sound of his voice saying my name washes over me. I really love it when he says my name. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t like anything about Owen Maguire. “You didn’t. I’m fine. I just … I need to go and get ready for work. Thanks for the Chinese food.”

And with those last, extremely lame words, I escape from his house as if the very devil were chasing me.

CHAPTER 8

Owen

“How’s the tutoring going? Are your grades picking up?” Fable asks, sounding distracted. I hear the baby coo in the background and I know she’s holding Autumn. Fable can’t seem to concentrate on just me anymore. She’s always multitasking and juggling a million things at once.

Sometimes, when I have these thoughts, I yearn for the old days. When it felt like it was just me and Fable against the world, doing whatever we had to do in order to survive. When I could take off and claim I was with Wade at his house when really the two of us were out f**king around. My biggest responsibility back then had been homework.

Oh, and taking care of Fable and my mom. That had always weighed heavily on my shoulders.

It still does.

“They are. I turned in a bunch of assignments at the end of last week.” I’d even been allowed to come to Saturday’s game, though they hadn’t let me play. I sat on the bench the entire time, suited up and ready to go out onto the field, but the coach wouldn’t let me.

I think he had me sit there to prove a point.

See what you can’t have?

It worked. I slaved away on the portfolio for my Creative Writing class most of Sunday. Begged my boss at The District to start giving me more hours again when I went in to work my lame-ass four-hour shift that evening. And I plan on going to practice later tonight after I meet with Chelsea and hopefully present my coaches with my new grades so they’ll allow me to play.

My life is coming together again. I’m getting back on track, and this is a good thing.

So why do I feel this nagging, incessant buzz just beneath my skin, as if I’m forgetting something or someone?

Chelsea.

Yeah. She’s pissed at me. I went in to see her after that semi-disastrous night with her at my house and she’d been distant. Not cold or bitchy, but … preoccupied. All business, no friendliness, and she’d shot out of her chair and exited the room the minute our hour was over. Didn’t even bother to say goodbye.

It sucked.

“Your coach called Drew,” Fable says nonchalantly.

I collapse in the overstuffed chair in my room, sitting on top of the pile of clothes I always leave there as I lean my head back and close my eyes. This could be either really good or really bad. “What did he say?”

“That he’s impressed with the way you’re playing and wishes he could have you back on the team. Drew said he’s eager to work with you again. He can’t wait for you to pick up your grades.” She pauses. “Sounds like you’ve done that. I’m proud of you, Owen.”

“My English teacher said she talked to my tutor and that my grades are going to be updated within the next couple of days,” I say.

“That’s awesome. So you like the tutor, then? You two get along and it’s working out?”

Wish she were working out beneath me, but that’s definitely not going to happen. I screwed all that up by being a crude ass**le and offending her. “She’s nice. Super smart.”

“Cute?”

“Gimme a break, Fabes.” I crack open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. Chelsea is more than cute. She’s beautiful. Intelligent. Sweet. And she hates me. Because I’m a foul-mouthed idiot who acts like a little boy every time I get near her.

“That means you think she’s cute.”

“She’s out of my league.” The words leave me before I can stop myself. No way did I want to admit that to my sister.