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I glance at Owen’s hand. It’s a good ten feet away, but I could maybe trip or something, subtly slide over there. . .
Stop it.
Must. Stay. Grounded.
I’m half-hearing Owen talk to Ed, the questions he asks, the way he seems intent on ensuring my safety and my comfort. . .
My mother was right about his thoughtfulness.
It’s in a romantic class all its own.
By the time we finish the walk-through, I realize I have no idea what’s been done in my house, only that it’s looking better, and I can move back in soon and, thanks to Owen, I have every confidence it will be safe.
When we’ve finished, Owen walks Ed to the door, like he’s the one who owns this house, and darn if I don’t love it. I hang back in the living room, trying to find something to occupy myself when all I really want to do is stare at Owen.
My plan to put him out of my mind is failing, and I’m not even sure I care anymore.
He closes the door behind Ed and turns to me.
“Hey.” He points to my hands.
Yes, I’ll hold your hand.
I clear my throat. “What?”
He smiles. “No fists. No panic. You’re back here and you’re okay.”
I didn’t even realize it.
“Yeah. It’s. . .it’s better. Helps that it doesn’t smell like smoke anymore,” I half-heartedly laugh.
He looks at me intently. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”
“It’s a process.” I shift under the weight of his gaze. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know,” I say. “I could’ve figured it out.”
He quirks a brow. “How much of that conversation did you listen to?”
I look away, shrugging like a kid at the front of the class faking her way through a report on a book she didn’t read.
He chuckles. “Yeah, I thought so. It’s a lot, and I’m happy to do it. I want to make sure they’re doing everything to make the house safe again.”
“But why?” The words are out before I can stop them. “I mean. . .” oh, boy “. . .why do you care?”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down.
I’m expecting a shrug and a grunt, but he looks back up at me.
“Because it’s you, Emmy.”
That phrase cartwheels straight into my heart.
Even though I know he doesn’t mean for it to, it sounds like he’s saying it’s me. As in it’s me who he loves. Me who he wants. Me who he can’t live without.
“I mean, I care about you, that you’re. . .you know, safe.” And it’s a good thing he clarifies that because I had us on the way to the altar.
“Thank you, Owen. It’s really nice of you,” I say. “You’re a. . .” why am I saying this? “A great friend.”
He goes still. And then he takes his hands out of his pockets and walks over to me. He stands there, just looking at me, as if trying to find something to say and failing.
