Owen practically fell onto the floor when he rolled over on Barry's couch to avoid the sunlight streaming through the window. His head felt like it had been through a meat grinder. This was more than a hangover, and he hadn't even had that much to drink! The events of the night before were starting to take shape in his mind's eye, and he was starting to feel physically ill. Had he really been so forward with Claire? All action and no talk? He was frankly surprised that she had put up with it for as long as she did. He winced at the memory of standing outside her door, shirtless, and considering whether to beat it down.

Somehow, he'd mustered the good sense to drag his sorry ass to Barry's place instead. What exactly had gotten into him? A cold shower and a good night's sleep should've helped. Unfortunately, he just felt more unsettled and profoundly sheepish. There was no denying his continued attraction to Claire, but he had probably blown any chance with her after his antics on that date. Could he even call it that? He'd behaved as if it was only a pretense to fucking. His physical discomfort intensified. Could he convince her that he hadn't been himself? Would she give him another chance? Could he even trust himself in her presence? After all, the cause of his personality change had yet to be determined. He didn't dare risk seeing her again without sorting that out first.

Trying to wrap his head around the possibilities, Owen wondered if the tequila had been spiked. Ironically, that could explain Claire's tolerance of him. It was further deflating to think that any interest on her part might've been chemical in nature. Lost in his thoughts, he was startled by Barry entering the living room and carrying two mugs.

"Here," his friend proffered as Owen rubbed his temples, "this should help. An old family recipe for curing a hangover."

"I can't drink that!" Owen exclaimed with one hand pushing back against the mug. "I was drugged or something last night. It might not mix well."

"I think you're a bit paranoid. This is just black coffee with an egg and cayenne in it." Setting the mugs on the coffee table, Barry sat down in a chair and asked, "You sure you weren't just nervous and came on too strong? I know how much you were looking for-"

"No," Owen interrupted him. "I wasn't acting like myself at all." At this, Barry snorted and raised a single eyebrow in disbelief. Owen groaned, "I was acting like I had no filter. Like… the brakes were off."

"Did you start with tequila shots?" Barry's tone was almost patronizing.

"Dammit, this is serious!"

"D'accord," the Frenchman raised his palms in defeat then sat back. A sudden realization seemed to dawn on him, and Owen motioned for him to spit it out. "I did hear a rumor about something. But…"

"But what?" Owen said with desperation in his tone.

"Maybe your charms just didn't work on her, and you're trying to justify her kicking you out."

"Fuck you." His friend started laughing very heartily. Too heartily for Owen's tastes. "You are having way too much fun at my expense."

"Non, mon ami. You might deserve it!" Owen huffed but bit his tongue. Maybe Barry was right. Sensing Owen's internal conflict, Barry offered, "There's a rumor going around that a new plant being developed on the island is an aphrodisiac." Owen's eyebrows went up. This could be a plausible excuse. An explanation for his behavior and, disappointingly, Claire's. As he sat there, thinking through his next steps, Barry continued, "Guys have been joking about 'Love Potion #9' and using it on women on the island."

"Where is this plant being grown?" asked Owen with intense curiosity.

"All plants are tested in the restricted area to limit access. There's been talk of 'covert operations' to obtain a supply." Rolling his eyes, Barry passed Owen the mug of coffee. "Here, you need this regardless. I know you won't rest until you get to the bottom of it."

"Thanks," Owen responded honestly. No one knew him as well as Barry. He could also count on his co-worker's support. A plan was formulating in Owen's head. More details were needed. Perhaps there was an antidote. He also feared there could be long-term effects. Damn botanists. People never learn.

x x x

It had been a busy week in the park, but Claire was grateful for the distraction. She didn't want to catch herself thinking about her date-gone-horribly-awry with Owen. Truth be told, she was still processing all that had transpired, reflecting on both his behavior and her own. She second-guessed everything she'd done that night. With some sadness, she wondered if she should've canceled when he changed the plan from Winston's. Had she created this whole mess herself?

Shaking off the thoughts, she reminded herself that she was possibly making a mountain out of a molehill. It was just one date. She should be sharing the story as a funny anecdote and laughing about it with her girlfriends. Too bad she didn't really have any of those. Of course, this was another excuse. Zara had been very curious about what happened the following day. While Claire had chosen to remain quiet and simply change the subject, her assistant must've known something was wrong. It was only a matter of time before it came up again.

