Chapter 7 - THE FIRST KISS WAS NOTHING LIKE GRANT
Owen kissed me nine months after the failed wedding.
Technically, I kissed him.
He likes correcting that detail.
The lakefront project opened in October.
By then, Owen and I had spent months in a cautious friendship that fooled nobody.
My mother knew.
My father pretended not to.
Coworkers placed bets.
Sienna sent me a message after I mentioned Owen three times in one phone call.
YOU LIKE HIM.
I replied:
I LIKE FOOD TOO. I AM NOT MARRYING PASTA.
She responded:
DEPENDS ON THE PASTA.
Our first almost-date happened accidentally.
A client dinner canceled.
Owen had reservations at a small Italian restaurant in West Loop.
He asked if I wanted the table.
I said yes.
He said he meant with him.
I almost backed out.
Then didn’t.
Dinner lasted three hours.
We talked about everything except Grant.
That mattered.
Owen told me about his childhood.
His younger brother Caleb.
His mother dying when they were in college.
How Grant had been the person who stayed beside him through that funeral.
That hurt to hear.
Not because I was jealous.
Because I finally understood Owen’s grief over losing Grant.
Grant had not always been selfish.
Nobody was one thing.
That complexity made everything sadder.
“He was good to me,” Owen said.
“You don’t have to justify caring about him.”
“I know.”
“You can miss him.”
Owen looked surprised.
“Even after what he did to you?”
“Yes.”
I smiled sadly.
“I miss him too sometimes.”
There it was.
Truth without threat.
Owen did not stiffen.
Did not ask what that meant.
Did not compare himself.
He only said, “Six years is a long time.”
That was when I first thought I might fall in love with him.
Not because he stayed.
Because he allowed the past to exist without needing to defeat it.
The actual kiss happened three weeks later.
We were at the development property late after an event.
Everyone had left.
Rain hit the huge windows facing Lake Michigan.
I was checking invoices.
Owen was moving chairs.
“Those don’t go there.”
He stopped.
“They are chairs.”
“They have assigned locations.”
“They’re six feet away.”
“Civilization depends on standards.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“You hired me.”
“You work for the hotel management company.”
“Details.”
He moved the chairs back.
I smiled.
Owen caught me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling like you won something.”
“I did.”
“What?”
“Furniture compliance.”
He laughed.
Then the lights flickered.
We both stopped.
For one second, I was back at the Halston.
Dark ballroom.
Grant’s arms around me.
Don’t be afraid.
I’m here.
I took a breath.
The lights steadied.
Owen noticed.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to stay?”
The question mattered.
Not Don’t be afraid.
Not I’ll protect you.
Do you want me to stay?
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
We finished the invoices.
At midnight, we walked to the parking garage.
My car wouldn’t start.
Of course.
Owen offered a ride.
I accepted.
Outside my apartment, rain hammered the windshield.
Neither of us moved.
This was the moment in movies where something happened.
I became suddenly aware of everything.
His hand on the steering wheel.
The quiet sound of rain.
His breathing.
Mine.
Owen looked at me.
Then immediately looked away.
I almost laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That is never true.”
He exhaled.
“I want to kiss you.”
My heart stopped.
There it was.
Direct.
No performance.
No assumption.
I swallowed.
“Why aren’t you?”
His eyes returned to mine.
“Because wanting something doesn’t tell me whether you want it.”
Grant had left a wedding because he needed to follow his feelings.
Owen sat three inches away from me and treated his feelings like information, not authority.
I leaned across the console and kissed him.
His surprise made me smile against his mouth.
Then his hand touched my cheek.
Carefully.
The kiss deepened.
Warm.
Slow.
Nothing like Grant.
That frightened me.
Not because it was better.
Because it was new.
I pulled back.
Owen immediately stopped.
No protest.
No chasing.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
I started laughing.
“What?”
“You keep asking.”
“I’m going to continue.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
Then I kissed him again.
We did not sleep together that night.
I went upstairs.
Owen went home.
Two days later, he asked me to dinner.
“A date?”
“Yes.”
“Very formal.”
“I’ve been told clarity is valuable.”
“By who?”
“A difficult woman in hospitality.”
I smiled.
We started dating.
Slowly.
Quietly.
For three months, Grant did not know.
I didn’t hide it because I owed him secrecy.
I simply did not want our relationship becoming part of the Grant story.
Then a photograph changed everything.
A Chicago architecture magazine published a feature on the lakefront redevelopment.
