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I nod. “Yes, you bozo. That’s a yes.”
I’m keenly aware he still has my hand in his.
I’m also curious what’s packed in that picnic basket. Picnic baskets aren’t friendly. This isn’t just thoughtful. I can’t help but note there is something decidedly different happening right now.
And it’s like something out of one of my dreams.
He drops my hand and walks over to the basket. “Do you want to sit?”
“Sure.” I move over to the blanket and sit down, setting my own blanket off to the side. I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, facing Owen and trying not to let my questions ruin the moment.
Beside me, Owen sits, pulling the picnic basket over between us. “Before we get into this—” he glances down at the basket. “Can I just say something?”
Every nerve ending in my body is misfiring. My we’re just friends chant has faded into the dark, black void, and I’m left with nothing but growing, burning feelings for this man.
He’s watching me, waiting for my answer, and I don’t even remember the question.
“Emmy?”
I clear my throat. “Yeah, of course. You can say anything.”
He nods but doesn’t speak. It’s almost like he’s working up the courage to say whatever it is that’s on his mind.
What is on his mind?
“Back when we were younger, I never would’ve thought we’d be friends.”
“I’m inclined to agree,” I say, without thinking.
He smiles. “I was. . .” he winces. “Let’s just say I know I was hard to get along with. And hard to get to know.”
I nod. I’m afraid if I speak I’ll scare him off and he won’t keep talking. Or that I’ll roll over and fall out of bed only to discover this is all a dream.
“But I got to know you, and you were, you know, cool.”
I absolutely wasn’t, but okay.
“But. . .I didn’t think of you as anything but, you know—”
“Another little sister,” I say.
“A friend.”
“Right.” He’d said that before. No new information so far. Maybe this is him thanking me for being his friend. That would be just my luck.
“I never saw you as anything else,” he says. “So. . .when you told me about your feelings? On my wedding day?”
I’m transported to those feelings. They’re not far away. “Yeah. I remember.”
“Well. . .” he continues, “when you told me that, it threw me off.”
My face heats at the mention of that stupid confession. “I know, and I’m sorry—”
He reaches over and takes my hand. “No, Emmy, listen.”
I go silent.
I like his hands. He weaves his fingers through mine, and my heart bangs around in my chest like a wild bird in a cage.