Claire sighed and turned her head toward the beautiful flowering plant on her desk. The head paleobotanist had brought it to her as a present that morning. He'd been positively giddy about how well it was thriving. The plant was still in the flowering phase, but he expected the fruit to develop very soon. Claire marveled at it. There was something enticing about it that she couldn't quite put her finger on. She felt strangely drawn to it. So far, she'd resisted sniffing the flowers, having been told already by the botanist that they didn't have a scent.

Her reverie was broken by an unfamiliar knock on her door. Glancing quickly at the calendar on her computer desktop, she didn't see any scheduled appointments. Zara must've stepped away from her desk and not been able to run interference for unexpected visitors.

Claire took a deep breath and cleared her throat before relenting, "Come in."

The door was immediately opened and shut behind her uncharacteristically hesitant guest, Owen Grady. She reflexively crossed her arms over her chest and sat up straighter in her chair. When she noticed him tensing at her actions, she relaxed her posture. She hadn't meant to make this more awkward than it already was. He moved slowly towards her desk with his head hung low. His demeanor was even less attractive than his aggressive one from their date. She hoped he didn't behave this way with all women but then felt uneasy with the idea that this was a specific effect she had on him.

As she resisted the urge to scrunch her nose in displeasure, Owen finally made solid eye contact with her. His look was pleading. She offered a small smile and witnessed him relaxing. His face even lightened with a smile of his own. This caused some recently buried feelings of hers to re-emerge. Damn him! Why couldn't she just hate him?

She caught herself wringing her hands and blurted, "What brings you here, Mr. Grady?" He looked blind-sided, and she instantly regretted her words. "Owen," she corrected quickly.

He held her gaze as he announced, "I'm sorry about the other night. That wasn't me." Claire couldn't fully suppress the scoff that came out unbidden. His lips formed a tight line as he appeared to be considering his next words carefully. "Let me prove it," he said forcefully. "I want a second date... a do-over." She was taken aback. Words escaped her as they had on their first date. Did she want a second date? There was not a straightforward answer to that question.

"Owen, I…" Her words trailed off at his eyes shifting away from hers. Now, he was staring at the plant on her desk. His confidence seemed shaken once again, and there was something else in his eyes. Was that fear? Horror? Whatever it was, she knew it wasn't good.

"What is that?" he asked pointedly while taking a step backward.

She answered in a quizzical tone, "A new plant we've… made." When he still wouldn't return his gaze to hers, she added, "A nightshade, for its fruit."

His head snapped up as he exclaimed, "That doesn't have any fruit." He was moving backwards again, and Claire was starting to get alarmed. She stood but didn't have time to say anything before his hand was fumbling with her doorknob. "I'll call you," Owen said weakly as he disappeared out the door, slamming it shut.

"What the fuck?" escaped her lips once she was alone again. She was frustrated that new data from the man himself wasn't helping her solve the ongoing mystery that was Owen Grady. She somehow doubted this was intentional on his part. His behavior today did not make him alluring. Catching the time on her computer screen, she decided to table her thoughts on him until later. Instead, she hazarded a whiff of the flowers on her desk. Her face fell. Just as she was told, no scent.

x x x

For whatever reason, Claire felt compelled to bring home her plant. Her excuse was needing to water it. The truth was, however, that it made her irrationally sad to think of it all alone in her office overnight. Something so beautiful deserved company. Oh boy, was she actually relating to a plant now? Or was it becoming her 'emotional support plant'? Her internal uneasiness translated into physical clumsiness as she stumbled slightly upon crossing the threshold of her apartment. The pot had been balanced in the crook of her arm but became jostled, and she almost dropped it. Fumbling with the pot, she ended up with a face full of flowers as she tried to readjust her grip.

After she placed the pot on her kitchen counter, Claire's nose began to itch. She squeezed her eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath, successfully managing to contain the sneeze that threatened to escape. Then, her face contorted into a frown at the thought of being allergic to the pretty flowers. That worry was, fortunately, short-lived. Looking around her kitchen, her mind suddenly drifted back to images of Owen shirtless in that very room. A lovely warmth spread throughout her body. Her eyes fluttered closed as she pondered the what ifs, had she not forced him out.

