“We can be friends, but there is a condition,” he points out.
I raise my eyebrows. “Oh yeah? And what’s that?”
“It’s an important question, Lottie. I don’t know if you’re ready for it.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure I am.”
“Okay.” He takes a big breath, his smile now washed away with seriousness. “What is your favorite TV show?”
My face twists up. “What?” I laugh at his ridiculousness. “I don’t really watch much TV.”
His face breaks, incredulity sweeping over it. “It’s 2018—everyone watches TV!”
I lift my shoulder in a “what can I say?” movement.
“I don’t know if we can be friends then.”
“I guess you could give me a TV education.” I’m completely kidding, but from the expression he’s wearing, he isn’t.
“Done. My place this weekend, six p.m.”
Before I can tell him no, Em’s voice cuts in.
“As happy as I am that Stana’s home and that we’re all here tonight, I’m truly knackered, so I’m going to head off. Can you tell Stana and Ali that I’m sorry to miss them? That is, if they even come back.” She tries to force a smile, but I see through it.
I turn to Owen. “Give us a second.” I gently grab her arm and lead her away from prying ears and eyes.
“You’re not leaving because of Reeve, right?” I ask, but I already know the answer.
Em shakes her head. “I’m over that. I just need to get home; I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I nod, quickly giving her a hug and mentally reminding myself to check up on her in the morning. I watch her petite figure retreat out the door, leaving me in the middle of the bar with people I don’t actually know.
I make my way back to the table, noticing Owen has gotten me a refill of my water.
“So, friend, want to hang out this weekend?”
“You know what you remind me of?” I ask, knowing he will take this one of two ways.
He grins. “What?”
“A little puppy with a bone. Can I call you ‘puppy’?” I tease.
His brows draw together. “Uh, I’d really rather you didn’t.”
He’s definitely not mad about it, so I test the waters. “Okay, puppy.”
He bursts out laughing. “Trust me, I’m not a puppy. I’m more like a big Great Dane or a Rottweiler.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Maybe most people who see this blond Adonis think that, but something about him reminds me of a baby golden lab instead.
“Anyway, I can’t this weekend. I’m working all weekend.”
“What do you do?”
I take a sip of water, eyeing him. “I’m a pharmacist.”
“Wow, can’t say I know many of them. How did you get into that?”
“I always liked science in school, then just decided to pursue it at uni and here I am. I love it, which is great, and I’m not totally shit, so that helps too.”
He nods, seemingly impressed.
“And you?”
He brings his pint up to his lips, then takes a sip before wiping away the foam. My fingers have that itch to wipe it away for him, and I know I could be in trouble with this one. I also know I’m still nursing a broken heart and it was only six months ago he was trying to date my cousin, so best to stay away.
“Graphic designer,” he replies, reminding me that I asked him a question.
“I could see that,” I tell him, easing up on the tight clutch I have on my water.
He laughs. “How so?”
My lips turn up as I lean back in my chair. “You’re in a band, so you must be creative, and you’ve got good style.” I motion to his denim jacket, white T-shirt that’s stretched across his chest, and dark jeans. He’s a modern James Dean, but there’s a playful aspect to him that I’m beginning to understand. A charm.
“Should I get you another drink while you check me out? Wouldn’t want you to be too thirsty.” His words get to me, my face betraying me by breaking into a smile. A small laugh pops out of me, to his entertainment.
“What, it’s not like you think you’re bad to look at. No shame in taking pride in yourself.”
He seems to appreciate that, a smile dancing upon his lips.
“Anyway,” I interject, “as I was saying, you clearly have some artistic aspect to yourself, so I get how you’re a creative, Mr.…?”
He chuckles. “Bower, Owen Bower.”
I wrap my hand around the cold body of my drink, quickly looking at him, then to the floor. Owen Bower. I mentally say his name.
“Any hidden talents with you, Ms.…?” He pauses. “What is your last name?”
“Knight,” I toss in. “Stana’s dad is my mum’s brother, so we don’t share the last name of Prescott.”
“Lottie Knight.” He says my name thoughtfully, tasting it on his lips, and I internally kick myself for having any sort of reaction.
“It’s Charlotte Knight, actually, but I’ve never really been a Charlotte.”
Now it’s his time to look me over, his gaze starting at my black biker boots, then traveling past the fishnets and ending on my glittery silver dress. As Emilia once told me, I’m a punk-rock Barbie.
“Unlike you and everyone else in this bar, I have an artistic side that stops at fashion, and some people would call even that questionable.”
“Well, I’d have to say those people are bloody mental. I like the way you dress,” he replies, his vision locked on mine. A little too keen, if you know what I mean.
“You don’t want any part of this, Owen,” I tell him, attempting to keep my voice light. “I’d swallow you whole and spit you out in pieces.”
Unfortunately, my words do the opposite of what I intended, his interest only piquing.
“And on that note…” I stand, grabbing my bag. “I gotta get going.”
His face falls slightly but he recovers, a carefree smile slipping into place.
“The night’s only just getting started,” he says, standing with me.
“Not for this lass. I’ve got work in the morning, plus a vintage car that needs to get back to its
