“…It’s a luscious mix of words and tricks
That let us bet when we know we should fold
On rocks I dreamt of where we’d stepped
And the whole mess of roads we’re now on…”
– The Shins
_________________________
It is still dark out when I wake, alert and with a start. I look over at the clock on the bedside table of the guest room and groan. It’s five AM, and I only got to bed an hour-and-a-half ago. The fire still burns fully and I’ve barely even warmed my sheets.
Once I’d relented and agreed to stay here – but only until I could find a place of my own – Owen pulled me from the big red velvet chair to show me around his home.
For the first time since arriving, I was going to finally see rooms beyond the kitchen and library/television room and the guest bedroom. Owen dragged me along excitedly, flipping light switches as he went, bathing the house in warm light.
He started in the grand foyer, pointing out the lovely chandelier, which was original to the house, but had recently been refurbished and re-installed. I marveled at the facets of crystal as they threw shapes of light all over the room and onto the ornate Persian rug beneath it.
I took in the stunning modern art on the walls in ornate gold gilt frames and I could easily see why Dr. O’Neill would be so happy to take any one of his paintings on loan or otherwise. I can’t help but drool over the notebook-sized Salvador Dali that is hanging above the foyer table or the obscenely large Georges Braque that keeps watch over the plush bench against the opposite wall.
I was pulled through the four front rooms of the house that included a study to the right of the home’s entrance – which housed an enormous fireplace and several awards on the mantle – including a Grammy. This room also seems to be the official room of Japanese and Dutch black-and-white gelatin photographic prints. The Shomei Tomatsu prints alone have to be worth at least several years’ tuition and the one of him and his bandmates in garish Kabuki makeup from sometime in the late ‘80’s oddly fits in perfectly amongst the studies of post-atomic bomb Nagasaki and partially-clad Geisha.
To the left of the entryway was what he referred to as the ladies’ receiving room, which featured a Christmas tree worthy of Rockefeller Center near the room’s big front windows. To the right, the room opened up through sliding solid-wood doors to a second room, extending the space into a full ballroom and all the way to the far exterior wall of the house. There is more priceless artwork on the walls in these adjoined rooms too – I counted no less than four le Brocquy pieces from three separate periods and an incredible tapestry along the far wall that nearly brought me to tears, for its sheer beauty and craftsmanship.
The enormous formal dining room followed and sat in the inside corner of the “L-shaped” house, with the kitchen flowing off of the dining room before finally funneling back into the library and another sitting room he used as more of a gallery space than anything and contained sculpture and even more art. And I was completely gaping at the sheer volume and incredible eye it took to put together this full-on collection. I told Owen to forget IMMA and open his own museum, since he has more than enough pieces to draw serious art lovers in droves.
After he finished showing me around the grand palace that he tries to pass off as a humble house, we stayed up talking while we waited for Max’s housekeeper to deliver my things to Owen’s house with a wink and a hug to my host and he dragged my bags upstairs to the guest bedroom. He helped me unpack the first bag then watched me unpack the second, making commentaries about my small, but impressive – his words – collection of books and the much larger collection of compact discs I’d brought along from America.
He was dutifully impressed by my collection of Radiohead and Bob Marley and The Beatles, but rolled his eyes and groaned audibly when I started stacking up the ridiculous number of Omicron CD’s onto the top of the dresser. The collection clearly dwarfed any other I owned thanks to all the bootlegs available. He collapsed on his back in comic exasperation on my bed as I put their debut disc on my now hooked up portable CD player and speakers combo and forced him to listen to their music while I happily critiqued his bass playing. I laughed at him and teased him about his crazy feathered hair on the CD cover before finally putting him out of his misery, pulling the disc out of the CD player and replacing it with some Bob Marley.
No Woman, No Cry was going strong as I sang along and finished unloading the second and last suitcase. Inside, a few pairs of shoes and the rest of my meager wardrobe with Owen making comments about how I need to go shopping, and me trying to explain to him that being a student, my budget wouldn’t allow for that right now.
We went back down to the kitchen for a late-night snack of apples, hard cheese, and decaffeinated tea as he told me about the video shoot he’d be leaving for in a couple of days. There was something about discothèques with light-up floors and mirrorball-covered drums and slutty, nearly naked dancing girls. I shook my head and told him that they should never, ever let Max concept a video under any circumstances ever again, which sent him spirallng into giggles and I tried not to still be too upset at Max for dragging off Jasmine and getting me into this current situation. Because truth-be-told, I am finding that beyond my deep, unmitigated sexual attraction to Owen, he’s charming and funny and sweet and I genuinely like being in his presence even in this non-sexual way.
I asked him if he’d talked to Max and he said that he hadn’t gotten a hold of him, but that Max’s housekeeper, had heard all about the drama from Grant and was happy to help liberate my things from the guest house, especially for Owen – who apparently she loves more and is actually her favorite as opposed to her boss.
We sipped at our tea and munched on fruit and talked deep into the night, since neither of us had anywhere special to be this morning. And I was ever hopeful that given the ease of conversation and that mentally, I was able to keep up with him, that Owen would give in to my obvious advances from the morning and invite me to bed with him, but I was denied again as he piled fuel into the guest bedroom fireplace and tucked me in with a fatherly kiss to my forehead before closing the door with a gentle thud and leaving me wanting and totally raw and ready to just beg him to take me to his bed instead.
I get up and sigh deeply as the coals in the fireplace cast a warm glow over the room and I go over to the dresser to grab a biography of Andy Warhol, hoping that the dry subject matter might actually put me back to sleep. I curl up on the bed and turn on the side light as I open the book and begin to read, pressing the pad of my thumb and nail against my teeth in concentration as I try to assimilate the words on the page to memory.
But the book holds little interest as I replay the previous morning again and again. I can’t get the feeling of his mouth on mine out of my head and I groan as my muscles flex deep in my belly at the memory of my wonton display as I kissed this man that I have desired since before I understood the meaning of the word. But I worry that I’ve scared him off by being far too forward, in spite of the fact that he let me crawl all over him as I kissed his soft lips as deeply as I could and later as the rain fell outside and I curled up on his chest like a lover in post-coital bliss.
As an apparent gentleman, would he have really let me crawl all over him only out of politeness?
‘Why would he let you do that, if he wasn’t interested?’
