Her forehead puckered with concern as she headed for the garbage can, already overflowing with paper cups. “It feels like a waste.”
“It wasn’t. You got your money.”
“I should give you a refund for the damaged goods.”
“Bree. It’s fine.” People didn’t usually argue with him.
“You don’t have to get all snappy.”
“You’re being unreasonable.”
Behind her glasses, her eyes narrowed a fraction.
Owen braced. When a lineman’s eyes narrowed, it meant they were preparing for a charge. “Go out with me,” he blurted to subvert an argument.
Her expression morphed from attack mode to exasperation.
“As a friend,” he amended. “I mean, let’s hang out.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” She stomped back to the table and began rearranging the brownies that hadn’t been flattened by polka enthusiasts.
“It would make up for the brownies.”
“I thought it wasfine.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Whatever.”
“Great.” He thrust his phone at her, purposefully misinterpreting her “whatever” to mean yes. “Put your number in there.”
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she muttered. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard and she handed it back to him. “There. I’m leaving. Enjoy the brownies.”
“I’ll text you,” he called to her retreating figure. With a sigh, he glanced at the screen to make sure she’d added her contact information, and barked a laugh.
“What’s so funny?” asked Kyle as he moseyed on over without Tiffany’s friend on his arm. The corners of his eyes were tight and he had that look that said he’d been away from the computer for too long.
Owen flipped his phone around so Kyle could read it. “Read the name.”
“Mathilda Frankenspiel?”
“Yeah.” He hit save and slipped his phone in his shirt pocket. Bree was funny. And smart. And she’d remembered their conversation from the Dairy Queen. Maybe she’d even replayed it in her head like he did over and over at night. “Let’s go.”
“Really?” Kyle was too hopeful. For all his talk about getting Owen out for social interaction, the man was as much of a hermit as Owen. Having said that, what made Kyle a great friend was that he cared enough to clean up and be a wingman. Or was Owen supposed to be the wingman?
Owen surveyed the room. The only woman he’d care to spend any time with had just walked out the door. “Yep. I’m done here.”
Chapter Eight
The day after polka night, Bree hummed an upbeat accordion tune as she shelved books. Her flowered skirt swished around her calves and her hips swayed.
Last night was a conundrum. She’d been to polka night every other Wednesday for over two months. Some nights she made enough money to buy the next round of prizes, and some nights she collected enough to pay for ingredients. However, she’d never sold out. With sixty dollars, she could afford mini puzzle books or reading lights. Kids loved reading lights. It allowed them to read after bedtime. Reading after bedtime was a sweet luxury wrapped up in rebellion.
In all the nights she’d spent behind the fundraising table, she’d never once been asked to dance. Not that she would have said yes. She wasn’t kidding when she said she couldn’t dance. The only reason she was remotely competent with Owen was because she’d actively observed the participants on a regular basis. And even then, she’d tripped Owen into the table. She wasn’t sure he knew it was her fault. He’d pulled her closer and her hormones exploded like flares. Pow—whooooo-pop-crackle. Her foot landed between his and they both went backwards.
And then he’d held her to his chest. Close to his chest. They’d shared body heat.
Which was so wrong for her to enjoy as much as she did. It was wrong. Wasn’t it?
