My mom walks in just in time to hear the last part. "Just one of those days, huh?" she asks.
"Yep," Owen agrees, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his navy-blue slacks. She turns her back and he sends me a meaningful glance.
I purse my lips and look down at my toes, painted a bright red.
"Owen, I'm surprised my hard-ass daughter let you come for dinner on a day that doesn't start with anM." Mom looks at me and laughs. "You must've worn her down on your date last night."
Boy, did he wear me down. Heat creeps up my cheeks as I fantasize about him wearing me down again and again.
Owen cocks his head toward me, amusement dancing in his eyes. "She took some convincing, but I was able to show her I'm worthy of friendship."
"Good," she says, patting his cheek as she passes him. "Come on into the kitchen and help with dinner."
We both walk behind her, and Owen reaches down, grabbing a handful of my backside and squeezing. I send him a coy look and shimmy out of his grasp with a grin.
Vegetable and chicken enchiladas are on the menu tonight. Owen chops onions, pretending to cry, and says, "I don't cook much. It's not very fun to prepare dinner for one."
"Tell me about it," my mom says, acknowledging his plight.
"I didn't cook much until I came here," I say, dicing zucchini. "I was a sandwich pro."
"Now you're little miss healthy chef," my mom says, her tone good-natured. She bumps my hip with her own.
"It's fun," I concede, watching Owen use his knife to push the onions from the cutting board into the pan. They sizzle on their way in.
"I'm pretty happy to have you here," Mom says to Owen.
Owen eyes me. "Me too."
I make it a point not to look at him, but my insides heat up at his words.
We finish assembling the enchiladas, sliding the pan into the oven and setting the timer.
"I think I'll take a short siesta while those are cooking," my mom says, yawning for emphasis. She twirls her fingers at us and leaves the kitchen.
I glance at Owen. His eyes are already on me.
"Well?" I ask.
"Well?" he counters.
"We could sit in the back yard and have a glass of wine? Or a beer? I bought beer." I'd stopped by the store on the way home from Mom's chemo and picked up a few items for dinner, grabbing beer for Owen in case he wanted one.
"A beer sounds great, actually."
I pull two from the fridge and open them, handing one to Owen. He leads the way outdoors, to the covered seating area.
We settle in, close but not too close. A safe distance, afriendlydistance. Because, I have no idea if last night was a fluke, or something we will be repeating anytime soon.
"How was your day?" I ask, toying with one of the dangly earrings I'd threaded through my ears before he arrived.
"Good, actually." He nods happily, running a thumb across the skin between his nose and upper lip. "I got to tell a patient they're officially in remission."
His eyes light up as he says it, and he has this look on his face, almost a reluctant pride. Because he doesn't think he deserves praise or because he knows a relapse is possible?
"Congratulations, Owen. You deserve a win."
He smiles sheepishly. "Now let's get a homerun for your mom too. For the third time. She looks good. I'm hopeful."
