Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel) (16 page)

Chapter Eighteen

Breathe, Rainey.

I’m sitting in the hallway at the empty BYC on Saturday morning waiting for Owen to come out and get me when the group is ready. He’s meeting with Mr. Kensington, along with the HR person in charge of BYC and the accounts manager. I can’t help but realize the irony that they aren’t all in the conference center. They easily could have still used it—there’s plenty of seating and all—but I guess they found it too uncomfortable. Either that, or they figured it would be a short meeting. Firing Rainey and getting the hell out of Dodge shouldn’t last longer than a few minutes.

But when Remy walks through the front door, my breathing advice flies out the window.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

He looks like a completely different person in a suit and tie. He smiles at me. Awkwardly, he leans down to give me a hug.

“I’m setting things right, Rain,” he whispers back. Then he reaches out and tugs one of my blond curls before striding back into the main office. I just stare at his retreating back until it disappears around the corner.

Dude. What the fuck?

Minutes pass and they feel like hours. Days, even. I don’t know how to keep waiting when I feel this incredibly unsure of the outcome. I want to run away—to bolt the hell out of this place.

I’m actually ready to take off when I hear someone open and shut a door in the office. Then Owen comes walking out—sidling out, really. His face is almost blank.

“They’re ready for you.”

I inhale deeply through my nose, then stand up and brush a hand down over my navy dress. I don’t say anything to Owen. I try not to even look at him. Instead, I walk ahead of him into the office and toward the closed door where the fate of my job is hiding.

Owen reaches over to open the door and I step inside. Mr. Kensington and Remy are chatting quietly. When he sees me, Remy stands up.

“I’ll be in touch moving forward. Thank you, Mr. Kensington.”

Mr. Kensington nods, then shakes Remy’s hand. Remy gives me a small smile, then exits the room.

Here it is. The moment of truth.

Owen sits at his desk. Mr. Kensington sits down in a nearby chair, then gestures for me to do the same. When I do, he clears his throat, then leans forward to meet my gaze.

“Ms. Wallace, it would seem that we owe you an apology.”

I blink at him, unsure of how to react.

“Um . . . excuse me?”

“It would seem that Remy—Mr. House—gave you clearance to use the card in every instance. We’ve gone through the records, and, save the most recent charge, Remy was responsible for the approval.”

I swallow.

“The most recent charge was mine,” I say quietly. “The money that was for the Safe Spaces project—I did that without any approval.”

Owen nods. “Yes, but since that initiative has recently received some unexpected funding, that money has been paid back to the county account.”

I frown at him. “Unexpected funding?”

He nods. “An anonymous donation arrived this morning, along with a letter about your community activism. Someone you talked to—someone you asked for money from—saw the potential in the project. In you. They sent a ten-thousand-dollar cashier’s check.”

“Holy shit,” I say, then press a hand to my mouth. “Sorry.”

Owen smiles. “No, that’s okay. I think we all feel that way.”

“Mr. House has agreed to replace the funds he spent through a paycheck deduction, and Mr. Marshall has written a two-thousand-dollar check to the city to cover the expenses for Safe Spaces. The other eight thousand is up to the two of you to use wisely. But once you’ve figured out your plans, I suggest that you keep us in the loop. Just to make sure all our ducks are in a row.”

I nod at him, looking between him and Owen.

“Of course. Thank you.”

Everyone but Owen and me files out of the room. For a long moment, we just stare at each other.

“So, I still have my job?” I ask quietly. He nods.

“Absolutely.”

“And so does Remy?”

Owen nods. “I’m surprised that he does, honestly,” he says, “but yeah. Kensington said something to him about second chances and redemption.”

I wonder if there was more to it—like the chance of Remy suing for prejudice. Regardless, the grin that takes over my face is like a reflex—a strong, unstoppable action. Owen smiles back, but he doesn’t come any closer. I clear my throat.

“So, when can I come back to work?”

“Tomorrow.” Owen gestures to the space around us. “It hasn’t been the same without you here. I can’t wait until you’re back.”

