“Thank you!” I shout and slap my knee. “Finally, someone else understands the struggle.”
‘It’s real.” He winks at me.
I rub my arms, keeping the blanket wrapped around my naked body underneath.
Owen notices and apparently decides to continue his chivalric streak. “Would you like to borrow one of my sweatshirts? It’s oversized, so it will probably cover you all the way up.”
I smile at him. “Thank you, yes, that would be great.”
Owen retrieves it and brings it back for me, and I pull it over my head.
“It’s warm and snug,” I confess.
“Great,” he says and gestures to the couch. “Would you like to come sit with me?” His eyes are full of mischief.
“That depends,” I say with a teasing grin. “Is the wine invited?”
“Of course.” He picks it up and pats the bottom.
“Then okay, sure,” I say.
“So, what is this business with your dad?” Owen questions me.
“He’s a fucking jerk face.” I snort as if I’m in the fourth grade.
“Why?” Owen’s face etches concern.
I blow out a puff of air and look at the ceiling, watching the fan blades spin around and around.
“He doesn’t take me seriously. It’s like he ignores me completely and gives everything to my fucking loser older brother.”
I’m bitter, and I know that Owen’s getting a first taste at how sour I can be about this sensitive situation.
“Is your dad the owner of a business?” he asks.
“Yep,” I nod. “He’s in the ‘entertainment’ industry,” I say with air quotes. “Ever heard of Quinn Industries?”
“Yes,” Owen admits, and he looks a little serious for a fleeting second.
“I don’t usually talk about my problems with my father to anyone,” I confess.
“Thank you for venting to me,” he says. “I appreciate how you trust me.”
“You’re surprisingly easy to talk to.” I glance up at him and smile.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment, but I’m guessing given my track record with women, it probably could be construed either way,” he laughs.
“You seem like a nice guy,” I admit with a shrug. “So, what about you?”
I face him on the couch and lean my arm against the back while I hold my wine glass in the other hand.
“What about me?” Owen fidgets.
“What’s your family like? On a scale of one to ten. Ten being totally batshit crazy and one being loving and normal,” I say playfully, eager to learn more about him.
“Maybe somewhere in the middle,” Owen chuckles, and for the first time ever, I can read a slight apprehensive energy expelling from him.
“So, you can relate to me?” I ask.