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The numbers keep jumping out at me. Ten thousand nine hundred forty-eight dollars and ninety-five cents. Five hundred eighty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents. Fourteen thousand, eight hundred six dollars and fifty-four cents. It doesn’t matter how many times I flip through the pages or in what order I look at them; the numbers are still there. Still the same. Still too large.
Asher went over each quote with me, line-by-line, and said they’re all reasonable. I wouldn’t expect any of my connections to take me for a ride, and I’m sure some of them tossed in a friend—or pity—discount. It’s still too expensive. Now it’s bigger than abandoning a design centre. It’s either choose lesser quality products and finishes; do the kitchen, one bedroom and one bathroom until I can save enough to finish the rest; or sell the house.
I grab the fresh pint of beer that was dropped off at my table to wash away the lump in my throat. Three slow gulps and it’s still there.
Fisst, fisst, fisst. I flip the corners of the stack of paper mindlessly. Repeatedly. Until they become a drinking game. How many sips can I swallow before I’ve flipped through the pile?
My eyes burn with unshed tears at the thought of having to sell.
The worst is in my scramble to make heads or tails of the quotes, I forgot that Owen and his buddies come to this pub every Saturday night. Now I get to live out my nightmare in front of the one person I want least in this world to see me in this state.
Asher, being Asher, started a conversation with them, ignorant of the fact that Owen has recently become more than my angry neighbour. He’s my caring neighbour who saved my neck not once, but twice. He’s my wounded neighbour who harbours dark secrets and fears.
I’m not upset with Asher for being friendly and approaching the Black Ladder crew, inadvertently drawing further attention to my grieving state. Truthfully, that’s one thing I like most about him. He has no enemies. He always sees the good in people and can justify why sometimes individuals do rude or bad things. He’s, in short, the opposite of Owen. Now, along with the mind fuck of these quotes under my nose, I have the direct comparison of Asher and Owen side-by-side.
How come I hate Owen so much, yet I can’t I love Asher?
I’m slapped with a memory of Owen wiping away my tears the other day, leaning over me in the pile of leaves. He wasn’t simply reacting to a situation—he was reacting to me.
I don’t get that from Asher. When Asher holds my hand, I experience nothing beyond what a friend would feel. When his thumb strokes across my skin, I don’t get the belly tingles. When he hugs me and kisses the top of my head, I feel gratitude, but no zing.
Nothing close to what it’s like being near Owen.
Asher doesn’t know that while his hands held mine and his eyes said more than his lips, I was thinking of the unexpectedly soft touch of Owen cradling my face. Of the concern in Owen’s expression and how protected and safe I feel in his arms. How I think that if Owen helps with the renos, all my problems will disappear.
They’re both strong and have the same calloused hands, but Owen’s arms around my back feel like they’re securing me to something sturdy, while Asher’s feel like they’re keeping me from pulling away.
It’s more than Asher in relation to Owen that has been on my mind. I keep thinking of what would have happened if the rake hadn’t hit me. How would our afternoon have ended? Would I have done something else to piss him off or would we have ended up buried in the pile of leaves, rolling around until the weight of his body forced me deeper into the mass of foliage. Would he be silent or demanding as his lips claimed mine, as his fingers wandered across my skin, as they disappeared inside me?
Would he have let me inside his mind, or would it have only been a way to liberate ourselves from the strain between us?
My eyelids grow heavy, staring at the black lines on white paper. My trick of trying to change the figures with my mind doesn’t work, but I force my eyes to stay open because I need to try harder.
Tall, dark, and clad-in-black Owen saunters over to the bar and has a conversation with the bartender. Owen’s hands rest on the bartop and his triceps twitch in his inability to relax. Like he’s gripping the wood to stop from clenching his fists. Always annoyed about something. At least I’m innocent this time.
My nemesis traipses back to his crew, and I’m left with nothing to stare at but the heap of papers in front of me again. I wave my server over and ask for another pint. After another beer, it won’t make a difference how many digits come before the decimal point.
She smiles cautiously at me. “Sorry, I can’t serve you anything else.”
I look at my watch and see that it’s nowhere near closing time, then count in my head how many drinks I’ve had. Does she assume I can’t handle another one? If I were a guy, four wouldn’t be that many. I probably won’t finish the one I’m about to order, anyway. It’s more for comfort than anything.
The server, who appears to be about eighteen and has never had to tell a customer no before, is already looking to the bartender for backup. I lock eyes with him, then slowly, so he can follow their path, settle my gaze on Owen. When I look back at the bartender, he shrugs apologetically. Of course, it’s not the staff who think I’ve had too much.
I don’t have any fight in me tonight. “Fine, I’ll settle my tab.” I can go somewhere else to lick my wounds. Somewhere without the audience.
“It’s been taken care of.” She stammers, getting an idea of how unlucky she is to have found herself in the middle of this feud.
I curse under my breath. On second thought, I can muster the zeal to face Owen.
