Chapter Twenty-One
Moonlight filled the private garden, casting the red roses into an inky black shade and the white ones blue. A large fountain bubbled happily, tinkling water over the copper wishes lying at the bottom. If Owen had just one wish, he would wish for a night exactly like tonight.
Bree held on to his arm and leaned against him as they walked along the soft pathway. She’d removed her wedges, complaining that her feet were killing her, and now walked barefoot. He quite liked her tiny feet; they were pretty and delicate and the exact opposite of his big clunkers. Her black lace shirt scooped low over her neckline and teased him by defying the law of gravity and staying on her shoulder when it so obviously wanted to slip right off. She didn’t have to adjust it or anything. It just stayed there, perfectly tantalizing.
They’d had dinner at a quiet place in the next town over. Italian food. Gourmet. Delicious. Bree was animated all through the meal, telling him about a boy, Brax, who had come in for a book a couple weeks ago and just brought it back, asking for another by the same author. She was thrilled that he’d finished the on-grade reading, and the fact that he asked for more had her over the moon. She had every right to be pleased—she was making a difference in this boy’s life. Owen was so proud of her, proud to be her man.
And he was falling for her. Harder and faster than he’d ever thought possible. He’d heard other guys say things like, “When you know she’s the one, you just know,” and “There’s no time limit on falling for someone. It just happens.” He’d thought they were full of it. Twitterpated fools, the lot of them.
He was the fool.
“Owen?” Bree’s voice was soft, like the velvet rose petals around them. “My mom invited us to Sunday dinner.”
He prickled. “I thought we were going to wait to do the whole family thing.”
“You can say no.” Her words said one thing, but her stiff posture said another.
Owen’s whole person wanted to protect Bree from sadness and disappointment. He especially didn’t want to be the cause for either of those feelings. “Okay.” He ran his hand down his beard, wishing he could smooth out the troubled waters in his soul as easily as he could smooth his facial hair.
“Really?”
He swallowed the shards of glass that had appeared in his throat. “Really.”
She hugged his side and then jumped, throwing her arms around his neck. He grinned, holding her up with one arm so he could trace her lips with is free hand. Her soft brown eyes brimmed with happiness, and he struggled with the regret already building inside.
He was in this too far to pull out, and that was scary, because it meant that he was in far enough to be hurt—badly. Bree was such a small thing, but she packed a powerful punch right to his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Bree’s nerves tingled like a live fuse as she showed Owen into her mother’s house. “So this is where I grew up.” She waved at what her mother had always called the formal greeting room. Really, it was supposed to be a piano room, but neither of them had musical talent. The matching gray sofa and recliner were for reading. Young Bree could have read anywhere in the house and have silence, but she would camp out on that lumpy sofa while she waited for Mom to come home from work.
“It’s nice.” Owen shed his light jacket and hung it over the arm of the recliner. The room shrank with him inside.
“Bree?” Mom called from the kitchen.
“We’re here.” Bree pressed her fingertips together.
“Come on back.”
Owen reached for Bree’s hand. She hesitated. They’d been dating heavily for about a month, but Mom didn’t know that and Bree didn’t go for public displays of affection. Usually. With Owen, everything was different—in so many good ways. That’s what she needed to focus on, and so she slipped her hand into his and pulled him around the corner and into the tiny kitchen.
The galley had room for two people tops, so she headed to the other side of the bar and settled onto a stool so she could face her mom. Owen sat beside her, but angled towards her and not the kitchen. Their hands hung linked together between them.
Mom smiled up at them, her hands covered in flour and dough. In front of her was a lump that would soon be fresh rolls.
“Mom, this is Owen. Owen, this is my mom, Doris.”
Owen smiled carefully. “We met at the expo. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”
“You too.” Mom’s smile was guarded. She took in their clasped hands. “I’m sorry about the mess. I’m a little behind.”
“No worries.”
Their less than enthusiastic greeting made Bree’s blood pressure hike up. Her fantasies of the two of them becoming fast friends were evaporating quickly as Owen cleared his throat and glanced around the room. Mom stared at the dough as she kneaded.
“What are you making?” Bree asked.
“Rolls.” Finished with the kneading process, Mom ripped the dough into small balls and placed them in a prepared dish.
