Chapter Two

Owen leaped up as fast as he could. He had no idea what had just happened. But it wasn’t good.

The last thing he remembered, he’d been lying on the most comfortable bed in the world. Only now, he was scrambling off a mattress that was tilted on the floor and checking that his limbs were attached.

And a woman was shouting, both hands flying to her mouth.

A gorgeous woman, for what it was worth. Maybe that shouldn’t have been the first thing he noticed after breaking a priceless antique.

But he couldn’t help it. She was stunning, in a perfectly put-together, pantsuit and heels sort of way. Except, of course, for the shout—which at least helped remind him he was in the middle of a situation here.

So he’d better stop thinking about how this woman’s blazer hugged her curves…or how long it had been since he’d last had time for a date. He needed to deal with the literal mess he’d just made.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, yanking his T-shirt back into place.

The woman folded her arms, composing herself quickly. Auburn hair tumbled over her shoulders. He was surrounded by splintered wood, and his small fix-it job had just turned into a major time-suck. Yet there he was, noticing things like her touchable hair.

“Who are you?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Owen,” he said, his mouth dry. “Crowley.” He was the one armored in tough leather boots, with who knew how many pounds of muscle on her. But he felt like a little kid woken up from a nap, disoriented and sleepy. It was downright embarrassing.

“Okay, Owen Crowley,” she said. “Next question. How did you manage to break my bed?”

Now that got his attention. He stood up straighter. “I’m pretty sure I just broke my bed, actually.”

She blinked. For a second, he could see her naked surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I just bought it. Lucky you, it’s not your problem anymore.”

He tried to laugh. But the woman didn’t laugh with him.

“I think there’s been a mistake.” She frowned. “You’ve got the wrong bed. The whole wrong apartment. I didn’t sell this to anyone.”

“I talked to Jason,” he said, hoping to jog her memory. “I got it off Craigslist.”

He waited for the woman to go, “Oh, yeah, I remember now! Sorry!” and smile and relax and get out of his way. He could still fix it and get a sale. It was still worth it to him.

But the woman didn’t smile. Or relax. Or shrug like who cared, the bed was his problem now.

He didn’t know if it was the word Jason or Craigslist or what, but she got this look like he couldn’t describe. Angry. If he had to guess, that was what he’d call it. Really fucking pissed.

“That little shit,” she spat, almost like she’d forgotten Owen was there.

He didn’t usually care about social BS like which fork went where. Or what events you weren’t supposed to show up at wearing jeans. Or what fake, pretend shit you were expected to say with a fake, pretend smile to make some fake, pretend asshole feel good.

But even he knew this probably wasn’t the right time to shrug and start taking out his tools.

“Something tells me this wasn’t Jason’s to part with,” he said.

“It was mine.” Her voice was stony. “And it used to be perfectly fine.”

He explained to her how one of the slats had seemed bent. “I must have slammed down right on it, and the whole thing gave out. You didn’t notice it sagged?”

There was a pause. He wondered if he’d overstepped. Then she said, “I haven’t been sleeping here in a while.”

Oh.

Interesting.

So, not Jason’s girlfriend/wife/whatever, which was what he’d thought—even if it didn’t square with Jason’s story about moving out.

Jason’s ex?

“He must have broken it. He still didn’t have the right to sell it. Even though—” She stopped.

“Even though what?”

She shook her head. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

He agreed. It was none of his business. His curiosity about a beautiful woman had no bearing on what to do about her beautiful bed.

But she didn’t deserve to walk in and find some stranger dismantling her things. Nobody did.

“It’s because I found him with another woman.” She said it flatly, staring at the mattress on the floor.

He let loose a string of expletives. He was not expecting her to say that. “Little shit seems kind of generous now, under the circumstances.”

She looked up at him, not even a hint of a smile. “I couldn’t take everything with me when I moved out. I thought I’d come back while he’s at work to see about getting the bed.”

Suddenly, things made more sense. Like the blank spots on the shelves. The fact that Jason, that asshole, didn’t give a fuck about the furniture that wasn’t his.

“He could have told me to get it out of here,” she said, seeming on the brink of tears now. “It was my grandmother’s. After she passed away, my mom had it sent to me all the way from St. Louis. He knows I always loved it. It reminds me of her.”

Great. The final fucking nail in the fucking coffin.

What was he supposed to do? Take this almost-crying woman’s dead grandmother’s family heirloom right out from under her?

But the alternative wasn’t great, either. He’d have to go home and tell his dad the whole day had been shot. He should have stayed in the shop, at least making progress on his one commission.

“Did you already pay him?” she asked. “I don’t know if I can buy it back right now, but if there’s any way I could, I don’t know—an installment plan?” Her voice spiraled up. “Please? There has to be some way to fix it.”

Owen wished he could tell her it was too late, sorry, better luck next time. Didn’t he have to look out for himself, his family, his livelihood?

But he couldn’t do that to the woman before him. He may not have had a swanky Manhattan zip code or a closet full of silk ties, but he did have one thing. His integrity. His name.

“I didn’t pay Jason yet,” he said truthfully.

Her hand went to her heart. “Is there any way we can work something out?”

Fuck.

Owen pulled the check from his wallet. He was supposed to leave it on the table when he left.

He knew he shouldn’t pass up this business. He couldn’t afford to go giving a shit.

But right there, in some stranger’s bedroom, he ripped the check to pieces and put the useless confetti in the woman’s outstretched palms, trying not to notice how soft her skin was as his fingers brushed hers for a moment too long.

Wasn’t this his business now? Three generations of Crowleys and it had all been passed on to him. His decisions, his mistakes. He’d just have to figure out some other way to make up the shortfall this month.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Rose,” she said.

He curled her fingers over the voided check. “If you want, Rose, I can fix it for you.”