I roll my eyes. Pushing away from the counter, I open the bathroom door and glare at him standing there. Why does he have to look so damn sexy all the time? It’s seriously distracting. He has one hand pressed on either side of the door frame, which causes the muscles in his arms to bunch and gather deliciously. His abs are on full display, as was the rest of him, I noticed. Owen had no shame in his game.
“Didn’t mean what?” I asked breathlessly, forcing my eyes to stay on his face. Which was really freaking hard.
He reaches a hand out to brush against a stray strand of my hair, and my body instantly reacts to his touch. “I shouldn’t have discounted your concerns,” he says softly. “I’ve known Lesa longer, and my job isn’t riding on her reaction. I just”—his voice trails off and I can see the battle he’s having with himself play out on his face—“I just know what I feel when I look at you, Tristan. And it wouldn’t matter whether you gave me the time of day or not. Any relationship, and I use the term loosely, that I had with Lesa would be over. Mo chuisle mo chori, you hold every part of me in your hands.”
I feel my eyes narrow again. “Tell me what it means,” I demand softly. “You call me mo chuisle mo chori”—I completely butcher the language—“or some version of that all the time, but every time I ask you about it, you change the subject.”
He studies me for another few seconds before pushing off the door and walking back into the bedroom, and I can’t keep my eyes from skimming down over his body. Jesus. The man has an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. Unfortunately, and to my incredible disappointment, he covers said ass up with his pants, and then sits on the edge of the bed. I follow slowly behind him, curious if he’s actually going to tell me what it means this time.
I sink down onto the bed next to him, close enough that my bent knee brushes against his thigh. Is he finally going to answer my question? He looks a little nauseous, as he runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it even further.
“It’s Gaelic. Irish Gaelic to be exact.” His licks his lips, raising his eyes to meet mine. “The story that’s passed down is that hundreds of years ago…” He pauses, and I swear his cheeks are turning pink with embarrassment. “Fuck, I was really hoping I wouldn’t ever have to tell this stupid-ass story.”
“Spill it, Gallahanger,” I demand. “Now I really have to know.”
“Fine. The story goes that hundreds of years ago, my great, great, whatever grandfather saved the life of a sorceress.”
“Wait, what?” That doesn’t even make the top one hundred list of things I thought he was going to say to me. Sorceress? Really? Is that a real statement?
I must have a confused, questioning, and completely dumbfounded look on my face because he nods his head. “I know how crazy it sounds. I’m just telling you the story we’ve always been told.”
“Okay,” I whisper, trying really hard not to laugh. He’s obviously embarrassed. “Please continue.”
“Right, you can laugh, it sounds ridiculous and it doesn’t get any less crazy, and it makes me sound like a fucking idiot.”
I laugh. “Maybe just a little, but now you have to tell me the whole story.”
“The short and sweet of it is that he saved her life and she asked him what he wanted in return, and he said he wanted to know right away when he met his soul mate. She went one better and said that every single one of his descendants would know the moment they met their person. Over the years, as the legend continued to be true, time and time again, it was given the name mo chuisle mo chori, which means ‘my pulse of my heart’. Because that’s what it feels like when you meet your person. Like they’re your pulse, the very reason your heart beats.”
Somewhere during his explanation, I felt my mouth drop open, and I’m pretty sure I look like a fish with my mouth flapping open and closed as I try to find my voice. I’m just not sure what to say. My head is spinning in so many different directions. First, and foremost, I’m hung up on the sorceress piece. It just sounds crazy, and like it’s straight out of a children’s fairy tale, or like Disney is going to swoop in at any moment and make a made-for-television movie.
But beyond the crazy, which there’s a lot of, so it’s pretty hard to get beyond, is the fact that Owen Gallahanger is basically telling me that he thinks I’m his soul mate.
And I’m not sure what the hell I’m supposed to do with that information.
“Tristan,” Owen calls my name. Then he calls it again when I don’t respond right away. “Tristan, don’t overthink this.”
My eyes narrow. “How exactly am I supposed to not overthink that?”
Owen runs a hand down his face. “Fuck. This is why I didn’t want to say anything. You’re going to freak out.”
Well, duh. “Owen, you’re telling me you think we’re meant to be together.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I don’t think anything. I know, but you don’t yet, and that’s okay. I know you’ll catch up eventually, and I’m ready to wait as long as it takes for that to happen.”
“You honestly believe what you just told me?”
He smirks, but I can see it on his face. He may not want to say he believes it, but I think he does. “About the sorceress and all that bullshit? No, but that’s the story. But the rest?” Owen shakes his head, almost in disbelief. “I didn’t before you moved to town, but I knew, standing in Monroe’s kitchen that day, that everything had changed for me.”
Huh. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with any of this information. From Lesa sabotaging my date on purpose to the bomb that Owen just dropped on me.
“Hey.” Owen brushes a hand across my leg, drawing my attention back to him. “Can we pretend this entire morning didn’t happen?”
“Uh no, no we can’t.”
“Fucking perfect.” Owen falls back on the bed, snaking one arm around my waist and pulling me down on top of him. One large hand slides under the fabric of his shirt that I’m wearing, skimming along the skin of my back as he settles me more firmly against him. “Can we at least stop talking about it for a few moments?”
My back arches against his touch, my breasts pushing more firmly against his chest. Beneath his ministrations, I feel my blood start to heat again, desire pooling low in my belly. “Is there something else you want to talk about?” I run my hands up his sides.
His eyes close briefly before snapping back open and meeting mine directly. “I think, for a little while, we don’t talk at all.”
Then his mouth covers mine and I may not be ready to admit it to him, but his kiss still feels like coming home.
***
“We should go on our date today.”
I reach into the closet, pulling out a lightweight gray sweater that I yank down over my navy-blue tank top. The shoulder of the sweater dips down, revealing the thin strap of the tank. I pull on a pair of black leggings, watching as an appreciative gleam lights up in Owen’s eyes as they settle on my ass. “I have to pick up Stella,” I remind him as I reach back into the closet for a pair of boots. The temperature has finally started to dip, and I’m excited to finally be pulling out some of my warmer clothes.