Michael's POV
I got to Owen’s penthouse a few minutes early, an action I knew he would claim as a personal insult to him. The elevator opens into his living room, and the place was already bright and loud, like it’s been waiting for an audience.
Music hums from hidden speakers, and floor-to-ceiling windows show the city spread out in gold and steel.
Owen appeared from the kitchen with two wine glasses in one hand and a dish towel over his shoulder, as if he’s been doing actual work. His grin is wide and unearned.
“You’re early, Why?” he says. “Are you sick? Blink twice if you need medical attention.”
“Try again,” I answered, setting my coat on the coat closet, at the entrance of his living room. “Some of us can manage time like functioning adults.”
Scott steps out behind him, sleev
