Late Love Read online

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 garage.”

  His brows come together, looking as if he will say more, but I don’t give him the chance. This interaction with him is already more familiar than I’m ready for.

  With a quick wink, I grab my purse and slip across the congested floor of Saint Street.

  I risk glancing back at him once more before walking up the stairs to the exit. To my surprise, he’s still watching my retreat, his mouth tilted up at the side.

  Hating the way my body reacts to that, I scurry up the stairs, but not before a small smile sneaks its way onto my lips.

  After that night at Saint Street, my week continues on and every day I manage to get back into my routine a little more than the day before. Like today, I’ve been on my feet for the past eight hours filling scripts for customers, and of course it has to end with a rude one.

  “I need two refills on this medication. Why are you being so difficult?” the woman, who initially looked sweet, yells at me. Sweet my ass. This woman is a right bitch and I don’t care how old she is.

  “As I told you before, Ms. Bonneville, I can’t give you two refills at once. There are specific instructions on your script that say no more than one every thirty days.” I try to keep a firm, even voice. If I’m too soft, people will think enough nagging could eventually cause me to give in, but if I’m too firm, they’ll accuse me of being rude. And man, I really want to be rude.

  “What do you know? You’re not my doctor. You’re not even a doctor. I want to speak to your superior.” Her face twists up in a snarl as she tries to peer over the counter, probably looking for Joan. Too bad for Ms. Bonneville, because I’m the only one here today. Tuesday afternoons are notoriously slow for us. Well, honestly, most days are pretty slow. With big pharmacies opening all over the place, it’s hard for the little guy.

  I resist dragging my hand over my face, instead plastering on a smile and looking her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bonneville, but I’m the only pharmacist here today. Now, I can happily fill this prescription for a one month’s supply, or you can come back tomorrow when Joan is in and speak with her. But I must tell y
ou, she will say what I’ve already told you. Unless your doctor calls us, we can’t give you double dosages. I’m sorry.”

  Just when I think she’ll relent and let me help her, she narrows her gaze at me before spinning on her heels and hobbling out of the store. But not before I hear her mumble “bitch” and “kid” in the same mouthful.

  A small laugh bubbles out of me as she reaches the door, her head lightning quick as she turns to glare at me one final time. Despite my professionalism gnawing at my insides and telling me to stop, I lift my hand and wave at her.

  Huffing, she leaves the store, and I attempt to hide the shit twinkle in my eye.

  Definitely worth it.

  Good thing Joan isn’t here; otherwise, I might get reprimanded.

  Another thirty minutes later and I’m finally able to get the fuck out of here, my stomach grumbling for a snack and my feet a comfy chair.

  The keys to the front of the store jingle in my hand as I turn them in the lock, making sure we’re secure for the night. I resist the urge to smell my fingers, knowing that pesky lingering metallic scent will still be there.

  With all in order, I begin the walk home just before seven p.m. My feet ring out against the cobbled pavement as I walk through Notting Hill, the pastel houses a stark reminder that I’m finally home.

  I know by tomorrow the streets will be filled with market stalls and merchants ready to sell everything ranging from crepes to antiques. You might occasionally find Emilia there; that’s how she met Stana.

  As I pass the array of shops closed up for the night, the small crowd of people in front of the movie cinema gives me pause.

  It feels like years since I’ve been, and for some reason, despite my aching feet and hollowed stomach, I can’t help but drift over. My hands reach for my wallet to pay for a ticket. I pick the only seven o’clock showing, some Marvel movie about an ant. I’m not sure it’s going to be my cup of tea, especially considering I’ve seen none of the other films and have no idea how an ant can be a superhero. But, well, here we are.

  I pay, then shove my debit card back into my wallet and practically sprint to the snack bar. With a large popcorn and Maltesers in sight, I’m a happy gal. I might not love movies, but the snacks always make it worth it. Throw in a large Coke for good measure.

  I can practically taste the goodness on the tip of my tongue. Ugh, my mouth waters at the impending deliciousness coming my way. After the lad in front of me pays I quickly read off my order, my acrylic nails tapping against the murky glass cabinet below my hands. First the stinky keys, now this; I need a sink and soap ASAP. I pull my hands away when the young boy comes back, my glorious treats in hand.

  I don’t care what anyone says—you can’t go to the cinema and not get food. I mean, why would you go then? And don’t say it’s to see the movie.

  “Thanks,” I tell the boy, whose face tells me he’s about as thrilled to be working here as a squashed animal on the side of the road.

  Hands full, I attempt to sneak a bit of popcorn, sticking my tongue out to grab the top piece. After a skillful move on my part, it’s a success.

  “Lottie?”

  My name being called catches my off guard until I see Owen standing by the snacks, quickly thanking the same boy who served me before walking over, treats in hand. I mentally take in his large popcorn, Starbursts, and drink. Good lad.

  “Puppy,” I greet him, my lips turning up at the sides. Despite knowing I need to stay away, I can’t help but gravitate toward Owen. And I know that’s a bad sign on my end. Not that I’m comparing him to the likes of Beck—I just know I’m nowhere near ready for a relationship or even something casual, especially with a friend of a friend.

  “I thought you weren’t a movie person,” he says, his pearly whites on display.

  “Let’s just say it’s been a day and I needed to turn my mind off.”

  “With Ant Man?” His eyebrows draw together.

  I lift a shoulder. “I’ve got no idea, but snacks and a comfy chair were too much to pass up. You?”