I hop off my stool, inadvertently bumping the server out of the way. I grab my jacket and, after a momentary struggle with my purse strap, I snatch it off the back of my chair. Ripping my quotes from the table, I march over to the boys.
“I get it. This is your pub on your boys’ night,” I say, swirling a finger upwards in a whoop-dee-do way. “You don’t want me here, fine, I’m leaving. But I can pay for my own damn drinks.” I fumble through my purse for my wallet. I pull out sixty bucks and consider the stack of papers tucked against my chest like state secrets. I ponder what else I won’t be doing in the house because I’m spending money on drinks and nachos.
“It’s fine,” Owen says, refusing my cash. His attempt to force me to leave is infuriating.
“Scott.” I shove the money his way. He lifts his hands in surrender and moves out of reach. I get the same reaction from all the guys.
“Suit yourselves,” I say, and shove the cash in my purse. “Bunch of assholes.”
“How are you getting home?” Owen asks. His reaction to my words is underwhelming and angers me more.
“With my feet. Are you going to do the walking for me too?”
The three musketeers snicker and Owen’s body stiffens. He doesn’t like the insubordination. Or me. He definitely doesn’t like me. Without knowing me, he hated me. I, at least, gave him the benefit of the doubt. When he came to Gran’s funeral acting like a nice guy, I invited him into my home. Into my grief.
Without another word, Owen places his pool cue on the wall and pulls his jacket off the stool then gives Scott a single, understood glance.
“Come on.” Owen drops a hand on the small of my back and I undergo the same rush from the rooftop, this time without the fear. I shimmy, trying to pull away from his physical touch and the feeling that’s already invaded my body.
“You know I was joking, right? I can get myself home.”
No response, just a slight push in the door's direction.
“Seriously?” I say as if I’m going to protest more even as I leave with him. I’m offering a lot of concessions to someone who steadfastly refuses to do the same.
The cool fall air hits me as soon as we exit the building, and I almost regret shrugging out of Owen’s warm touch. I tuck the quotes between my legs and zip my jacket, hugging my arms around myself again.
“Cold?”
“I’m fine.”
I move at a pace I would consider brisk, but with Owen’s long legs it’s normal for him. I want to put distance between us so that I don’t follow the urge to use his warmth.
Fall is in full swing, which makes me think that I have to get the roof fixed before it snows. That morphs into: Why bother? And that makes the tears well up once more.
I cover it with a quick swipe so Owen doesn’t see the evidence trickle down my cheek.
“What?” he asks.
Like I’d tell him. There are at least eight billion other people I would rather vent to than Owen. Eight billion safer people to tell that I can’t make my dream a reality. That I’ve failed myself and Gran.
We come to an intersection and the light is red. I check both ways and see no traffic this late at night, then step out into the street. Two firm hands grab my shoulders and wrench me back with a snap. I twist out of his hold with a jerk.
“What the fuck?” I scream.
A question that can be asked about so many things between us.
“Red light.” Owen states it as if we’re out for a leisurely stroll. As if he’s a friend and not a self-appointed parole officer.
“There’s no one coming.” I drag my arm out towards the empty intersection.
A sloth could make it to the other side before a car comes through here. It’s nighttime in a residential zone. The walk signal in the other direction still shines white, which means if Owen gets his way, we’ll stand here for another two minutes in the silent, frigid wind.
Not going to happen. I exaggerate a look left and right, then step off the curb with Owen glued to my side. Like his body could protect me if a car suddenly appeared at 50km/hr.
We’re successful in crossing the road unharmed. I reward our venture with an eye roll, hoping he’s watching me.
“I’m trying, Princess.”
I hate how he calls me that. I couldn’t be any further from a princess.
“Trying what, exactly?”
He scrubs a hand down his face. Fingers scratch the well-kept beard that adds another layer to his protective coatings. One more aspect to prevent anyone from seeing the real Owen.
“To be nice. To not be upset by everything you do.”
I stab my stack of papers into his chest, bending the corners against his firm body. “You are upset with me?” I laugh at the dark sky. “That’s bold, given how you treated my grandmother.”
“What do you mean?” His tone is even, as if this doesn’t touch a nerve. Surprising, since everything about my house is sensitive—for both of us.
“I’m talking about the seventeen times you asked my grandmother to sell her home.”
“Huh?” His eyebrows crumple.
“Don’t tell me you know nothing about the fifteen business cards Iain MacLeod left in her mailbox.”
Owen has a tight grip on everything to do with his company. There’s no way one of his employees went rogue without him knowing.
His body stiffens, his breathing stalls, his throat works. Owen stares at me hard, as if stating that name defiles the sanctity of the person it belongs to.
“That was business.” He tucks his hands into his pockets and pulls his eyes away from me, lips twitching, cracking the hardened façade.
Owen never has a hard time looking at me when putting me in my place. What about Iain makes this exchange different?
I wave a finger between the two of us. “Yeah? If that was business, then what’s this?”