I’d missed this. The fun. The flirty. The comfort we shared in each other’s company. With Bowen, being myself was easy. After all, he conveniently knew me better than I knew myself. But as I sat across the table from him, I had to remind myself this wasn’t about being myself. We had three days left together before reality and the past swallowed us both all over again. I didn’t want to be Remi and Bowen, who had lived a dozen lifetimes together as lovers, liars, and everything in between. I wanted something fresh and untainted, with all the benefits of being with someone familiar.
That was the beauty of this fling. In that hotel, we could be whoever we wanted. Or in my case, whoever I needed to be to protect myself from falling right back into the arms of Bowen Michaels permanently without achieving one of the main purposes of our separation.
My identity.
Not from a few years ago. Not a couple of months ago. Now.
Who the hell was I?
After the waiter delivered a glass of wine for me and a whiskey for Bowen, he gave us a few cursory moments to browse the menu. Bowen didn’t bother and instead stared at me with a dark, ominous gaze that was as unnerving as it was thrilling.
I closed my menu and took a sip of my wine. “So, I don’t think I caught your name last night.”
“My name?” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Is that why you kept calling out to God?”
I shrugged. “I needed all the help I could get trying to reach an orgasm with you.”
He pursed his lips, thoroughly offended. “Really?”
Batting my eyelashes, I popped a shoulder. “What? The fourth one is always tricky to catch.”
Resting his elbows on the table, he leaned in close. “Then, and pardon me if I borrow your terminology from earlier, maybe we should both say a prayer for that sweet pussy of yours tonight.”
My cheeks heated and I had to look off to the side to suppress my smile. “So, your name?”
“Bowen,” he replied, playing along by extending a hand for a shake. “And you are?”
“Nope.”
“Nope what?”
“That’s not your name.”
He twisted his lips and dropped his proffered hand. “Bo?”
“Nope. Not that, either.”
He blinked several times and leaned back in his chair. “Okay, then why don’t you tell me your name first, and I’ll file the legal documents to change mine accordingly.”
“Oh, sorry. You’ll have to excuse my manners. I’m Raven Brightmore, a traveling avian haberdasher from a little town called Dawson, Georgia.”
His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “An avian what?”
I laughed and clutched my imaginary pearls. “I make hats for birds, silly.”
He stared at me like I was crazy, and I was. But the distance a façade provided was exactly what I needed. No matter how ridiculous it might have been.
And let’s be honest, it was pure entertainment to watch Mr. Analytical try to keep up and flounder in doing so.
“Wow,” he deadpanned. “I had no idea bird hats were in such demand they required traveling haberdashers.”
“You have no idea. And what about you? What do you do for a living?”
“Hmmm,” he hummed, taking a sip of his drink. “Uhhh, well, I went to school for accounting.”
I shot him an impatient glare and he quickly amended.
“But it didn’t take long to realize that wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. My true calling has always been and will always be…swine orthodontics.”
I let out a dramatic gasp and started collecting my phone and purse.
Reaching across the table, he caught my hand. “Hey, hey, where are you going?” There was a hint of panic in his voice that I shouldn’t have enjoyed as much as I did.
“You must take me for a fool. A swine orthodontist? While you are indeed a very attractive man, you are nowhere near cool enough for that occupation.”
He chuffed a noise that fell somewhere on the spectrum between humor and outrage. “Really, Miss Bird Hat Maker. What career am I cool enough for, then?”
I swayed my head from side to side and quirked an eyebrow as I studied the man across from me with a fine-tooth comb.
Noticing my astute examination, he swiveled a little in his seat, giving me both left and right profiles to consider. He was adorably bad at this.
“Elementary school art teacher? Perhaps an ethically sourced yarn spinner?”
“Yarn spinner!” he exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously. “Get out of here with that bullshit. Obviously, you don’t know me at all.” He turned fully sideways in his chair, crossed his legs ankle to knee, and planted an elbow on the table. “The name’s Harley Steele. Hollywood’s premiere swine orthodontist. You ever seen the movie Babe? What about Charlotte’s Web? You familiar with Porky Pig?” He hooked his thumb at his chest. “That was all me.”
