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My friend—who should absolutely know better—goes in for an embrace, but Grammy wraps one arm about his back, patting until it’s sure to leave a mark.
Owen coughs a little, a hand on his chest.
“Are you getting sick?” she asks him, and I can’t help but smile at the two of them.
“No. Not sick. Just—” Owen trails off, shaking his head and looking at me for help.
“He’s fine, Grammy. Let him sit before his waffle gets cold.”
“Bah.Waffle. Waffles are for syrup hoarders. Pancakes are for real breakfast men.”
Owen lifts one shoulder. “I guess I’m a syrup hoarder.”
My lips twitch with his honest answer for me and Grammy. I never wanted Owen to agree with me blindly. I’m glad he’s over that fifteen-year bad habit.
“No butter syrup for you,” she tells him with a wag of her finger.
“Understandable,” he says.
“You’d hoard every last bit of it, and butter syrup does not grow on trees!”
“Grammy, he says he understands. Can you give us a minute?”
Grammy scoffs and throws her hands in the air before marching through her swinging door back into the kitchen.
I breathe out. Willing myself to be true to my feelings and not to my fears. “Thank you for the flowers and the shoes.”
Owen grins. “Did you like them? Miles painted them for me.”
“Miles.” I grin. “I should have known.” I swallow and peer up, finding Owen’s pretty blue eyes. “So, here is my in-person acceptance. Yes, Owen, I’ll go with you.”
“Perfect. Friday at six? Wear your shoes.”
“Where are we going?”
Owen reaches out and picks up my hand. It’s not like I haven’t held Owen’s hand before. I have—many times. But now, jolts of electricity might as well be running through my body each and every time he touches me. “I might keep that a surprise. If you don’t mind.”
I sigh and shake my head. “This is strange, O.”
“Good strange or bad strange?”
I swallow. As I might be cursed to never fall in love, I’d have to say bad, even if it feels so very good at this moment. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Bah!” Grammy barks from the kitchen doorway. “No.” She shakes her little gray head, one hand on her hip and one finger pointed out accusatory at Owen and me.
Owen blinks over at my grammy.
“No!” She storms over and slaps Owen’s hand that holds onto mine. Then, glaring at me, she says, “I told you, marry the boy or leave him be.”
“Well, she can’t leave me be,” Owen says—to my grammy!
I twist my hand in his, then pinch at the tender skin between his thumb and pointer finger. Owen yanks away from me, his knees knocking into the bottom of the table.
“Ow,” he says, shaking out his hand. I’m not sure if he’s laughing or in pain—maybe both.
“He’s just being silly, Grammy.” I shoot a glare at Owen, but he’s too busy chuckling to see my killer stare down.
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