Owen returns to the kitchen in jeans, a loose fitting T-shirt, and the sling wrapped over his shoulder to support his healing arm. “Brooke,” he sighs and picks up my freshly manicured hand, running his thumb over the rock on my finger. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but we arereallymarried. I have the ring and the certificate to prove it.”
“You know what I mean, Owen. We can’t lie… to a pastor.”
“Sweetheart,” he says, pulling me up from the stool to stand against his chest. “Wife… Mrs. Jones… Who’s lying?” The self-satisfied smirk this husband of mine wears has me almost believing his words. In fact, as Owen holds my ring hand curled between us, resting on his pecs, and my eyes narrow in on the intensity of his, the sharp line of his jaw, the jut of his tongue quickly wetting his lips… I’m having a difficult time forgetting that we aren’t doing this for real.
I’dreallylike to kiss him. On the mouth.
And then his phone rings, followed immediately by the door bell, startling us both.
Owen grins, ear to ear, like the cat who caught the canary wanting to make out with him and places a kiss on my knuckles like a sexy consolation prize. “You get the phone. I’ll get the door.”
I slump my way over to the counter where Owen’s phone lies face up and the name, Erin Cruz, flashes across the screen.
And, forgive me, but that is a girl’s name, right? Erin is definitely the female spelling of this particular name. It’s not Aaron or Aeron or any version that could possibly be male. I know the flicker of annoyance I have at the mere thought of a woman calling Owen’s phone means I should leave this for him to answer, but he’s very busy greeting Evan and his wife, Blaire, and hedidsay I should get the phone. So I slip my finger up the screen and answer.
“Hello?” I say with all the sweetness of a villain selling poison to a princess.
“Oh, hi. This is Erin Cruz,” the mystery woman answers in a sultry voice with an exotic accent. I imagine her sipping a cocktail in a deep red dress and matching lipstick, hoping for a night out on the town with my husband.
And, whoa, am I feeling territorial all of sudden. I blame Gretchen.
That looney little monster is also probably why, when Ms. Erin Cruz, sexy Latina caller, says, “I was hoping to speak with Owen Jones,” I say, “This is his wife. How can I help you?”
Erin Cruz has the audacity to chuckle into the receiver. And, man, she just sounds so cool and pretty. I’m deflating by the second.
Of course, Owen has beautiful women calling him. Why shouldn’t he? A month ago, I was dating someone else. I didn’t love him or enjoy my time with him all that much, hence the reason it was time to cut things off, but Owen and I haven’t talked about who he might have been dating. He usually doesn’t date much, at all, especially during baseball season, but he isn’t exactly playing baseball right now.
I know I’m spiraling and in serious danger of having an ill-timed emotional breakdown, but I didn’t expect the rush of feelings to hit me at the mere idea of another woman in Owen’s life. It was always a distant possibility I tried very hard not tothink about. And now I’m wondering if Owen has ever felt this way about me?
Does it absolutely wreck him to think of me withWolverineorPinky, the guy before him, or theBrain,the guy before that? How foolish have I been in thinking that I could distract myself with men that don’t compare to the real thing—to what I feel with Owen—only to have possibly made him feel even a fraction of how I feel right now? It’s not fair for me to deny Owen a possible future with what I’m assuming is a sweet woman, or any other woman, if that’s what he might want for himself.
“Ummm…” I stutter, voice shaky. “Actually, I’m so sorry. I’ll just get him for you right now. Hold on for a minute please.”
“Owen,” I grab his attention, clearing my throat and the hint of emotion building there. “Someone needs to talk to you. Erin… Erin Cruz.”
He pauses his conversation with the Lovetts and rushes over, kissing my temple as he takes the phone. “Hey, Erin,” he greets her, stepping away from the kitchen to speak.
I say hello to Blaire, who’s been an acquaintance for a while now. She’s bubbly and outgoing and has insane energy for a woman who has twin toddlers running around, but I barely register anything she says as I overhear blips of Owen’s conversation.
“Yeah, I’m just not interested right now.”
“Maybe in the future.”
“I’ll be in touch if anything changes.”
If this morning, I was a red balloon, floating on the high of this unexpected life-turn with my best friend, it’s safe to say I’ve now popped.
Owen returns, threading his fingers with mine like he wasn’t just brushing off another woman until something changes—not that I blame him—and I’m pulled back to the conversation with our pastor.
“Well, I have to say,” Blaire proclaims in her sweet, Southern drawl, as Owen guides me to the living room couch, leading the others to follow. “I totally lost the bet I had with the Lovett girls about you two.”
“Is that so?” Owen chuckles, pulling me next to him on the couch and wrapping his arm around my shoulders.
“Oh man, the way I’ve had to hear about this since your surprise engagement at Tots,” Evan says, smacking Owen good naturedly on his good shoulder before finding a spot on the loveseat across from us. “Blaire was convinced you two were just friends. Until she got that text from your sister.”
“Well, she wasn’t wrong.” Owen turns to me, a secret smile playing on his lips. I swear my heart aches. Is that what we still are? Just friends? Is that what I want us to be? “Brooke’s my best friend,” he declares to the room but doesn’t take his eyes off me.
Blaire slaps her husband in the chest and audibly awws. “You see the way they look at each other, honey? They’re positively smitten. Let’s get started so we can dig into this little lovefest.”
