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“Comfort food, Em. It’s the good stuff.”
There’s a basket of bread on the counter, and I go to pick it up at the same time Owen grabs the basket from the other side.
I have a scene flash in my mind from Lady and the Tramp, only it’s Owen and me eating the opposite ends of a dinner roll.
I think something might actually be wrong with me.
“I thought I’d help,” he says.
“Oh! It’s okay,” I say, my hand still clutching the basket as if it is the only thing keeping me from collapsing into a pile on the floor. “I got it.”
After all, hasn’t he done enough? I mean, he did save my life and everything.
He lets go and smiles as we make our way to the dining room. I see that the only two chairs left are right across from each other.
I freeze in place like a giant block of cement, and Owen steps forward and pulls out the chair next to Mack, motioning for me to sit down.
It’s a simple, old-fashioned gesture that catches me off-guard. How am I supposed to keep my feelings in check if he’s going to do things like that?
Mack grabs my arm. “Here, sit.”
As I do, Owen slips the chair in closer to the table, and then takes the seat directly across from me.
Which means every time I look up, I’m going to get an eyeful of Owen.
Great.
In The Sweeter Side of Beeville, Texas, an overwrought Amish romance by Jordan Wynter, the heroine Sarah Sutter (a beautiful but restless girl, also a talented baker) tries to bring the hero, Jarmuth Hartzler, back into the spiritual fold by recreating all of his late mother’s recipes.
Unfortunately, with the first recipe in the tattered, hand-bound book—that would be Mara Hartzler’s Friendship Bread—she accidentally includes chopped nuts, to which ol’ Jarmuth is severely allergic.
Wacky Amish hijinks ensue, and his face puffs up like a chipmunk trying to eat a grapefruit.
Please, Oh Lord of the Amish People, don’t let this be like that.
Chapter Thirteen
Owen
Why am I here again?
I’m sitting at the table wondering just that, listening to my parents talk to Emmy’s parents and noticing that Emmy is doing her level best to avoid making eye contact with me.
It’s comical. I look up and she looks away.
I tried to clear the air with her yesterday. I thought it needed to be said, to make sure things weren’t weird. Even though actually saying anything never comes easily to me.
She shut me down. Fast. Message received.
The way I see it, two things can happen: 1. we have an honest conversation about the day I left, figure stuff out, and move on, or 2. we spend the rest of our lives avoiding each other.
Like she’s doing right now.
There’s a lull in the conversation and Emmy’s dad, Rob, who is sitting at the end of the table, sets his fork down and picks up his glass of water. “So, Owen. . .”
He pauses, as if waiting for the attention of the room, which I hate to say, he has.
“Back in Harvest Hollow.”