‘I don’t know.’ I admit.
‘And he did kiss you back, you know.’ My subconscious points out.
‘He could have just been hard up, you know. Maybe it’s been awhile…’
‘Perhaps, but to what end? He kisses you back, relocates you to his house. Has your things delivered for you. Clearly, he’s interested.’
‘Okay, say that he is.’ I relent for a moment. ‘Then why not end this torture and just take me to bed already. I’m certainly not going to say no. And I’m sure it wouldn’t be the first time for him either – taking someone he just met to bed for purely recreational release of tension purposes…’
‘Maybe, but then again, he could also be turning over a new leaf, like you. He did just get out of rehab, you know…’
‘Shit. I forgot about that.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to remind you then, isn’t it?’
I drop my head in my hands with a groan.
Sleep fully eludes me and in spite of it still being dark out, I finally crawl out of bed for good at six-thirty, unable to focus on anything but the events of yesterday and I’m still totally uncertain as to why Owen behaved so heavy-handed and a lot like an overprotective boyfriend. And part of me decides that I like that side of him, because not only is it really rather sexy, but it has to mean that he cares about me, even if just a little, right? Then there is another side of me that finds it totally distasteful and a little scary that he thinks that he can just snap his fingers and whatever he wants is right there, no questions asked.
I wander into the bathroom and turn on the shower and as the room heats thanks to the steaming water, I absentmindedly strip out of my pajamas and wander into the shower where my thoughts swirl down the drain along with the water and shampoo from my hair.
Owen is still sleeping, peacefully, I’m sure, I think frustratingly to myself as I peek out of my room and see that his bedroom door is fully closed. But as I stare at the closed door and lose myself for the hundredth time in his tongue dancing against mine and his chiseled face with the very patrician nose and perfect cheekbones, my stomach roars in full protest, famished. So I decide to go down to the kitchen to see what I can find for breakfast.
I fill the teapot and set it on a burner before rummaging through his cabinets, looking for tea. I finally find some in a butler’s pantry off to the right of the refrigerator. I drop the tea bag into the pot, letting the tag hang out of the pot through the lid a little, knowing that I’m not doing this anywhere close to correct by Irish standards. And believe me, there are clear standards involved here, but I don’t care, my need for caffeine is the more pressing matter this morning.
I find bagels in the breadbox and cream cheese in the fridge along with some capers and smoked salmon and decide that this is the perfect breakfast on a Monday morning. I rummage for some red onion, but don’t find any and finally give up as my stomach grumbles keenly to be fed. As the tea brews, I cut my bagel and drop it in the toaster and watch the edges brown with my elbow on the stone countertop, my chin resting in my hand and my eyes drooping as I wait.
“You’re up early…” Owen startles me back to full consciousness as he watches me from the doorway. Jesus, he looks hot, all fresh out of bed, hair askew and sleepy-eyed. “I’d have figured that you’d still be sleeping.”
“I’ve been up for a while.” I admit. Owen comes fully into the room and walks over to inspect my tea brewing method with a small shake of his head and I half expect him to dump out the kettle and start over so as to have a proper cup of tea this morning. But he only goes over to the fridge to pull out the milk and then to a cabinet to retrieve a cup for himself with a small smile.
“What are you making?” He asks instead.
“Bagel with salmon,” I reply. “Want one?” I offer and hold up the bagel bag.
“Sounds like a good Monday morning breakfast to me.” He smiles, accepting.
“That’s what I thought too,” I smile back sheepishly and pull another bagel out, cutting it and dropping it into the toaster as the first bagel pops up, ready. I put it onto a small plate and carry it over to the prep table where the other condiments sit and Owen pours tea.
“Milk and sugar?” He asks as he adds both to his cup.
“Just a little milk, I think.” I’m still learning the fine art of tea drinking in Ireland. I smile and watch him intently before I retrieve a second plate and hand over one half bagel to him. And I cannot help the inward sigh as I take in the sight of him from this distance, shirtless with hard ridges pronouncing a set of the most perfect abs I’ve ever seen complete with the deep V of muscle that disappears into his pajama bottoms that hang perfectly off his hips. I complete my perusal at his bare toes that peek out the cuffs at his feet before I let my eyes travel back up his body, this time roaming over his defined arms and chest. And it takes everything in my power not to start drooling like a freak and push him against the cabinets to run my tongue over his skin greedily.
Monday morning breakfast, indeed.
I shake the thought from my head and rub my abdomen as a pinging ache shoots through the muscle there before joining him at the prep table, sitting in the same spot I occupied last night at dinner. Owen looks at me, unsure if he should ask after the clearly pained expression on my face, but he remains silent.
The warmth that spreads over my skin at his concerned expression sends another jolt of desire through me, but unable to act upon my first instinct I can only reach for the lox and capers and add them to my plate.
The silence shifts from heated to comfortable after a while and we sit quietly before the second bagel pops up out of the toaster and Owen retrieves it, offering me another half, which I readily accept, my appetite unusually voracious today in spite of the fact that this man still makes me incredibly nervous most of the time.
“So why couldn’t you sleep again last night? Bad dreams?” He asks after the silence drags on well into the second half bagel. I shrug, unsure of how to answer him. Since I know that I cannot tell him the real reason, for I am all too aware of the fact that I’d be setting myself up for yet another rejection and I don’t know that my fragile ego could take more of that so early in the morning. I look out the window to see blue sky and I lament a little that I’ll be spending another day cooped up in his house — not that it isn’t a lovely house — but there is a big part of me that hates the idea of wasting a rare sunny day in Ireland.
Owen watches me, watching a small cloud drift by, as I absently sip my tea when he breaks the silence;
“I have to go into the office for a little while today.” He announces. And I sigh, inwardly. Looks like I’ll be hanging in the house alone.
“Oh, okay.” I reply hoping that my response doesn’t betray any upset about the possibility of being left to toil in his big house all alone.
“So, I thought you might want to come and I could drop you off in the city center then after I’m done I could take you for dinner…if you’d like.”
“Sorry?” Did I hear him correctly? Is he asking me out on a date?
Hang on, missy…don’t get ahead of yourself.
“Would you like to go out for dinner with me this evening?” Owen tries again, his intention far more clear this time.
“Like, dinner — as on a date, dinner?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful. He smiles and rolls his eyes a little, before lobbing my words back at me.