I inhale slowly, softly. I want to say more, but I’m so incredibly overwhelmed. Having my job back feels like the greatest prize—do I really want to risk it again by having a relationship with my boss?

“Well, I will see you tomorrow, then,” I say quietly.

We look at each other for a long moment. I wonder if he can see my urge to run into his arms. I close my eyes and turn around, then move for the front door. I can feel his gaze burning into my back, but I know I won’t make it out of the building if I turn around and look into his eyes. I propel myself out the door to my car. I pick up my phone and have to actively choose not to text him, not to call him. Instead, I turn on the radio and increase the volume, singing as loud as I can.

I know this is a victory. It feels like a victory. But in the back of my mind something is missing and it feels as empty as any failure ever could.

***

Once I’m home, I collapse on the couch. I am so mentally and emotionally exhausted that it’s translating to a physical inability to function. My eyelids are heavy and I could probably fall asleep. I might fall asleep, in fact, if there wasn’t a knock at the door.

I stare at it for a long moment. The last time I had an unexpected guest, it was my parents. I don’t even want to consider who could be at the door now. Still, the knock is insistent and I have to drag myself up and off of the couch.

“Coming,” I call out.

I don’t even bother looking through the peephole. When I pull the door open, Owen is standing there, his hand poised to knock again. He lowers it hastily.

“Hi,” he says. “I—um—wanted to see how you were doing.”

I blink at him. “I’m okay . . .”

He palms the back of his head. “Well—um—that’s good. I’m happy to hear it.”

He sort of shuffles in place and I just stare at him and his obvious discomfort.

“Owen?”

He glances up at me, his eyes unreadable. I cross my arms over my chest in a protective move.

“What are you doing here?” I ask softly.

He licks his lip and inhales sharply, as though he has an answer to my question but isn’t sure he wants to say it.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asks, tilting his head.

I think about that.

“No, that isn’t what I want.”

For another second, we stand in my doorway, staring at each other.

“Do you want to come in?” I finally ask. Owen nods, but walks slowly as he comes into my kitchen. I stand with my back to the refrigerator and watch him shift from foot to foot.

“I’m so glad that everything was figured out,” he finally says.

I nod.

“Me, too. I told you—I never took anything without permission, especially money.”

Owen swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down and try not to think about running my tongue up and down his neck.

“Rainey, I’m so sorry. I promise you—I defended you from the moment I found out about the purchases. I told them you were just doing your job. And that you were invaluable to the center.”

I sniff. “What about that anonymous donation? When did that come into play?”

Owen looks down at his hands. “This morning, actually. The money and letter, combined with Remy’s confession—well, it pretty much convinced Kensington that you were worth retaining. At least, that’s the word he used. Retaining.”

I snort. “I honestly don’t think I care what his opinion of me is anymore. I don’t want anyone to give me a handout or a leg up or a second chance if they don’t think I’ve earned it.”

“Then what do you want?” Owen asks.

“Honestly?” I tilt my head. “I want to hear that you’re sorry.”

Owen moves toward me, reaches out with one hand, and touches my face.

“I promise you that I will never, ever keep anything from you again. I promise. And I am so sorry, baby. So very sorry that I didn’t talk to you in the first place to get your story. I should have, but I fucked up. I can’t apologize enough for that.”

When I don’t move away, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him.

“Rainey.”

He slides his hands up both my thighs and begins to spread my legs apart.

“Is this okay?”

I have to force myself not to whimper as he kneels down and presses his mouth to my left thigh, giving a wet, sucking kiss that travels from one leg to the other.

“Tell me this is okay,” he says, his voice dark with passion.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

I moan, which must spur Owen on. He surges up, roughly sliding the skirt of my dress up to my waist, then tugs my dark purple panties down to my knees, revealing my bare pussy to his gaze. He presses his mouth to the top of my mound, then just below—dead center on my clit. I can feel my eyes rolling back in my head, my lids fluttering, but I couldn’t possibly focus on anything of any importance right now. My entire being—heart, soul, and certainly libido—is completely absorbed by the sensations at my very core.

