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And I’m doing a horrible job of it.
Chapter Nineteen
Owen
I see a light on.
An hour later, as I’m walking out of DeLucca’s and heading toward my parked truck, I notice a light in Emmy’s shop down the block.
I stand on the sidewalk for a few long seconds.
I should just go home, but something about that light draws me in.
And maybe I want to prove to myself that Lindsay is way off base about me and Emmy. I need to make sure it’s clear—not to Emmy, but to me—that we are just friends.
I walk toward the shop, and when I see her inside, alone, moving around in the shadows, I almost turn and walk away.
But then, she glances up and sees me standing there. I probably look like a creep. I lift my hand in a wave. She waves back, then comes around the counter and opens the door. She stands in front of it and looks at me.
“Hey! What are you doing here?”
Great question.
“Is, uh, Mack still here?”
Emmy leans against the door and shakes her head. “No, she just went home.” I tell myself that it doesn’t mean anything that I’m thinking about how pretty she looks in the dim light of the streetlamp overhead. It’s a perfectly natural thing to think about any woman. Emmy’s always cute, but sometimes, like right now, it’s more than that.
Sometimes, she’s downright beautiful.
Why have I never noticed that before?
“What are you still doing here?” I ask.
“I wasn’t tired, so I thought I’d get a head start on the baking for tomorrow,” she says. “Plus, I was hungry because we really didn’t eat, so. . .”
“Yeah. I’m so sorry about that, didn’t mean—”
She holds up her hands. “No worries. It’s fine.” She shoots a thumb over her shoulder. “Pecan braid. Twenty-three seconds in the microwave.”
I wonder if it’s more than that. I glance down at her other hand, relaxed at her side, and I hope the trauma of the fire isn’t what’s keeping her up late.
I stuff my own hands in my pockets, feeling like I shouldn’t be standing here.
“Do you want to come in? I just baked some pumpkin spice cupcakes.”
“Cream cheese frosting?”
“As if there’s another kind.” She smiles and steps back inside, leaving the door open behind her. With Lindsay’s accusations rolling around in my mind, being here almost feels exciting.
I remind myself I’m here to prove her wrong, but so far, it’s not working. All it’s doing is reminding me how much Emmy meant to me all those years ago.
But I never, ever thought of her as anything more than a friend.
That hasn’t changed. Even if a part of me can acknowledge that she’s beautiful.
“Sit,” she says. “I need you to be my taste tester.”
Before I obey, I glance at her display case. There are leftover pastries from yesterday inside, and my eyes scan through what she has to offer. “You’ve got oatmeal butterscotch.”
