The whole family laughed. Even Bowen.
But still, he refused me his eyes.
“Bowen,” I called, desperately trying to capture his attention. He was standing right there. There was no way he couldn’t hear me. “Bowen,” I repeated, trying to grasp his arm, but when I reached for him, my fingers brushed through the air. “Bowen!” I yelled, terror overtaking me.
Why couldn’t he hear me?
Why couldn’t I feel him anymore?
“Bowen!”
Remi
“Bowen!”
His name tore from my throat as I bolted upright in bed, my heart thundering against my ribs. It took several seconds for me to remember where I was and, more importantly, where I wasn’t.
“Fuck,” I groaned, completely out of breath.
It was after nine p.m. and while I was grateful Sugar had been a champ at sleeping straight through the night without so much as a peep or a left shoe snack, I could have used a slightly earlier wake-up call. Preferably before my dream had dissolved into a nightmare.
What the fucking hell had that been about?
I’d never had a dream about him before that wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. But then again, I’d fallen asleep with some seriously conflicting emotions about leaving the man. I didn’t need an interpreter to figure out how my subconscious had come up with this one.
Sugar and I took a walk, but not even the fresh air and a stroll under Savannah’s famous Spanish moss could clear my head.
With nothing in the fridge, I made myself a bowl of cereal for dinner and then took a shower. After which, I slid right back into Bowen’s T-shirt and crawled into bed again.
We hadn’t discussed communication after leaving Charlotte. It was a fling. By definition, that was a short period of enjoyment or wild behavior. And yes, I’d Googled to double-check there wasn’t an alternate definition that allowed for an extension of wild behavior in the event of desperately missing said fling.
Surely a text was allowed sometimes.
Merriam-Webster didn’t know everything. Just ask Miss Manners. She practically required people to send thank-you notes. Or, in our case, a thank-you text.
Before I could convince myself what an epically bad idea it was, I opened up our text thread and typed a message.
Me: I just wanted to say thank you for making that the best real estate conference I’ve ever attended. I learned nothing that will help me in my career, but I’ll be feeling shaky-legged for days.
It took less than a minute for his reply to come through.
Bowen: Who is this?
And just like that. Three words and everything in my world felt right again.
Grinning from ear to ear, I typed out: It’s Raven Brightmore, silly. I’m offended you could forget a world-renown avian haberdasher so quickly. I went to hit send, but my finger froze over the button.
We’d had fun. Our bodies had reunited in explosive ways while we’d pretended to be anyone other than ourselves for the sake of self-preservation.
But I wasn’t lying in that bed, missing or dreaming about Harley Steele.
I deleted the entire text and typed the one word I’d spent the last four months running from.
Me: Remi
Bowen: Well, hello there, beautiful. It’s really fucking good to hear from you.
Me: Is this okay? Me texting you?
Bowen: It’s more than okay, babe. It’s all I could think about for months. Wait a minute… You’re sure this isn’t Siri again, is it?
My cheeks, still sore from our nights together, ached as my smile stretched wide.
Me: Not this time. It’s just me. Well, me and Sugar. I think he’s a bit jealous that I got to spend the weekend with you.
I sent him the selfie I’d snapped earlier.
Bowen: Aha! So that’s where my sixth undershirt went.
Me: Dear God, please tell me you don’t have them numbered.
Bowen: Wouldn’t you like to know, you little thief.
Me: Not my smartest crime. It smells like you, so now I miss you.
Bowen: In that case, I’ll have all of my dirty laundry shipped to you first thing in the morning.
Me: Tempting but I’ll pass.
Bowen: Give Sugar a hug from me. I miss my boy. It hasn’t been the same around here without him. Cassidy keeps buying me throw pillows and I don’t have anyone to blame it on when I trash them.
It was dumb. But damn. I even missed his couch. I gave Sugar a hug from him before replying.
Me: Sugar sends his love too. A big slobbery kiss. He currently has beef breath if that helps with imagining it.
Bowen: What his breath smelled like was actually going to be my next question.
I laughed when he followed it up with the puking emoji.
Me: You doing okay today?
Bowen: Well, I woke up alone, Oscar pinned me for breakfast before we left and talked my ear off about a conference I barely attended, and then I drove home hungover. But I did get to spend four days with the most beautiful real estate agent I’ve ever met, so I’m not complaining.