“We’ve wasted so much time,” he murmurs. “I should spend every moment from here on out making you feel good.”

Owen’s words—the way he speaks to me—are as hot as any touch.

But, of course, there’s a lot to be said for touch, too.

He uses both thumbs to spread my pussy apart, and I know he’s staring at my flesh, examining and admiring just how wet he’s managed to get me. His eyes meet mine as his tongue enters me, and I almost swoon with the delicious sensation of having his tongue fill me again and again.

As he moves to lick my clit in a pulsing, variable rhythm, I give myself over to the sensations, to the orgasm I know I deserve. I can feel myself cresting that peak, and, when he slides a finger inside me, I fall. I fall hard and fast and quickly into an abyss of pleasure. I don’t even realize I’m sinking down to the floor until I’m there. After a few long moments, I blink, looking around me at my kitchen. Owen reaches over and pulls me into his lap. Both of us are still catching our breaths.

“You okay?” he asks. I nod.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

He grins at me then, and leans in to capture my mouth.

Regardless of anything else—the days apart, the times I felt like we were on two different sides, the times Owen felt like my boss more than my boyfriend—all of that feels like it’s behind us now. Safe Spaces has funding. I have my job.

I reach up and cup his chin.

“What about us?” I ask, meeting his gaze.

“What about us?”

I sigh. “I don’t want to have to hide our relationship—I don’t want to run around covering our tracks. If it’s going to be like that, I don’t want to do this, Owen. It’s too hard. And it hurts.”

Owen leans down and presses a soft kiss on my mouth.

“After you left the office today, I spoke to Burt about you. I told him that we are dating and that isn’t going to change anytime soon, so if he wanted to move one of us, he’d need to make the decision now.”

My eyes widen. “But—he can’t move me—we just started the Safe Spaces project and I don’t want to have to abandon it. It’s something I’ve worked so hard on . . .”

But Owen’s shaking his head.

“He saw it the same way, Rainey,” he says, grinning. “The donation to Safe Spaces was specifically due to you. He doesn’t want to see that end.”

I frown. “Honestly, I really haven’t done that much outreach with community members. I don’t know how I got lucky.”

He shrugs. “Well, you did. And that’s all that mattered to Burt. And it’s all that matters for this job.”

I can’t help but grin as I shake my head. “That’s crazy.”

Owen squeezes me closer.

“So, we’re out in the open,” he says, brushing the hair away from my face. “We’re officially a couple—I mean, if that’s all right with you.”

I look up at Owen, then tip my face up to kiss him.

“It’s all right with me.”

“Good.”

He hops up then and reaches down to help me stand up, too. As I move to sit at the kitchen table, he starts peering through the fridge, then the pantry. I raise an inquisitive brow.

“Looking for something?”

He nods. “Food. Or ingredients at least. It’s about time I cooked my girlfriend dinner.”

Girlfriend.

That word used to scare the shit out of me but it doesn’t anymore. Neither do the next words I say out loud.

“Hey, Owen?”

“Hmmm?” he asks, pulling a bag of salad out of the crisper drawer.

I pause, then inhale a shaky breath.

“I love you.”

For a second, Owen freezes. When he turns around to face me, he looks like he’s both shocked and thrilled. Carefully, he sets down the salad and comes to kiss me.

“I love you, too, gorgeous. It’s great to hear you say it back.”

I bite my bottom lip, then release it.

“It’s great to actually say it,” I respond.

And it’s the truth. It feels right to love Owen. It feels like everything is falling into the right place at the right time.

Finally.

Finally, I’m sliding into the spot made just for me.

Chapter Nineteen

Six Weeks Later

“You sure you don’t want to just hide back in your office? We could fit in a quickie before the open house starts.”

I roll my eyes at Owen and he grins at me. I know he’s kidding—that he’s just trying to make me loosen up a little. It’s a huge day—professionally, the biggest day of my life. I’ve been nervous as hell all week and Owen knows it. His attempt at distraction is really his sweet way of making me relax a little bit.