“Yes. Like as on a date, dinner.”
‘Oh. My. God. He’s asking us out!’
‘Shush! He’s asking me out, you stay out of it, thank you very much.’
‘Oh, come on – you know that you can’t live without me!’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah…so, what do I do?’
‘You say YES, of course…but try to play it a little cool. Boys don’t like it when girls are too freakishly giddy.’
‘Oh, right. Good call.’
“Um, yes. Thank you. That sounds lovely.” I smile like the Mona Lisa and try not to jump up-and-down like a kid who just got the Barbie Corvette for Christmas. Owen smiles fully and thanks me for breakfast before scooting away from the table and heading up to his room for a shower. I stay to clean up the small amount of dishes and head up to the guest room to run my curling iron through my hair, since I’m going out on a date and all…
Holy shit! I’m going out on a date with Owen Mahr.
Owen is reading quietly in the sitting room separating the two bedrooms from one another when I emerge later, fresh from a nap and finally getting ready for the adventure ahead, having smoothed out my hair and applied makeup. I enter the room, feeling confident for the first time in weeks, in a pair of slim-cut dark wash jeans that show off the length of my legs nicely, my platform boots and a thin silk sweater with a boat-neck collar that, I was told by a stylist friend back in New York, makes my neck look longer.
“How soon before we need to leave?” I ask as I clasp my watch on my wrist. Owen looks up from his book and renders me from head to toe before replying.
“Not for an hour or so.” He sets his book down on his thigh, flipping it over so as not to lose his page. “You look lovely.” He observes nonchalantly as I openly blush at his compliment.
“Thank you.” I smile and notice that he’s wearing very nice polished Army green trousers and a dark peach sparkly shirt, which he’s left half open to show off his holiday-earned-in-some-exotic-location-bronzed chest – such a rockstar. Jesus, He looks like he’s dressed for a photo shoot.
“Am I horribly underdressed?” I ask uneasily, now totally unsure of my far more casual look next to his.
“Not for shopping…” He smiles like the Cheshire Cat and my face falls a little. “But I thought I’d lend you my credit card and you could pick something up to wear to dinner tonight while I’m in my meetings.”
Fuck, where in the hell is he taking me that I need a freaking ball gown?
“I don’t want you buying me clothes, Owen.” I reply quietly, trying not to sound too assertive, since I’m not really up for another fight so early on such a lovely day.
“Why not?” He asks innocently.
“Because it’s too intimate. And we’ve known each other for, like, a day.” I state my case plainly. “Besides, that’s something a boyfriend does, and you’re not my boyfriend, are you?”
He seems to be fully contemplating his response and I have to physically shake my head to keep that idea from festering too fully.
“Owen. You’re not my boyfriend. You’re not buying me clothes.” I say with finality though definitely see the gears going into overdrive again in his head, looking for some way to get his way on this one. “Where are you taking me for dinner?”
“Chapter One.” He replies quietly.
Shit, that’s like one of the most expensive restaurants in Dublin…maybe I do need a ballgown after all.
“Would you like to see if there’s anything in my current wardrobe that would be acceptable?” I ask, hopeful that I have something that will work for a dressy dinner out with the rockstar. Owen puts his book down on a side table and gets up, entering the guest room in four strides. I sigh as he passes by and I catch his distinct scent and I have to grip the doorframe in order to remain upright for as heavenly as he smells.
“You know, this would be much easier if you’d just let me buy something for you.” He begins as he rummages through the four dresses in the closet.
“Owen,” I warn. “No.”
“I mean, you’ve got lovely dresses here, but…”
“But what?” I ask, furrowing my brow.
What’s wrong with my wardrobe now?
“It’s just they’re all quite modest and girly.” He comments, pulling one out from the rack — a flouncy charcoal grey Betsey Johnson dress with a fitted top, long, though sheer sleeves, followed by layers of crinoline forming the mid-thigh length skirts. Kind of a hard-rock ballerina vibe and my personal favorite of the few good-quality pieces of clothing I picked up while living in New York.
“And?” I ask, taking this one from him.
“Well, I just thought you might find something a bit more woman and less, well, girl.” He says, clearly trying to be gentle about his displeasure in my wardrobe.
“Oh.” And I understand instantly where he’s taking this. He wants a bombshell sexpot thing on his arm tonight. Which means only one thing — he’s expecting paparazzi. I furrow my brow slightly at the thought of whatever this is, him and me, us or whatever, being held up for public scrutiny so quickly.
‘Of course he is. The band is getting ready to release their next album and you know how it always gets when that happens. Media everywhere and constant “stories” on page six and on the Internet gossip fan pages and all of that. He knows if you go out in public with him you’ll absolutely be written about and he’s trying to make sure it doesn’t look like he’s dating an eighteen year old.’
‘I don’t look like an eighteen year old, you know…’
“I still don’t want you buying me clothes right now.” I tell him, defiant.
“I don’t see why not.” He counters, still not really understanding what makes me tick as of yet.
“Call it a personal hard line for the moment, okay?” I reply. “But if you’d like for me to get something different, I will. If that will make it easier for this evening to go off without issue, okay?” Owen furrows his brow and contemplates continuing to fight me on this point.
“You can wear whatever you’d like, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” I placate him. “So, I’m asking for your expert fashion advice then…what would you suggest I wear?”
Owen drops me off at the back of a small gathering of tiny shops in an open-air colonnade a block from Grafton Street, so I can go do some shopping while he’s busy choosing his fake name for the hotels on the upcoming tour and signing off on wardrobe concepts and other tour-related things. He assures me that this meeting will take no more than a few hours and we agree to meet up at Jane’s shop at six forty-five. It seems like the most logical place, and Jane was happy to let me come over and dress for dinner in her changing room in the shop.
I stop by there first, looking for a female perspective regarding what to wear tonight, not just because Jane’s in the business, but because my normal sounding board, Jasmine, is still tending to her boss on the Spanish Riviera. They are expected back sometime tonight or tomorrow, according to Owen, but no one is certain they’ll actually be back yet and if so, if his wife and daughter will be with him.
