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“Does she know where we’re going?” I ask as Owen leads me outside and onto the sidewalk.
“I didn’t tell her,” he says.
“Do you want to say goodbye to her before we go?”
He frowns. “No.” He says this like it’s a silly thing to ask.
I silently approve of his reaction.
He points to a very nice pick-up truck parked a few spaces down the street. He pulls the door open and motions for me to get it. When I do, he closes the door behind me and walks around the front of the truck, giving me a few moments to admire him.
I’ve always known he’s good-looking. Obnoxiously so. He won the genetic lottery, with Henry Cavill’s chin and Matt Bomer’s blue eyes.
But that’s not the reason I fell for him.
The fact that he comes by this naturally with no Photoshop or filter really is unfair. And it’s intimidating, at least for someone like me. With eight years of silence between us, I’m right back to where I was the first time I found Owen at the dock.
Awkward. Shy.
Lindsay, I noticed, had no problem treating him like he was just another guy.
How did she do that?
Who am I kidding? She did that because they are attractiveness equals. I know I’m not in their league.
Owen slips in behind the steering wheel and starts the engine. The cab of the truck fills with a scent that is so very Owen, equal parts sandalwood and juniper.
I’m basically high right now. And Owen is the drug.
I want to stay angry with him for the rest of my life. I should stay angry. If I’m not angry, then I will turn right back into that same lovesick girl I was all those years ago.
Maybe it’s the swirling scents tilting my senses and sensibilities off-kilter, but I do what anyone would do in this particular moment.
I bring up his ex-fiancée.
“It was weird seeing Lindsay again.” I state, keeping my eyes on the road in front of us.
Why must I be like this? What is wrong with me?! I feel, but don’t see, his shrug. “It’s whatever.”
I glance at him. “Are you upset? I’d be upset. I think I am upset.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not upset.”
“Have you guys talked since. . .um. . .”
The stupid questions continue.
“Since she left me at the altar?” he says wryly. “No. Probably for the best. I had no desire to reconnect with her after that.”
Good.
“Sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
He shakes his head as he stops at a red light on Maple Street. “It’s whatever,” he repeats.
All of it? Even the part involving me?
At least I have the good sense not to say that out loud.