  “I’m actually here for the movie. I’m a bit of a Marvel fan.”

  I nod, hoping it looks as if I know what he’s talking about. But in reality I’m totally lost.

  “Marvel?” he says again, clearly sensing my confusion.

  A laugh slips out of me. “Sorry, I wasn’t kidding when I said I didn’t know movies. I’ve got no clue what a Marvel is.”

  He bites his lips as if he’s trying not to laugh at me. It’s not condescending, but rather adorable. I can’t help myself, letting my gaze roam over his body. Dangerous. Being around him could be dangerous. He’s literally a walking Abercrombie ad with, from what I’ve heard, a heart of gold. A guy like him can do serious damage.

  “Well, we better get in there before it starts,” he remarks, cutting through my blatant perusal of him. I’d hide my head in the popcorn bucket if I thought it wouldn’t spill everywhere.

  I trail behind him, thanking him as he holds the door for me.

  “I’m over here.” I motion with my head. The cinema is surprisingly empty so Owen follows me.

  “I doubt they’ll care if I switch,” he says from next to me. “Do you mind?”

  “By all means,” I respond, signaling for him to take a seat next to me. I open my Maltesers, then tip them into my popcorn bucket before taking a huge handful and shoving them into my gob.

  Owen starts munching himself, both of us settling into a comfortable silence before the adverts commence. I begin to zone out when the movie starts, not really caring for the plot. Owen, on the other hand, seems enthralled, listening to every word, eating it right up.

  In some ways he reminds me of a small child at Christmas, his innocent enthusiasm for things like this. I’ve met this man a handful of times and I don’t even know him yet, but the desire to is there.

  I spend the better part of two hours inhaling my food and then some of Owen’s when he taps out. I try to pay attention but it’s a lost cause when the characters start shrinking, my mind having no clue what is going on.

  Owen makes us stay past the credits, practically on the edge of his seat waiting for little clips of the film at the end. Again, I’ve got no idea what’s going on, but I don’t mind—it was two hours relaxing and vegging out.

  “So, what did you think?” he asks as we exit the theater.

  “It was good.” I try to lace my words with extra enthusiasm, but I think he sees through it.

  “They’re not for everyone.” He shrugs. “I did love it, though.”

  “I’m glad, puppy.” I feel a yawn building, quickly catching it with the back of my hand. “I’m knackered. Thanks for the company, but I should get going.”

  “Let’s go,” he says, beginning to walk in the direction of my place. Usually this would be a red flag that he knows where I live, but he’s close with Stana so I know he’s not a creep. If anything, he’s the complete opposite. A good lad raised by his mum.

  “I can get home myself, you know,” I tell him.

  “Oh, I have no doubt,” he replies, voice full of cheer. “But it’s late, and what kind of guy would I be if I let you go home alone?”

  “I don’t even know you,” I quip back.

  He lifts a shoulder. “Don’t you?”

  “Whatever.” I laugh, knowing I’d probably be more comfortable with him than a lot of the other lads I know. Before I can stop myself, I playfully nudge his side, then instantly regret it until that smile of his comes into view. I can’t help but reciprocate.

  My stomach does a small somersault, and I know I’ve just crossed some invisible barrier I created for myself.

  I decide to ignore it, though, as we walk together in a comfortable silence for about five minutes until my flat comes into view.

  I slow down, motioning with my head toward my place. “Well, this is me,” I say, my voice suddenly breathy. Owen stops next to me, turning so we’re facing one another.

  We stand close, the tips of our sho
es almost touching. Far closer than anyone who’s just met would. It’s intimate, as though somehow we’ve known each other a lifetime. The thought is corny, ridiculous, and something I’d never say. Hell, I wish I had alcohol to blame it on, but alas, Coke is all that’s in my system. Well, that and the fire brewing from his presence.

  The warm summer air has a slight wind, brushing tendrils of my hair around. That seems to be the only thing moving.

  Owen’s stare digs into my soul, sparking a fire that I thought had been put out months ago. Scratch that—this is a fire I never knew existed. I’m not one to lie about how many people I’ve dated; there have been plenty. But in all that time, I’ve never experienced a pull as intense and quick as the one I feel when I’m with him.

  I know, I just know this wouldn’t be nothing. This wouldn’t be your average “one night and never speak again.” It would be more. And more is dangerous.

  So instead of letting either of us take that step, breaking the invisible barrier between us and crossing into more, I move back.

  I notice the surprise on his face, Owen probably having pinpointed me as game for a good time. He wouldn’t be wrong, and perhaps if he were anyone else, anyone less, maybe I would forget about returning my car and hail a cab with him right now. But that isn’t the case.

  “I’ll see you around.” Despite wanting to say “come inside,” I hold off. Because I can already see that, despite the bravado he puts on in front of everyone, in front of women, he wants it. I can see it in his eyes. He wants the one thing that people spend their whole lives searching for, the one thing that manages to elude so many.

  Love.

  Owen Bower can deny it all he wants, but it’s clear. He wants to be loved.

  And that’s something I can’t give him, can’t give anyone right now.

  So, for that reason solely, I turn and walk inside. Alone.

  The weeks post my return to London continue to slip by. It’s coming up on six weeks since my return, Stana herself having been home for nearly a month.

  Today she’s moving in with Ali, and the entire cavalry has come to help. Well, everyone except Emilia. I’ve yet to see Owen again solo since our movie, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t been on my mind.