Jane makes some shop recommendations and gives me some interesting insight into Owen’s tastes. For example, she tells me that he likes clingy, but not slutty and that he thought the supermodel he was engaged to for a short while wore far too much makeup. Jane also imparted the knowledge that of all the members of the band, Owen has the most appreciation for what women go through to look good for things like dates. So I shouldn’t be afraid to tell him to bring me home before my feet feel like they’re going to fall off from a pair of Manolo Blahnik stilettos. I learn that he prefers color to black for the most part, except when it comes to a good cocktail dress. I also learn — though I’m quite sure that Jane wasn’t supposed to tell me — that Owen picked out the chemisette that was delivered for me yesterday morning. Apparently, he’d seen it the last time he was in visiting and had remembered it when he phoned her about help in getting me clean underpants.
I try not to let my mouth gape open too conspicuously as Jane regales that information, my brian going into overdrive and I’m now determined to find something exceptionally lovely to wear tonight to dinner.
I’d managed to check my credit card balance before we left today and thanks to the reverse charges from the hostel, I’ve enough on my Visa to find something that should work well for such a high-class outing, plus shoes too.
I thank Jane for all her help again and skip off toward Grafton to find something rockstar date-worthy. I stop into a couple of smaller shops as I make my way up the street, toward the river, but everything I’ve seen so far just doesn’t seem right for tonight. I need something extra special. And while the ballerina-pink crinkle dress I see in one shop is pretty, it’s just completely missing that ‘holy-shit-I-want-to-fuck-you-now’ factor.
After ambling all the way up to the other end of Grafton, I finally give in and march toward Brown & Thomas. The doorman greets me with a nod and a small smile as he opens the street-level door into the cosmetics area of the high-end department store. I wistfully admire the pretty new eye shadows at the MAC counter, but remember that I have a task at hand, which I must attend to first.
I take a deep breath and steel myself as I get on the escalator to head up to the high-fashion designers on the first floor. And try not to panic for the fact that I’m about to drop nearly a month’s salary on a dress for what amounts to a first date.
‘It will be worth it, you know. ‘My subconscious reminds me. ‘Who knows, if you get the right dress maybe he’ll even finally take you to bed with him.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, okay? It’s just a dress.’
‘A dress that will hopefully get him so turned-on he pops the buttons on his trousers!’
‘Stop that. I’m sure he’s quite a bit more well-mannered than to go all “Tex Avery does porn” on me. I mean, I had on that corset the other night and nothing happened…’
‘That was different. He was trying to keep from taking advantage of a drunk girl. And he’s kissed you, quite thoroughly, I might add!’
‘So? What makes you think tonight will be any different?’
‘Honey, the right dress makes all the difference.’
I step off the escalator and square my shoulders as I walk back toward the really expensive section repeating the mantra ‘you belong here’ in my head over and over. And maybe, I’ll actually believe that one day. But for now, all I can do is take a deep breath and remind myself to try not to pass out when I start looking at price tags.
As the sales girls summarily ignore me for the time being, I start to build a mental list of possibilities of things to try on. There’s a lovely sapphire velvet dress by Alberta Ferretti that I make note of, though the neckline may be a little high for tonight’s adventure. I want sexy but understated and the mock-turtleneck collar defeats half of the checklist.
As I venture deeper into the store, I’m drawn to a section of the store flanked by its own smaller glass enclosure. A clear signal that I’m about to walk into a whole other escheleon of fashion. Before I can even fully step over the threshold into this micro-store, I lock eyes with it, the dress to end all dresses. And I recognize it instantly — Marc Jacobs’ current fall prét-â-porter collection. I purposefully stride over to the rack and gently lift a sleeve in my hand to caress the exquisite fabric. Dark chocolate with warm plum under-weaving, the surprisingly light wool jersey seems to shimmer and change color as I shift the sleeve in my hand and the light plays off the fabric. The dress is simple with clean lines through the arms and back. The front though is another story, with its beautifully draped center seam culminating in a deep V-neck to show off my cleavage thanks to Jane and her illicit Belgian lingerie connections.
I close my eyes, scrunching my nose in fear of just how much this thing is going to cost as I reach for the tag attached to the label along the back collar. I flip it over, ready for total and utter disappointment as I’m certain that it will be so far beyond my reach that there will be no way on earth that I could ever afford it. But as I tentatively sneak a peek I get the shock of my life.
“It’s on sale because the spring line’s just come out onto the floor.” A mature saleslady says kindly.
“Marc Jacobs never goes on sale…” I breathe. I know, I’d spent the better part of two years drooling over his New York boutique. I couldn’t even afford to walk through the doors. The saleslady chuckles quietly and asks me if I want to try it on. I nod and look for my size, a (US) eight. Which was what I was buying the last time I went shopping months and months ago, but I don’t see anything above a six, I sigh, disappointed and comment that clearly it wasn’t meant to be.
“Ach,” the saleslady smiles encouragingly, “I think you should give the six a try. You look smaller than an eight to me, dear.”
I sigh again, not wanting to be disappointed for a second time and humiliated when I look like a stuffed sausage in such a gorgeous piece of wearable art. But I relent and let her pull the six anyway, telling her that sadly, I’m quite certain that there’s no way it will fit, since I’ve been barely teetering just below double digits since before graduating high school. But the saleslady just smiles and leads me to a dressing room and helps me get it fully on.
I cock my head in the three-way mirror, trying to figure out just who is this woman staring back at me? She has my eye and hair color and seems to be wearing my earrings and watch, but this svelte goddess-like creature bears no further resemblance to the woman I know myself to be in my head. I stare at the reflection, utterly and completely speechless, as the saleslady adjusts the fabric over my hips, smoothing it out, before gathering what seems to be a fair amount of excess fabric from the back in her hands.
“I think you need the next size down, dear.” She smiles mischievously.
‘The four? No fucking way…’
‘See? Jasmine wasn’t kidding when she mentioned how thin you looked when you went to dinner on your birthday.’
‘But…’
‘But what? Let the woman fetch you the size four already!’
I nod at the sweet saleslady as she scurries off to retrieve the next size down and I feel my confidence finally boost several notches for the first time in years. And while the hardened exaggerated roundness of my abdomen is visible through the dress, it’s not horribly prominent thanks to the draping and so my ego jumps another notch as the saleslady finishes zipping me up and pronounces that this looks much better than the oversized six.