Suddenly, her nose pricked up at the scent of something foreign yet tantalizing. She opened her eyes and walked over to the easy chair in her living room. Searching around, Claire found Owen's shirt wedged between the chair and the wall behind it. Just as she had been compelled to sniff her flowers, she brought the shirt to her nose. This instantly relaxed her, and she sank into the chair.

Maybe she was overthinking their date. She considered that maybe all she really needed was to get laid. Perhaps that was the real reason she hadn't kicked him to the curb sooner. It was a relief to imagine that neither she nor Owen were meant to be in a relationship. Their interest in one another might be much more… primitive in nature. Yes, she should seriously consider his do-over offer, if nothing but a means to a mutual 'happy ending.'

x x x

Following his extensive (as possible) data collection about the new nightshade, Owen had decided that his property wasn't currently a safe area for him to be. The plant was producing too much pollen at this stage. The air around his bungalow was likely teeming with it. After waiting for the wind to change directions, he'd quickly retrieved some clothing and necessities from his place then immediately taken a shower and washed the clothes at Barry's, where he was currently staying. On the couch. Again. Dealing with unresolved thoughts and emotions about Claire Dearing. Again. His interaction with her earlier that day had not gone as planned, and he couldn't sleep.

Owen desperately wanted another chance to prove that he was a good guy, not a nymphomaniac who didn't know how to respect a woman. He'd taken what he felt was an appropriate amount of time to let her anger cool and the effects of the pollen to wear off before he'd shown up at her office. Seeing the plant on Claire's desk was completely unexpected. Was a botanist trying to woo her? Or worse, take advantage of her? He shuddered at the thought of her falling into another man's arms due to that damn plant.

To prevent his mind from falling down a rabbit hole of worry, he took out his phone to scroll through the latest sports scores. As if on cue, he received a text message from Claire, I found your shirt. Owen hesitated to respond, not sure where his quick exit from her office left them. She hadn't actually accepted his offer of a second date. And, why would she after he hightailed it out of there? He was mortified and wondered if he'd ever to be able to face her again.

Her follow-up message broke him out of his anxious thoughts, Do you want it back?

He hated not being able to discuss this in person or over the phone - texting was very limited in terms of effective communication - but he decided to be flirty and wrote, Are you offering to bring it over?

Her next message elicited a loud gasp from Owen. He also dropped the phone onto his face. Picking it up, his eyes blinked rapidly in disbelief. It was a selfie of her in bed, wearing his shirt, with the comment, Come over here and take it off me. The photo was just short of pornographic - her creamy white skin and the curve of one of her breasts clearly visible - due to a few missing buttons. He groaned at the remembrance of the hurried removal of his shirt at her apartment. His behavior that night had included so many terrible cliches. Refocusing on the picture, however, Owen felt very hot and bothered while at the same time questioning whether this was for real or if Claire was simply under the spell of the pollen. After all, she'd been in the presence of the plant in her office for God knows how long, and his shirt would've been coated in its pollen, too.

Still ruminating on an acceptable response, Owen received another photo from her. This time, one of her hands was opening the remaining buttons on the shirt. An erect nipple seemed to be taunting him through the thin, light-colored fabric. The accompanying text read, Don't make me do this all by myself. His mouth went dry, and he felt paralyzed. A third picture appeared on his screen, the buttons completely undone and her hand the only thing holding the shirt together, with the statement, I'll leave the opening to you. The lushness of her breast and the pink color of her nipple were now displayed through the fabric of his shirt being pulled taut against her.

Although he was seriously turned on by the escalating series of photos, he took them as confirmation that Claire was under the influence of the pollen. It was possible that she even took the potted plant home. If so, going to her apartment wouldn't be a safe area for them to talk about the plant… would it be safe, regardless? He did need to talk to her about this, but could he honestly fend her off in this state?

His lust abruptly transitioned to sadness at the realization that he couldn't interpret her sentiments as genuine. To add insult to injury, he felt guilty about seemingly using 'Love Potion #9' on her. Biting his tongue in frustration, he switched off his phone. He wouldn't sleep well tonight, regardless, but staring at her photos any longer wouldn't improve things for him. He refused to take advantage of her, even if she lacked awareness of this choice.

I hope you don't feel too teased by this "cliffhanger." (I promise fun times ahead.) Please leave a review to let me know how you think this story is evolving.

Endless thanks to my beta and friend, akaJB, who's posting awesome stories of her own + co-writing The Missing Years with me under the author name EliseCollier-akaJB.