One picture showed Owen and me standing behind the bar.
His hand rested lightly against my back.
Nothing obvious.
But Grant knew us.
He called at 6:03 the next morning.
I did not answer.
He texted.
Is that what I think it is?
Then:
Owen?
Then:
Please tell me he didn’t wait for this.
My stomach tightened.
The old fear returned.
Was Owen waiting?
Had everyone known again except me?
I hated that Grant could still reach that wound.
Another message.
Ask him what he told me a year before the wedding.
I stared.
Then called Owen.
He answered sleepily.
“Morning.”
“What did you tell Grant a year before the wedding?”
Silence.
He woke immediately.
“What did he send?”
“Answer first.”
Owen exhaled.
“I told Grant that if he kept making you feel second to Sienna, eventually someone else would recognize what he was wasting.”
My chest tightened.
“Someone else meaning you?”
“No.”
“Grant says yes.”
“Grant believed every man who liked you wanted to steal you.”
“What exactly did you say?”
Owen was silent.
Then:
“I said, ‘One day you’re going to look up and realize another man would be grateful for the life you keep taking for granted.’”
My pulse pounded.
“That sounds personal.”
“It was angry.”
“Not personal?”
“Not then.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did you ever imagine us together before the wedding?”
A pause.
Too long.
“Owen.”
“Once.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“About eighteen months before the wedding.”
“What happened?”
“You and Grant had a fight at my apartment.”
I remembered.
Grant missed my promotion dinner.
We argued.
He left.
I stayed because my car was parked behind Owen’s and we opened wine.
“I fell asleep on your couch.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Nothing.”
“I know nothing happened.”
Owen’s voice softened.
“You were asleep. I put a blanket over you.”
My throat tightened.
“And I thought Grant was an idiot.”
“Romantic.”
“I immediately felt guilty.”
“Because?”
“You loved him.”
That answer mattered more than his friendship with Grant.
“Did you keep thinking about it?”
“No.”
“Never?”
“Not in any meaningful way.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I noticed you.”
Honest.
“But I did not build a fantasy around you.”
Grant had.
Around Sienna.
For years.
I could hear the difference.
Still, fear remained.
“I need some time.”
Owen’s voice became quiet.
“Okay.”
“That easy?”
“No.”
A pause.
“But you asked.”
We ended the call.
Grant kept texting.
I blocked him again.
For nine days, Owen stayed away.
Then Sienna called.
“You are being stupid.”
“Hello to you too.”
“He told me what happened.”
“Owen called you?”
“Yes.”
My chest tightened.
“Why?”
“Because he wanted someone you trust enough to confirm he isn’t rewriting history.”
That was such an Owen thing to do that I became angry.
“I don’t want people managing my feelings.”
“He specifically said not to manage your feelings.”
“Worse.”
Sienna laughed.
Then sobered.
“Nora, Grant thought Owen wanted every woman who disagreed with him.”
“I know.”
“He used to accuse Owen of flirting with me too.”
“What?”
“Because Owen told me Grant was treating me badly.”
I stared.
“Grant turns anyone who challenges him into a rival.”
That sentence unlocked something.
Maybe Grant’s fear of Owen had never been about Owen.
Maybe it was about accountability.
Sienna continued.
“Owen did notice you.”
“I know.”
“He also did nothing.”
“Yes.”
“Then after you became available, he waited months.”
“Yes.”
“And when you asked for space, he gave it.”
“Yes.”
“Grant would have been at your door.”
I closed my eyes.
Yes.
That was the difference.
I called Owen.
“Come over.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Now?”
“Within normal traffic laws.”
He arrived forty-five minutes later.
We talked for four hours.
No romantic shortcuts.
No grand declarations.
At the end, I said, “I’m scared of being the only person who doesn’t know what role I’m playing.”
Owen’s face softened.
“You’re not playing one.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do.”
He moved closer.
“But I can’t promise you I’ll never have a thought I don’t immediately report.”
I smiled despite myself.
“That would be horrifying.”
“I can promise I won’t build a secret life inside our real one.”
My eyes burned.
That was it.
What Grant had done.
He had lived with me while preserving an entire emotional museum for Sienna.
I took Owen’s hand.
“Stay.”
He squeezed gently.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“On the couch?”
I smiled.
“Not the couch.”
His eyebrows rose.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed me slowly.
May you like
And that night, for the first time since the Halston, staying stopped feeling like something someone did because I was broken.
It felt like something we both chose.
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