I pace back and forth in the hall outside the Safe Spaces Support Café and try to convince myself that there’s no reason to be nervous. That this day—this moment—is something I’ve worked harder for than I’ve ever worked for anything. Everyone I know is coming to the open house today. Cyn and Smith, her fiancé—God, I have to get used to saying that. They haven’t set a date yet, but Cyn’s already beginning to talk about dresses and Carson’s already got a bachelorette weekend planned. Carson’s moved most of her things out of the apartment—she and Wyatt found a row house in Hampden that they love.

My parents are driving up today, too—both of my sisters have prior commitments, but I’m trying not to be hurt or offended. In general, I’ve decided to focus on the good and not the bad when it comes to all things—my relationship with my folks, my job and the kids I’ve come to love at BYC, and, of course, Owen. It’s been a long time since I’ve loved someone. It’s been a long time since I’ve let myself be loved.

For a final time, I walk over to the café and check out the setup. I can’t believe how far we’ve come with so very little cash. There’s a bank of five computers—all donated—linked up along one wall. Over where my old coffee machine used to sit on a tray table? Now there’s a silver cart with a Keurig machine that’s far nicer than the one I have at home. The old tables and chairs have been replaced with new sofas and loveseats, along with lamps and end tables. The posters are gone—in their place, framed photos from local activists and large canvases with bright, abstract paintings.

Best of all are the lockers. Our make-do lockboxes were donated to a few of the local schools. Now, we’ve got six-foot custom lockers that were built by a carpenter out of Pennsylvania. Each one has hooks for jackets, a shelf for books, and a large locking drawer for personal items. The lockers were given to our teen advisory board first, but the last three are being raffled off to the kids who attend the most.

I feel arms come around my waist and Owen props his chin on my shoulder. I lean my head to one side and he sweeps my blond curls away from my neck.

“You’ve done so good, baby,” he whispers in my ear. “This place is amazing. And this never would have happened if you hadn’t busted your ass.”

I sort of shrug, but I can’t help but smile at his words. The truth is that he’s right. The grant applications had been an absolute pain in the ass, but it was nothing compared to the actual orchestration of the cyber café. I’d had to arrange deliveries and design the space and figure out how to make things the most functional and useful for the largest number of people. There’ve been days when I literally wanted to throw up my hands and give up. Those were the days when, inexplicably, as though she knew I was struggling, Charlie would show up. She’d help me with whatever was frustrating me. She’d paint windowsills or unpack boxes or just sit and chat about drama happening at school. In the end, it was like she knew I needed her there. And every single time, she got me through the panic and the worry.

And now here we are. The BYC Safe Spaces Support Café. It’s a reality and it’s the best thing I’ve ever been a part of.

“Charlie’s coming today, right?” Owen asks as we head back through the hall to the main office. I nod.

“Yeah, she’s bringing her mom and her sister.”

“What’s going on with her mom and her stepdad?”

I shrug. “Charlie said her mom filed for a legal separation. It sounds like she’s done for real.”

Owen shakes his head. “I can’t believe it—I mean, I’m really glad, of course. I just wish she hadn’t waited so long. She could have saved Charlie a lot of pain and the whole world a lot of trouble.”

“Yeah, maybe so.”

I reach for Owen’s hand, and, when I weave our fingers together, I squeeze gently.

“Sometimes it takes a little while to see the truth about things,” I say softly, looking at him, a smile playing at my mouth. “Sometimes you need a little longer than other people to know what everyone else knew the entire time.”

Owen pulls me into him and spins me around, backing me against the wall. I squeal, then look in both directions.

“Owen—we’re not alone in the building!”

“Please.” He scoffs, then frames my face with both of his hands, leaning in to capture my mouth with his. For a second, I attempt to resist, but my fight is futile and we both know it. I lift my hands to clutch at Owen’s biceps, letting my nails dig in with the slightest bite of pain. I know how much he likes it when I add an edge. The slightest bit of naughty spicing up our classic nice.

