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His thick brows lower. “Uh, well, they might not be my favorite.”
“Okay, but—”
“If you’re going to make something of this, Owen, you have to be honest,” Levi says, talking over me.
Owen swallows. “You’re right,” he says in a low voice, more to himself than to me. “Annie, I don’t like the Cowboys. At all. In fact, I think they’re overrated and uncreative when it comes to defense.”
My mouth falls open. I can’t stop my jaw from dropping. It’s like the hinges have broken, and my mouth is left an open gaping tunnel. My heart thunders in my chest. “Overrated?” I squeak. “But you wear that jersey—”
“I wear the jersey because you spent a month’s worth of tipmoney on it back in twelfth grade. And every time they play, you tell me to bust out the jersey.” His head dips to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry. It was such a thoughtful gift, I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
I lift my head to meet his eyes straight on. “What else?”
His brows furrow as if he doesn’t understand.
I find strength and use my full voice. “How else have you not wanted to disappoint me?”
“French fries,” Levi spouts.
“Levi,” Owen growls—it’s a rare thing to hear Owen Bailey speak so ill-tempered to anyone. And normally, I would have adored hearing him talk to Levi that way.
“You don’t like French fries?” I ask. We share French fries all the time.
“No, I like French fries,” Owen says, his eyes back on me.
Levi lets out a sigh. “Well, my work here is done. See you guys later.” With a salute, he ends the call.
“What a jack—”
“I completely agree. He’s an idiot,” Owen says. “I’m sorry, Annie. I never meant to be dishonest with you. That was never my intention. I enjoy watching the Cowboys play with you—becauseyoulike them so much. And I mean, come on, it’s still football.”
“Get back to French fries.”
Owen clears his throat, his eyes dropping to the floor for a second. “Uh, the whole head of the fry, butt of the fry—to me, it makes no difference.”
“But we did an experiment back in ninth grade! You agreed with me. The head of the fry is so much better than the butt of the fry.” My eyes are wide, and for a second, I’m wondering if I even know this man.
“They taste the same. And how do you decide which end is the butt and which is the head? That makes no sense.”
I stand, hands on hips, and pace in front of my coffee table. “So… so… so… you just agree with me? Like some spoiled child who always needs to get their way. Am I a spoiled child?” I stop and stare, blinking Owen in and out of view.
“No,” he says, standing up. “You are not a spoiled child. Those were my mistakes, not yours. I should have been honest.”
“Why weren’t you? Am I so difficult?”
Owen scoops a warm hand beneath my hair and to the side of my cheek, holding me there. His sea blue eyes peer into mine. “No. You aren’t difficult. If anything, it’s the opposite. You get so excited, so enthusiastic about things.” He smiles, his eyes sturdy on mine. “And I love that. I don’t want to burst that bubble simply because we don’t agree.”
I glare, unconvinced and unimpressed.
“But I’ll burst it from now on if that’s what you want. One hundred percent honesty from now on. You have my word. And while I’m bursting, I have to tell you, I don’t like rap music—”
I squeak. I bought him those tickets to see Eminem two years ago. What a lousy birthday gift.
“I don’t like purple at all—which you knew. I did tell you that, sort of. I know you’ve been planning a bungee jumping trip for us, and while I’m not opposed to trying new things, it isn’t something I’ve ever wanted to do.” He breathes out like he’s just unloaded a fifty-pound weight from his back. But he isn’t done. “Oh, and I think that Elsie’s waffles are a million times better than her pancakes.”
I can’t help the shrill breath I pull in with his last confession. “No! We agreed. We stood up to Coop and Miles! We used a Google slide presentation telling them why her pancakes are superior!”
“Yes. We did. Because I love you, Annie Archer. And I’d pretty much follow you to the ends of the earth. Even if you’re wrong about Elsie’s waffles.”
