I had no idea what he’d been doing since I’d last seen him a few hours earlier, but he’d changed clothes at some point. His jeans were darker and tapered at the ankle, and his untucked button-down was almost nautical with a fine blue-and-white stripe. But once again, Bowen had employed the male species secret weapon and rolled his sleeves up his forearms.
A slow, sexy grin curled his lips as he shoved off the wall and strolled my way. “There she is.” He leaned in for a half hug and pressed a gentle kiss to my cheek.
I far preferred the familiarity of the one he’d placed on my mouth back at my open house, but I would never complain about Bowen’s lips touching any part of my body. He was so close that a new cologne he hadn’t worn before filled my senses.
“Mmm,” I moaned. “You smell amazing.”
“Yeah?” he asked, eyeing me closely.
“Wait. Is that…” I drew in a deep inhale, scanning my mind to identify the fragrance.
He stared down at me expectantly, his eyes twinkling with something I couldn’t quite pinpoint.
“Oh, oh, wait. Is it Hugo Boss?”
His eyebrows shot up. “Versace, but not a bad guess.”
“Damn. I’m usually good with colognes. I buy some for the guys every year at Christmas. Aaron tries to overcompensate with brute and woodsy scents when everyone knows he needs the more clean, understated-masculinity fragrances. Mark, on the other hand, has been wearing the same sports spray since high school. Even then, it was awful. I’ll never have nieces and nephews if I don’t get those two married off soon.”
Resting his hand on the small of my back, he guided me to the hostess stand. “I have two nephews you can borrow. The seven-year-old is a ventriloquist who never leaves home without his dummy, and his nine-year-old brother insists on breaking at least one limb every summer. So that’s fun.”
He didn’t say anything to the hostess. Instinctively, she grabbed two menus and guided us to a small table in the back. Once we were seated and drink orders had been taken—New Zealand Sav Blanc for me, whiskey neat for him—we jumped right back into conversation, never missing a step.
“A ventriloquist? How cool is that?”
Bowen smiled, his chest puffing with pride. “It’s actually really fun to watch. He’s super talented too. My sister is hell-bent on making the boys play every sport under the sun, but I’ve never seen Preston happier than when he got a vintage Charlie Chaplin dummy for his birthday.”
“Stop it. There’s no way a seven-year-old knows Charlie Chaplin?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Did I mention he also listens to smooth jazz and drinks apple juice from a chipped teacup? He’s a character. That’s for sure.”
Warmth filled my chest. It was nice to see another side of Bowen. I didn’t have a big family, but while we had been working on my dad’s taxes, I’d filled his ears with stories of growing up at The Wave and meeting Aaron and Mark. He’d listened but hadn’t offered up much about his own life that night. So, as our drinks were delivered, I hurried to keep him talking.
“Okay, so we have Preston, and what is nine-year-old Harry Houdini’s name?”
“Simon.” He rolled his eyes. “Simon Reginald Harrington the Third.”
“Oh, wow. That’s…” Pretentious. I clinked my glass of wine with his whiskey and tipped it back to avoid finishing the thought.
He laughed. “Funny enough, my mother had a similar reaction when she heard it for the first time too.”
I got comfy in my seat and fiddled with the stem on my glass, prying for every last detail he’d give me. “And your parents. Are they still together?”
“Disgustingly so,” he replied, shaking his gorgeous head.
“And just one sister? Older? Younger?”
“Older. I have a younger brother too.”
I nodded and kept going, filing everything away under Basics of Bowen 101. “Originally from Atlanta?”
“Born and raised.”
“College?”
“Georgia.”
“Yes!” I lifted my hand and high-fived him across the linen-covered table. “Go Dawgs.”
Rich laughter escaped his throat as he caught my hand. Intertwining our fingers, he rested them on the table. “I told you this wasn’t speed dating, right?”
Appreciating how our fingers looked linked together, I conceded. “Yeah. I know. I just like learning about you. Usually, I’m the talker.”
“I’ve noticed, but guess what?”
“What?”
“I enjoy listening to you talk.” He looked down at our hands and smiled almost…shyly? Yet another facet of the mystery that was Bowen Michaels.
I stroked his thumb with my own, thinking about how much things had changed—improved tenfold—between us. “You’re different.”
His head popped up, a mixture of surprise and curiosity crinkling his forehead. “How so?”
“I don’t know. When I met you, you were so distant and hollow. I wasn’t completely sure you possessed the facial muscles to smile. But now”—I pointed to his mouth—“it seems like you’ve mastered the task pretty well.”
“It’s not that I didn’t know how to smile. It’s just that it’s been a long time since I had a reason to.”