The saleslady’s name is Gloria as she becomes my personal shopping assistant for the afternoon while we head down to the shoe department for the matching shoes that were featured on the runway with the dress. A fabulous pair of wingback-style high-heeled Mary Janes in chocolate and plum that set me back £350 and a small clutch purse in a lighter violet to offset all of the dark jewel tones before she escorts me down to the MAC counter, where the makeup consultant happily gives me a mini-makeover when Gloria shares my tale of my hot date tonight with a man who I’ve described only as incredibly handsome and talented.
I make sure that the MAC girl doesn’t go totally overboard with the eye shadow, remembering Jane’s advice, but I am treated to the full-on, though understated, smoky eye treatment and a lovely pale pink shimmery lip gloss which I purchase straight away and place in the new clutch for the evening.
By the time I look at my watch it’s nearly six and I thank Gloria with a hug as I gather up my bags and scurry back down to Jane’s shop to get dressed not wanting to keep Owen waiting and missing our reservation.
In spite of my protests, Jane insists that she should treat me to yet another piece of foundations, this time in the form of a stunning plum second-skin bodysuit with a low-cut, but still sturdy built-in bra. She explains that for as low-cut as the dress is, I need something that won’t peek out during the evening but will still keep everything where it should be. I really do want to argue with her about just giving this to me outright, but she’s right. It holds everything in and makes the clingy dress lay perfectly against my body. And little do I know that Owen’s given her a standing order to ensure that I’m fully taken care of and to charge it back to him without my knowledge.
I am all zipped and buckled and ready for dinner as Jane and I chat about what it’s like for her to be a lingerie guru in Dublin of all places, when the shop doorbell rings with a sweet jingle and I turn around to face a speechless Owen.
‘See? My subconscious beams in triumph. The right dress will leave a man speechless and ready to toss you onto the nearest bed so he can take it off you with his teeth.’
‘Stop. It is just dinner and he’s just never seen me this dressed up.’
‘Ha!’ I ignore my subconscious’ further commentary as Owen smiles and greets Jane with a warm hug and a sincere thank you for letting me use her shop like a dressing room. She smiles and tells him that I’m a grand girl and I’m welcome anytime and that we should get going so as not to miss our reservations. Owen smiles and bends down to kiss her on both cheeks as he reaches for the shopping bag with my street clothes neatly packed inside then my hand as I grip my new clutch in the other. He has not said a single word to me yet as he squeezes my hand in his and I say goodnight to Jane as he leads me from the store and to his waiting car.
As we reach the passenger side, he opens the door for me, but before I can get in, Owen pulls me close and my eyes involuntarily close as I feel his hot breath on my cheek and his lips incredibly close to my ear.
“You look…” He stops to search for the correct adjective and my breath hitches as I wait, nervous, for his assessment. His hand with the bag rests on the small of my back as he holds me tight to him and I feel, for the first time, what adjectives cannot adequately describe in the form of his hardness against my body and it triggers an acute pain there, deep inside my belly, that I pointedly ignore, choosing instead to concentrate on the fact that I’ve excited him in a very real and physical way and I smile for us both for the promise that this knowledge holds.
I squeeze his chiseled bicep and kiss his cheek lightly in thanks, telling him without words that he needn’t say more. That his inability to articulate in this particular case is the most wonderful assessment I could receive. And that he definitely has gone a little ‘Tex Avery does porn’ on me is about as good as it gets in my book right now.
Owen gets me and my bag of clothes all nestled in the car before he shuts me in and I watch his body move as he walks over to the drivers’ side. He is all sleek lines, except for this adorable pout in profile as he concentrates on retrieving the car keys from the pocket of his jacket. He gets into the car and smiles, asking me without words, if I’m ready to brave the inevitable public scrutiny that will come with being seen with him — and that is very much and very quickly on the horizon. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, deciding in an instant that I’m ready for whatever being with him in public brings, both good and bad.
“No turning back now…” Owen says, jumping seamlessly once again from nonverbal to verbal communication between us. He looks at me intently as he starts the car, the engine roaring to life and he lets the motor settle for a moment before putting the car into gear.
“I’m ready for whatever you’ve got.” I reply.
“Are you sure about that, Katherine?” He asks, cryptically.
“Bring it, Owen.” I smile. And he eases the car from the curb and into Dublin evening traffic.
We arrive at Chapter One on the north side of the river a few minutes late for our reservation, but Owen seems unconcerned, given that it’s a Monday night and it’s well, Owen. He parks in an open space on the street across from the restaurant, before coming over to open my car door and help me out of the seat. I look around to see a few people milling about on the sidewalk, but breathe a sigh of relief that at the moment, anyway, there doesn’t seem to be any reporters or photographers waiting to pounce on us as we head in for a quiet dinner.
Owen is greeted by name, clearly having been here before as the hostess eyes me up-and-down derisively, clearly jealous of my presence tonight. Either she’s been with him already and wants another taste, or she hasn’t and just wants a taste, period.
I summarily ignore her though as Owen grips my hand securely, his fingers warm and reassuring against mine as the girl leads us to our table near the back of the small restaurant. She purrs at him, taking his upfront drink order of a sparkling water with lemon before turning to me expectantly, but not bothering to ask me the same question. I roll my eyes inwardly, at her clear attempt to show her plumage at my date, and who, for the record, shows no interest in return whatsoever. So I breathe a full-on sigh of relief and order the same. Thankfully, the hostess doesn’t waste any more of our time and flounces off to relay the drinks order as Owen hands me a menu.
“She wants in your pants, you know.” I point out, snickering and shaking my head a little. “I’m guessing that happens often?” Owen looks mildly confused that this would be my chosen opening topic of conversation during a potentially romantic dinner. His eyes flit quickly about the area assessing who we’re sharing the dining room with before answering quietly.
“Oh? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Owen,” I smile and roll my eyes. “She practically ripped open her shirt to show you her ten-dollar Fredericks of Hollywood bra!”
“I prefer the Belgian makers, myself,” Owen mutters in reference to my now very well-stocked Prima Donna collection and shifts in his chair a little before leaning over to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. It is a deeply intimate act for such a public place, and I feel my breath catch in my throat as his fingers brush my skin excruciatingly gently. “Much better craftsmanship.”
“And you’re all about that, aren’t you?” I ask.
“Hm?” He replies, studying my face.
“Craftsmanship.” I whisper.
