Chapter Thirty-Nine
552 Words
The little coffee shop smelled like cinnamon and second chances.
Owen leaned back in his chair, a lazy smile dripping off his mouth like warm butter, cradling a paper cup between his hands.
Jessica sat across from him, sipping her latte and blushing like a schoolgirl who’d just been winked at by the quarterback.
He watched her over the rim of his cup —
half-listening,
half-undressing her in his mind.
She was prettier in the daylight.
Soft brown curls.
Bright green eyes.
Dimples deep enough to drown in.
Owen turned the charm up to full blast — a slow, golden flood no one could resist.
“So,” he said, voice low, casual, predatory under the sugar,
“do you always lure strange men into helping you with cake mix, or was I just the lucky one?”
Jessica laughed — high, breathless, twirling a lock of hair around her finger like it owed her rent.
“I mean, technically you offered,” she teased, eyes sparkling.
“But maybe I picked the right aisle.”
Owen leaned forward, like they were trading state secrets across enemy lines.
“Strategic damsel-in-distress maneuver. Bold move. Worked on me.”
Jessica giggled, biting her bottom lip — textbook — before her brow furrowed slightly, coy.
“Hey… who was that girl you were with? When we met?”
Owen blinked — feigned confusion for exactly half a second.
Then his smile sharpened, melting into something wicked and boyish.
“My sister,” he said smoothly.
“Always dragging me around to ‘help her pick paint colors’ because she thinks I have taste.”
Jessica laughed harder, instantly relaxing.
She leaned in, knee brushing his under the table, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper:
“Well, for the record… I think you have excellent taste.”
Owen grinned, slow and wolfish.
“You have no idea,” he said, dropping the words like poisoned chocolates.
Jessica flushed crimson.
She actually tucked her face into her shoulder, giggling like she couldn’t bear the weight of it.
Then — almost bursting under the tension — she blurted:
“So… this is crazy, but… would you wanna maybe… do this again sometime?”
Owen c****d an eyebrow, letting the silence drag just long enough to make her squirm.
Then he flashed a grin that could melt glass.
“Only if you promise to get stuck on the top shelf again,” he said.
Jessica laughed, hiding her face, the sound too bright for the grim fluorescent world outside.
Owen reached across the table —
just a brush, light and fleeting —
enough to short-circuit her brain for the next twenty minutes.
⸻
The date ended with awkward goodbyes and clumsy promises to text.
Owen watched her practically skip to her car.
He fished out his phone, thumbing through notifications with no real interest.
Then he caught the time.
His smile faltered.
A long, slow sigh dragged out of him.
“f**k,” he muttered.
Hospital.
He guessed he should show his face before Chloe threw a tantrum in the middle of the ICU.
Owen tucked his phone back into his jacket, smirking faintly to himself.
A perfect coffee date under his belt.
A hospital visit ahead.
A sick wife drooling into her pillow.
Life was f*****g hilarious.
- Writer
