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“Was it?”
I play the words over in my mind, certain he wrote them. He used my own words, how could it not be Owen?
Dear Ask Annie,
Second date means first kiss. Any pointers?
Sincerely,
Where’s The Kiss Cam
“I wasn’t sure I’d get a reply,” he says with a chuckle.
“Not one that I’ll be printing, that’s for sure.” I did write him back—just this morning. I didn’t know what to say to him. It took me some time. I was so sure that after date number one, he’d be past all this. But instead, he’s more certain than ever, and I am a bumbling, confused idiot. In my defense, when I assured him that the first kiss was a second date occurrence, I didn’t think we’d be going on one.
Owen walks through his semi-bare living room and into the galley kitchen. He lifts the lid to a bubbling pot and stirs with a wooden spoon.
“I thought you gave stout advice.”
I hug the bag of Mountain Grove coffee grounds to my chest and hope he keeps the advice in his head.
He doesn’t.
Because my favorite person in all the world has decided now is a great time to torture Annie.
“As long as the mood is right, kiss away,” he says, quoting my letter. My letter that clearly stated pay attention to the mood—tohermood, to his mood.
I don’t plan to be in a kissing mood tonight.
I clear my throat. “Here,” I say, not caring that Owen is stirring his pot of homemade red sauce. “I brought this for you.”
He grunts as I push the bag of gourmet coffee grounds into his chest. I set my hands to my hips, feeling as if my jeans are a tad too tight. I need to breathe. I should have worn stretchy pants. And maybe not eaten that entire bag of Chips Ahoy.
“Ah, thanks.”
“You bet. Can I help?” I open up his cupboard—I know where the paper plates are hidden in this house.
He pauses, nodding to where the galley opens up to an eating area. There are plates—real ones—already on the table, along with wine goblets, actual metal silverware, and long white candle sticks, already lit.
“Oh.” I scratch behind one ear. He’s written the book of Genesis on creating the right mood.
Owen Bailey!
“Can you turn on some music?” He nods toward his cell and speaker on the end of the counter.
“Music?” I smile.Perfect. Nothing kills candlelight like a little Weird Al. “You bet.”
I pick up Owen’s cell, tapping in his security code—realizingfor the first time it’s his birthday month and day—and then mine. I gulp, my eyes darting up to where Owen is pulling breaded chicken from the oven. And then I search through his music app in the artist’s section. I pass by Cold Play and Taylor, and since Weird Al isn’t an option, I skip right over to Queen. I start with a classic. Who could complain?We Will Rock Youbooms from the small but powerful speaker that sits on Owen’s window seal.
His head swivels my way, one brow quirked.
Okay, maybe Owen could complain.
But then, he grins and shakes his head.
I nod my head to the beat, walking around Owen’s carefully laid table. When Freddie belts the chorus, I blow out one of the candles, then join in on the singing.
I’m so busy singing and nodding and not feeling swooned that I don’t even notice when Owen walks up behind me, lighter in hand. He lights back up the one smoking candle. Then he sets a hand on my back, leading me to one of the two empty chairs at this candlelit table. There’s a platter of chicken parmesan in front of me and one sitting across from me for Owen.