Before Owen can reply, our server appears and I breathe a rather large sigh of relief that he happens to be male. I don’t know how much more other-female adoration of my date I can take tonight and it startles me that I’m already feeling such a potentially dangerous and deep level of possessiveness of Owen so soon. I am so lost in my thoughts about this development that I barely hear the waiter go over the night’s specials. And I definitely don’t register him setting down the sparkling water in front of me.
“Hey,” Owen gently snaps me out of my daydream. “You still with me?” I look up, re-focusing on his devastatingly handsome face as he regards me with the same kind of interest as a zookeeper with one of his animals. I nod feebly and scan the room with my eyes, taking in the space and the people within it as Owen goes back to scanning the menu.
“Owen?” I ask quietly. My eyes steady on one particular woman seated, facing us toward the front of the restaurant.
“Yes?” He replies, his voice in equal measure.
“Isn’t that woman a gossip reporter? Up near the front?” I murmur, so as not to be heard by anyone other than my companion as the woman locks eyes with me and I hold my gaze steady with her so as not to give her the upper hand. As the most notorious gossip columnist in Ireland, and through years of training, I know the last thing I want is to give her any kind of leverage in this situation. Owen looks over to where my eyes are trained and the woman quickly looks away as we both stare her down.
‘Round one to the rockstar!’ My subconscious gloats.
‘I knew we’d be outed quick, but not this quick.’ I frown.
‘You told him you were ready for whatever, you know.’
I sigh quietly, knowing that my subconscious is right yet again.
“Well,” Owen snickers a little. “Since I’m sure we’ll be making the column tomorrow, I guess I should give her something to actually write about.” And without further warning, he leans over and gently wraps his extremely large hand around the front of my neck, pulls me into him and kisses me. My body goes into full overdrive from the moment his lips touch mine and although this kiss is quite chaste, given that we’re in public, I feel myself reaching down and gripping his thigh in support so I don’t completely melt into the wooden floor beneath my feet. My pulse takes off like a thoroughbred from the starting gate at Belmont and my breath pools in my chest as I feel him lightly caress the soft skin just below my ear with his thumb. I whimper slightly as the shiver rolls through me violently and he breaks the kiss nearly as quickly as he started it.
“And yes, I’m all about excellent craftsmanship and a beautiful woman with a brain who actually puts it to good use as opposed to relying on batting her eyelashes to get what she wants. In spite of what you may have seen of me in the past.” Owen murmurs against my ear before kissing me sweetly on the temple. And in spite of holding on to him for dear life, I melt into the floor anyway.
The waiter returns before I can respond to Owen’s confession to take our order and I scramble to decide on-the-fly as Owen buys me time by asking for the specials again before I am asked what I’d like to order.
I decide on a salted cucumber starter, followed by fish – cod and halibut – for both my second and third courses, thinking lightly to myself that Owen is trying to stuff me silly so I’ll go in to a food coma and be too worn out to even consider trying to work my way into his bed so I can take that sparkly shirt off with my teeth. Owen opts for the ravioli starter and compliments my order by selecting two duck dishes for his intermezzo and main courses. As the waiter leaves, Owen offers to share his food and I smile and return the second deeply intimate gesture of the night.
We chat easily, flitting from topic to topic, getting to know each other through spoken communication on a variety of subjects. As we weave through this seemingly very mundane oral tradition, Owen jumps the fence fully.
“You know why I haven’t taken you to bed yet, right?” He blurts out quietly as I’m tucking into my black cod intermezzo. I look up startled at the sudden shift into very, very private and so far, unspoken conversations within my own head only.
“Owen,” I sigh as he grips my hand under the table and strokes the underside of my wrist from end-to-end once and as he does, my eyes close involuntarily and I feel this sort of cosmic whoosh rip through my body.
I see him, stumbling drunk and pleading for help to nobody as he collapses to the floor in a room I don’t immediately recognize. His body giving away totally, unable to breathe as his inner voice screams out repeatedly and there is an immeasurable pressure on his chest.
And I remember it all.
I remember I thought I was having a panic attack or going full-on mad. But through my own fear, I heard this same pleading and pain that ridiculously hot and muggy day last summer in New York, walking home along the east sidewalk of Central Park West with my roommate. As I crumpled to the sidewalk, I closed my eyes against the dirty looks from annoyed pedestrians walking determinedly around us, I could see Owen as clearly as he sits next to me now.
I crawled to his phantom form, pulled him to me and cradled his body against mine, enveloping and protecting him as best I could. His ragged, labored breaths were rough against my skin and I could feel him dying in my arms.
I remember the pure terror in the pit of my belly, the searing pain in my heart and the tears streaming furiously down my face as I begged for him to stay with me — that I wasn’t ready for him to go yet. That he couldn’t just leave me here all alone without him. I wouldn’t make it alone. And we still had so many things to do together.
I held him so tightly to me as the tears flowed freely and I gently stroked his hair, which was back to its natural deep brown color and needed cutting badly, before the banging on his front door began. A neighbor had heard the crash of the priceless vase and the small table that he pulled down with him as he stumbled from the gallery foyer to where he finally collapsed rasping for breath on his living room floor.
I remember the scream of the ambulance sirens down Central Park West as my roommate tried to pick me up off the sidewalk and I realized that we were literally across the street from his building and the muffled voices of the paramedics through his eyes as they tried to revive him, not fully succeeding until they literally shocked him back to life in the ambulance as it tore through the city streets.
And here, in this lovely restaurant in Dublin, six months later, I am choking back the tears that come unbidden to my eyes as he relives that summer day that feels like a lifetime ago.
“You were an angel to me.” He says quietly, pulling me out of this shared vision and back to the here and now and I look at him shocked for what he’s just managed to share with me and how he did it. “You saved my life.”
“No, Owen.” I correct him, my voice barely a creaking whisper. “Your neighbor did. They’re the ones who called the paramedics. There was absolutely nothing I could do…” Owen shakes his head slowly and feeds me a bite of his duck before stealing one of my cod. I can barely chew, my stomach in knots and my brain swirling over this incredible power to somehow bridge our minds that Owen has just revealed to me in confidence, in spite of the fact that we’re in a very public place.
“I was ready to go.” He says and I shake my head in denial. “You reminded me why I needed to stay. You and I have things to do yet.”
“Owen,” I sigh and gently stroke the back of his hand with my thumb until he smiles sadly and I pull my hand away.
