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“And you’re right, one could argue that romance will fade. But. . .” she points a butter knife at me, “if a person is thoughtful, that sticks. Doesn’t that matter more? Just because someone is good at being sappy or thinking up romantic gestures, that doesn’t mean they’re worthy of your love.” She levels my gaze. “And just because they aren’t good at those things doesn’t mean they aren’t.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why do I feel you’re not speaking hypothetically anymore?”
She holds up her hands and feigns innocence. “Did I mention any names?”
“Somehow I don’t think you’re talking about the guy I went on the date with.”
Mom flicks a hand in the air. “No, Peggy said he’s a snooze fest. She and Meg have another match in mind for you.” Mom waggles her eyebrows and shimmies her shoulders.
“This is about Owen,” I say. Even mentioning his name makes my insides flutter.
“If you want it to be.” She serves me a surprise slice of the corn bread—which is the best kind of corn bread. “Here, this should tide you over.”
“I don’t want it to be,” I lie. “Owen is a good guy. He’s just not my guy.”
“Because he’s not romantic enough?” Mom asks dryly.
“No, because we’re just. . .wrong for each other.” I take a bite. I swear I could eat this whole pan. “But yeah, maybe because he’s not romantic. I mean, I love romance. What’s wrong with waiting for someone who gets that?”
“Nothing.” Mom takes a bite of her own piece of bread. “If you don’t mind waiting forever.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re not very encouraging.”
“What? I like him. He’s grown up. He saved your life. He’s a good guy now.”
“He was always a good guy,” I tell her. “Just really misunderstood.”
“Fine,” she says. “Though I’m sure we can say Owen is at least a little romantic. He did buy you your favorite flowers.” She nods at the vase of sunflowers, which have been moved from the living room into the kitchen.
“Those were not from Owen,” I say, taking another bite. “They were from my date. Chad. He left them on the seat of my car.”
She goes still. “Those flowers are from Owen Larrabee.”
Now I freeze. “No, they are not.”
She tilts her head down at me. “Honey, yes they are.”
“How would you know something like that? You weren’t even in town.”
“How do you think?” Mom walks back over to the chili and stirs. “Peggy told me. Meg was in the flower shop when he came in. She works there now. She tried grilling Owen to find out who he was buying them for, but he was very tightlipped about the whole thing.”
I frown. “That tracks.”
Owen bought me flowers? And not just any flowers—sunflowers. But then, how did they even get in my car?
“He is the only person who bought sunflowers that day. Peggy made sure of it.”
I pause, but eventually wave her off. “That’s a nice theory, Mom, but Owen really does not think of me that way. And he certainly doesn’t buy flowers.”
I think of the way he looked when he brought the vase into the living room yesterday when I was sick on the couch. He seemed happy when I told him they were my favorite flower.
“Are you sure?” Mom asks. “Because it was also awfully nice of him to organize a whole day to help you with the cleanup in your house. And Susannah told me he bought you chicken soup yesterday when you were sick. I saw it in the refrigerator.”
“He was being friendly.”
“He was being thoughtful.” She nods. “And I don’t know about you, but to me, that reads a lot like romance.”
My dad walks through the door, takes a deep breath and smiles. “Chili!”
