Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(61)

I’m sort of in shock at how easy he’s acting around me. Like it’s perfectly normal for him to invite me over at all hours of the night. That he’d speak so casually of lips and ni**les, hold my hand, smile that secret smile of his at me.

All I can think is that he’s had his hands all over my body. Inside of me. I’ve had my hands all over his body. I’ve touched him in the most intimate of places, witnessed one of the most intimate acts that can happen between two people, and here we sit like it’s no big deal. Talking about work and school and ni**les.

“I went into the diner yesterday morning and spoke with my boss.” I take a deep breath, curl my fingers around Owen’s. “I’m not working that late shift anymore.”

“Well, thank God. I hated that you were out that late.”

“I always had a ride from one of the waitresses who worked with me.” I shrug, secretly pleased he was so concerned about my safety.

“Still. It wasn’t safe.” His eyes go soft, reminding me of the color of grass on a warm summer day. “So you can come over earlier, then.”

“Don’t you have practice?”

“Only till six. I don’t work either tonight. I decided not to work as much as I originally thought I wanted. I’ll add more hours at The District once the football season is over.”

“Well, that sounds good.” That sounds perfect. His schedule is so jam-packed, I’ve been afraid I’d never get to see him.

“I have something else I want to show you.” He reaches down and pulls out a folder from his backpack and then sets it in between us on the table. “It’s my creative writing portfolio.”

“Okay.” I slowly flip it open and see a nice, neat stack of Owen’s writing samples. The list of assignments is stapled on the left side of the folder, check marks by the ones he’d completed. “It looks like you’re pretty much caught up.”

“I am.” He pulls the folder closer to him and rifles through the papers until he finally finds what he wants and pulls it out. “Read this one.”

I take the paper from him, notice the typed words but don’t really see them. “What’s it about?”

“You.”

“Oh.” I’m at a loss for words. He’s being so tender, so sweet. I don’t know what’s happened to make him change.

Disengaging my hand from his, I grab the paper and pull it directly in front of me so I can read it.

Pink and soft

Damp and warm

My pretty little rose

Is my home

I cradle her close

Give her exactly what she needs

And when I’m finished

I’m the one who’s pleased

My entire body is warm. I know what he’s referring to. God, he’s terrible.

In the absolute, most wonderful way a terrible person can be.

“Owen.” I study the words before me, can feel his gaze on me. “This is …”

“Pretty good, huh? I’m not much of a poet and I’m definitely not a rhyming one, but I came up with this last night and I thought it was close. Not perfect rhyming but close enough, you know?”

I remain silent as I read the poem again. And again. On the surface, the words are seemingly innocent.

“Yeah, I was actually doing homework on my own last night after practice. Can you believe it?” I can hear the pride in his voice and I read his words yet again, lingering on the part where he calls his little rose his home.

Does he really feel that way? About me?

“It’s very good.” I finally feel brave enough to look up at him. He’s leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, with a very pleased look on his handsome face.

“I thought so.” He smiles, resting his linked hands on his chest. “You figure out what it’s about yet?”

“Of course I have. I’m not dumb.”

“Never said you were.” His smile grows. “I’m starting to think you’re my muse, Chels. My inspiration.”

My cheeks turn as pink as the rose lying before me. “Don’t you think your teacher will figure what this is about, too? And maybe be offended?”

“I don’t care.” He shrugs. “It’s kind of fun, writing about such … personal things.”

I want to both slug him and kiss him.

He sits up, pulls another sheet of paper out of the folder, and then slides it across the table toward me. “Read this one. I wrote it weeks ago.”

She’s shy. She’s pink. She belongs to no one.

I vow to win her over with my touch.

Slow at first, my fingers gentle, searching as she opens only for me …

Caressing her, I bring her close.

So close.

Sending her over the edge.

Until I’ve completely destroyed her.

Petals scattered everywhere, her beauty wrecked.

All by my hand.

And now she’s become everything.

To me.

“I had a couple of poem assignments,” he explains, sounding so matter-of-fact while my mind is racing. He’s writing about what’s happening between us, the most intimate moments we’ve shared, and he’s documenting them, immortalizing them. “One could be in whatever format we preferred. And the other one had to rhyme. I don’t know which one I like better. I think they’re both pretty f**king awesome.”