“I want to do this right with you.” He says quietly, taking a sip of his fizzy water. “I don’t want to move too fast, have you thinking that I’m only after sex, because I’m not. At least not with you, anyway.”
“I know you’re not, Owen. I’ve never thought that of you,” I take a deep breath and will myself to relax and find myself able to eat again. “I’m sorry that I seem to have a difficult time not touching you. You’re just…”
He smiles fully, reverting back to our unspoken connection to reply that he seems to have the same difficulty and offers me another bite of his duck, which I readily accept. And I know neither of us need to say any more on the subject for now.
Eventually, we slide back into more mundane verbal conversation and finish the meal feeling even more comfortable with one another on this unvarnished, substantial plane. We do not speak further about this whole other level of connection that ties us together. But I begin to wonder just how long this connection has been intact between us. Six months? Six years? Six centuries? The possibilities of exactly what this is, frightens and excites me in the same breath. But Owen makes no move to provide any additional insight about what exactly this is between us and I can only tuck my questions deep into the back of my brain for the time being and focus on what is happening in the here and now.
Somehow, we manage to finish our meal, get out of the restaurant and back to his car without incident or flashbulbs from the paparazzi. Owen squeezes my hand tightly in his as he turns the car over and drives us back to his house in the Dublin suburbs.
I am sufficiently subdued as Owen pulls the car into the garage a half-hour or so later, thanks to the excellent meal and the warmth of the car. I find the inside handle and free myself from the vehicle, needing the cool December night to return the remainder of my senses to me.
I pause as we walk back up to the house, Owen insisting that I use my newfound knowledge of the security codes to get us into his home without the alarms going off, and try to rack my brain for the five-digit code I will need to know. I knew I should have written the number down until I was certain to have it memorized.
Looking up into the clear night sky, my mouth gapes open. Being a city girl, I haven’t seen this many stars in years — and the sheer beauty of them against the inky-black sky above is breathtaking. Owen pulls me against him, then my hand to his lips and kisses the palm of my hand sweetly as he recites the code one more time against my ear.
“You know, if you keep telling me what the code is in that ‘come fuck me now’ voice, I’m never going to remember the damn thing.” I sigh deeply against his chest as he chuckles softly, his mirth a deep welcoming rumble against my ear. He repeats the code again, in a whispery giggle, knowing full well how it affects me, as he releases me and pulls me toward the house and the warmth inside.
I get the key in the lock and open the door quickly as Owen teases me about being positively freezing in the nearly forty-degree weather, which makes me roll my eyes and chastize him for being such a pussy. This is like spring where I’m from, for crying out loud.
We push into the house as I scurry the half-step it takes to get to the alarm panel. I pause for a moment, trying to rack my brain for the code again, but his close proximity and my obvious desire making the synapses in my brain completely misfire and forget everything including my own name. Owen sighs, making a tisk, tisk sound as the security panel beeps furiously and he envelops me from behind, gripping my hand in his and raising it to the panel.
“Three,” Owen pushes our entwined index fingers into the keypad together.
I sigh deeply and sink against his chest.
“Two,” Owen purrs into my ear.
I’m really never going to remember this…
My head instinctually stretches toward his shoulder as I give him full access to my throat.
“Eight.”
I feel his free hand wrap around my middle and splay over my stomach, holding me to him fully and I feel his cock hardening against my hips.
“Nine,” Owen kisses my exposed throat gently, letting his lips brush over my throbbing jugular.
“Owen…” I growl as my insides flip over fully and I swear I may come just from the rumble of his voice in my ear and his hand on my stomach.
“Seven.” His lips slide up to mine as I crane my neck to meet them and he barely gets the ‘enter’ button pressed as I turn and let him envelop me fully with his mouth. And the sexual tension that has been building within us for the last two days comes fully unleashed like a dam breaking and I moan in desperation as his tongue dances against mine. I feel everything so acutely, from the feel of my dress against my sensitized arms to the softness of his lips slanted over mine, to the smoothness of the little calluses on the fingertips of his right hand from where he plucks the strings on his instrument as he caresses my cheek. The way his breath fills my lungs as he deepens the kiss even further and his body presses fully to mine creates this delicious friction as he holds me against him making my nipples harden painfully and the juncture between my legs throbs uncontrollably, begging for release.
I am up against the wall of the kitchen as Owen emits these little growls of pleasure as his lips roam my skin from my jawline down to the hollow base of my throat and lower still to the deep edge of the neckline of my dress. His fingers now laced in mine tucked neatly against my sides, keeping me from touching him. I writhe ardently against him, rasping out his name, pleading with him in a single word to end this sensual torture and strip me bare right here and now. But my pleas go unanswered as Owen’s lips slow on my skin, choosing to sip on me like a delicate floral wine instead.
I growl deeply, like a restless lioness and try to free my hands from his to draw his mouth back to mine and raise this back to the fever pitch it was mere moments ago. But Owen grips me tighter and gently nibbles at the tendons in my neck instead.
“No…” I cry. My senses stretched beyond all measure and ready to snap in a mass of frayed nerves and sexual frustration. Owen shifts both wrists into one hand and gently caresses my hair with his now freed hand.
“Hush, baby…” he whispers against my skin. “We will…”
I breathe a sigh of relief and wait for him to make me his fully and completely.
“It’s getting late, we should get you to bed — you’ve not been sleeping well…” Owen says as he pulls away from my body and holds out his hand to lead me upstairs.
‘Finally!’ I holler, relieved, waking my dozing subconscious in an instant.
‘What did I tell you? Put on the right dress and he’d find you totally irresistible.’
I take a deep breath and mentally ready myself for the relentless sensual onslaught that I am positively certain will be sex with Owen Mahr.
Owen leads me to the guest room and at first I’m mildly confused, but push it aside, thinking that we’re only here for a moment before he pulls me into his sanctuary, but when he makes no move to relocate me further, my brain goes into overdrive. And when he sinks his body to lean in to kiss me deeply, my body cants against his again and I breathe deeply, taking his scent in, this time mixed with something else, desire perhaps, playing off his skin as I wrap my arms around his head to keep him tight to me.