“You know we can’t start this,” he growls in my ear, then grazes the lobe with his teeth. I roll my eyes, pinning him with an exasperated stare.

“Um, excuse me. Who started this?”

He grins, then lowers his mouth to my neck, knowing that’s my sweet spot—the one place that will make me melt every single time. As he flicks his tongue out against the soft flesh at the base of my throat, I whimper in protest. Well, okay, not protest. Whimper in need, I guess. Whimper with desire—for damn sure.

“For the next few hours, I’m not going to be able to touch you the way I want,” he whispers, kissing my collarbone, “so I want to tell you what I plan to do to you tonight when we get home.”

I love when he says things like that—things like “when we go home” even though we have separate apartments. He’s been staying at mine the majority of the time for weeks.

But the word “home” is a little less potent right now as he starts laying out a seduction of words that makes me positively weak-kneed.

“First, I’m going to undress you, starting with that sexy black dress you’re wearing,” he says, tugging on the strap of my knee-length shift dress. I decided dressing up for today’s opening was appropriate, so we’d both chosen business attire instead of our usual polo shirts and jeans. Owen’s deep grey button-down and black slacks make him look more dapper and put together than usual, which is saying something.

“And when I get that sexy little dress off of you,” he continues, grazing my jaw with a half dozen light kisses, “I’ll be delighted to find out that you’re completely fucking naked underneath. And that’s when I’ll drop to my knees.”

I pull back quickly, banging my head in the process.

“Oh, will you now?” I ask, eyes wide. “Please, tell me more . . .”

Owen cocks his head.

“Well, I don’t know . . . I mean, I don’t want you to get all excited or anything. I mean—I don’t want you to be distracted giving your speech today . . .”

“No, distract me. Please distract me.”

He chuckles, then presses a chaste kiss against my mouth.

“I love you, Rainey. And I’m proud of you. And I mean that in the least patronizing way possible.”

I lift up on my toes and kiss him back, locking my fingers around his neck and pulling him in close.

“I love you, too.”

I breathe the words between our kisses, but I know he hears me. I know by the way he kisses me back more intensely. I know by the way I can feel his mouth smiling against mine.

There’s so much success in my life today—the Safe Spaces Café and legitimate love. I’m not sure I ever could have predicted this kind of future for myself. In some ways, I’m glad. I’d rather be surprised by my own happiness every day than live the life laid out for me by anyone—including myself.

***

“We’re incredibly proud to announce that Safe Spaces is the first program of its kind in the city of Baltimore.”

Burt Kensington stands, smiling broadly at the group of nearly a hundred people. We’re all standing outside of BYC, and a ceremonial ribbon has been tied between two bannisters. Owen is holding a pair of scissors, but his eyes are trained on me. I keep glancing over at him and smiling. He has a hand discreetly pressed to the small of my back and I have to resist the urge to press back against it. I have to resist a lot of urges right now, like the one I have that’s trying to convince me to go fuck Owen in my office while Bullshit Bruce waxes poetic about our accomplishments.

But, instead, I just smile and look out at the people waiting patiently to see what we’ve made out of this underfunded little center. Sure, we didn’t get all of the grants we’d wanted, all the cash we’d wanted, but the single private anonymous donor gave us enough to cover the basics we’d installed in the café. After soliciting businesses for material donations and convincing the carpenter to work for a deep discount, we’ve made something I’m proud of. Something I’m honored to show my friends, my family. Something I’m happy to say I saw through from start to finish.

I glance down the stairs at Cyn and Smith. He’s standing there proudly, smiling down at her like she’s where the sun rises and sets. What more could anyone ask for than that kind of love?

Next to them, Carson and Wyatt are holding hands. This is the first time I’ve seen Wyatt out and about without the help of his crutches—just with the assistance of a cane. They’re leaning against each other as though holding each other up. I have a feeling that’s more than a metaphor. I think they make each other better.

I’m happy for my friends. I can feel that way now, knowing that I’ve got so much to keep my heart full. Sure, it’s about Owen, but it’s also not at all about Owen. It’s about this place. About the kids we’re helping. I’ve never felt so sure, so much like I belonged anywhere. In some ways, I think Safe Spaces is just as much for me as it is for Charlie and the others.

And on the left side of the steps, sitting on a bench, are my parents. My mother insisted on wearing a pale pink Chanel suit that only she and Emily Gilmore can pull off, now that Jackie Kennedy is dead. My dad’s charcoal pinstripe pants and crisp white shirt make him look as though he’s going to church or a job interview. But I can’t complain—they’re here, and that says something. My sister, Neely, is studying for her LSATs next week, and Mamie is in Norfolk on “official pageant business,” but I get it. We all have our own lives and our own priorities. I can’t fault them for it. Especially when my parents chose to be here to support me in the end.

“So, without further ado,” Mr. Kensington is saying, “Mr. Owen Marshall, our director here at BYC, will cut the ribbon and we can all check out the brand-new Safe Spaces Support Café!”

Owen makes the obligatory cut in the cheap polyester ribbon, and the ends flutter to the cement below. There’s clapping and hugs and pats on the back as the crowd begins to ascend the steps. I turn to him and he winks. I can feel a little jolt between my legs with that sexy little expression. There’s just something about this guy—I’ve never been involved with someone I was so inherently attracted to. It’s hard to make it through the day without dragging him into the broom closet halfway through our shifts.

It’s pretty common knowledge that we’re dating, but we still try to maintain some level of professionalism, so I let Owen walk up into the building with Mr. Kensington while I walk in the opposite direction to meet up with my parents. When I get close enough for him to reach me, my father wraps me in his arms and squeezes me hard.

“Well, kiddo, I gotta tell you,” he says with a healthy chuckle and a shake of his head, “you’ve outdone yourself.”

I grin at him as I pull back to meet his gaze.

“Daddy, you haven’t even seen it yet.”

“Please,” he scoffs, “I know it’s perfection already. You’re my hardworking, ass-kicking girl. You’re using that money to make things happen, baby doll.”

That sentence—“you make things happen”—it hits me like something enormous and solid. Like running face-first into a bear hug. Like being hit over the head with all of the love you’ve ever known.

The anonymous donation. There’d been a note along with it.

A note that said,
Use this money to make things happen.

I stare at him. Then shift my gaze to my mother, who is shaking her head. She looks both exasperated and amused.

“You are such a blabbermouth, Winston,” she grumbles good-naturedly. Then she smiles at me and reaches out to brush a tendril of hair off my forehead.

“You did this,” I whisper to them, still completely in shock. “You donated the money to the program.”

My father shrugs and shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

“I would argue that statement, darling. I think you are the one who did this.”

“We just gave you a little help, that’s all,” Mom says, patting my arm.

I’m completely speechless. When we’d gotten the check for ten grand, it had been a cashier’s check. No identifying names or accounts. The letter had been typed up and simple. From the moment it had arrived until now, I’d looked at it as a helping hand from a kind stranger.

I’d been willing to take it from a stranger. I’d been willing to believe a stranger was more likely to help me than the people who raised me were.

“Thank you.”

I practically dive back into my father’s arms, then grab my mother’s sleeve and yank her closer to me.

“Oh, goodness, Rainey, don’t make a fuss.”

My mother sniffs and pulls away, smoothing a hand over her jacket, then touching her pearls with her fingertips as though to affirm they are still in place.

“Come on,” I say, grinning at her, then grabbing her hand, despite her obvious protests. “Come with me—you deserve to see what your money bought.”

My mother smiles then and shakes her head.

“We don’t care what our money bought, honey. We just want to see what our daughter built.”

My heart has never felt so entirely open and so utterly full all at once. As I lead them up the stairs and inside the lobby, I point them in the direction of the café, making an excuse about using the bathroom. It isn’t until I’m in my office that I let myself sit down and the tears begin to fall.