Owen’s fingers rope themselves in my hair and caress my scalp as his hard body molds into mine and every crevice seems to find its matching protrusion as if our bodies were made to complement one another specifically. But before I know what’s happening he pulls his lips away and looks deep in my eyes, searching and studying for some knowledge I wasn’t aware that I possess before he releases me entirely and takes a step back. My breathing is heavy and labored and my chest aches acutely as I watch him move through my room, expecting him to turn down the bedding before tossing me in it and finally having his way with me.
“Sweet dreams, beautiful.” He says instead and begins to walk to the open bedroom door.
What?
Are you fucking kidding me?!
My nerves have reached the breaking point and have stretched so far beyond their limit, they’ve turned to glass. And I know if he walks out of this room tonight with no further opportunity for release they will shatter instantly all over the bedroom floor.
“Owen?” I barely get out, frightened of what will happen if I attempt to say more.
“I won’t take advantage of you.” He says regretfully.
“What?!” I ask, completely thrown for a loop as my hands ball into tight fists at my sides out of pure frustration.
“Katherine.” He sighs. “I want to possess all of you, not just what’s between your legs.”
“Are you kidding me?” I ask exasperated, all thought of nervous propriety, gone. “You have me, Owen, for as long as I can remember. You’ve always had me.” I confess, my need for sexual release far outweighing any consequences my honesty may bring.
“Perhaps in that other world you and I seem to occupy,” Owen begins quietly. “But here, it’s different. It’s not our fantasies that hold us together anymore. Here it’s so much more than that and for that reason, I cannot fuck this up with you.”
“Taking me to bed with you would not be fucking up.” I cannot breathe as the bundle of nerves begin to crack one by one and I can feel the first shards bounce off the floor and nick my ankles, leaving little dots of blood on my skin. And the unforgiving tick-tock of my heart becomes more and more acutely painful with each passing second that Owen is not touching me.
“What if it is?” He asks reasonably but I am so removed from logic and reason where he’s concerned and beyond belief that he cannot see what his rebuffs are doing to me. I shake my head vehemently in disagreement, my voice gone for fear that I will no longer have control of what may come out of it. I close my eyes and will him to hear me in the cosmos instead:
‘It can’t be…we…this was meant to be and you know it.’ I search desperately for the strength not to cry in frustration in front of him for this.
‘I know, but we’ve already done such damage to one another and to ourselves that I cannot risk hurting you any more than I already have.’
I shake my head again at those unspoken words as the tears pool and my nerves finally bow under the strain and fully shatter to the floor. I have only one play left and before I can stop myself the single, desperate, pleading word rushes out of me:
“Please…”
Owen reaches me in two strides, finally fully seeing the pain his rejections are causing and pulls me tight to him, protecting me from the painful licks of glass that were once my relatively healthy nerves and that now have rebelled against me and cut mercilessly at my skin. He kisses my cheeks and forehead sweetly as I finally sag against him in utter exhaustion.
I wake deep into the night to find myself fully clothed, but wrapped around Owen, who sleeps peacefully, propped up against the pillows of the guest room bed. The room is chilly without the fire tonight, but in spite of that, we are both on top of the blankets with no protection from the cool air other than each other’s body heat.
My neck and back are stiff from sleeping in this relatively awkward position, but I breathe a silent sigh of relief that he didn’t leave me alone again. I close my eyes again and listen to the steady rhythm of his heart against his chest as I feel mine begin to sync back into time with his and our breathing intertwine before becoming indiscernible from each other. I cannot help myself as I gently kiss his bare chest in between the fabric of his half-open shirt. I sigh comfortably as I register the temperature of his skin as my lungs fill with his unique and deeply erotic scent.
“You’re still fully dressed.” Owen rasps quietly as I peer up at him through my lashes.
“So are you.” I point out. “I’m alright with that.”
“I’m serious.” He repeats and gently strokes my hair. “I can’t fuck this up with you.”
“You won’t.” I smile a little. “It’s not possible.”
“Anything is possible…” Owen sighs sadly as I gently caress the light hairs at his chest with the pads of my fingers.
“Owen?” I ask, looking up at him again to search his eyes for permission to ask the one question I have to know the answer to.
“Late-night confessions can be quite dangerous, you know.” He warns, reading my mind.
“How do you do that?” I ask carefully.
“Do what?”
“Read my mind like that?” I clarify and continue. “And earlier at the restaurant — what was that?” Owen strokes my back smoothly, his hands gentle against my skin that is always so near fully aroused when he is touching me it’s distracting. But at the moment, his hands are closer to soothing than antagonizing.
“I’m not entirely certain.” He replies honestly. “But it’s been happening for a very long time. Mostly when I’m tired or when something has gone horribly wrong or emotionally, I can’t handle what’s going on in the real world anymore. I close my eyes and suddenly, you’re always there, like you were right next to me.”
“Channeling.” I reply quietly. “You’re channeling. It’s incredibly hard to do it like that.”
“Like what?” He asks, curious.
“Usually, you open your mind up to the ether and whoever is about can show up. But to be able to shut out all the other spirits out there and direct it toward one specific person again and again takes an incredible amount of practice and control.”
“But I don’t want anyone else around in my head – just you.” Owen says quietly.
“Yes, and your defense mechanisms are so honed that you’ve been able to lock every other spirit out and be totally focused.” I say, fascinated. “But why me?”
“Remind me tomorrow and I’ll show you.” He sighs sleepily.
“Owen?” I ask after a few more minutes of contemplation.
“Hm?” He replies from his half-sleep.
“Will you please stay? Under the covers where it’s warmer?” I ask nervously.
He nods, unable to deny me any further as I reach behind me to unzip the dress. I let it slither to the floor as I pull the covers back and Owen quietly strips out of his own clothes. I do not remove the plum bodysuit, for fear that he will change his mind and retreat back to his room. Because, right now it’s far more important to have him here next to me than to be naked with him, but I am unprepared for the sight of him and his perfectly formed washboard abs and gently flared hips in nothing but a pair of boxer briefs as I suck in my breath and feel everything from the waist down clench in desire. And I know he senses it too as he crawls back into the bed and pulls me close.
“You’re lucky,” He smiles a little, kissing my forehead as I settle against the nook of his body again. “Normally, I don’t wear anything underneath.”
“I don’t know that I’d call that luck…” I snicker and kiss his taut chest lightly once more before quickly drifting back off to sleep, finally safe and warm in his very real arms.