13. Girl Problems
GIRL PROBLEMS
By the time we reach the cafe and Grace pulls into a parking spot, my mild anxiety has escalated into something dangerously close to panic. My palms are damp, my chest tight, my throat so dry I’m not convinced I’ll be able to form a single coherent sentence.
She gives my knee a reassuring squeeze before circling the car to yank the passenger door open.
I let her haul me toward the entrance, well aware my feet wouldn’t have carried me there without intervention.
Somehow, my key finds its way into the lock, and the door opens with a creak, the bell betraying me with a sharp ding.
For a moment, I think my arrival goes unnoticed. The cafe is closed to customers on Sundays, but it’s not unusual for Owen to work a few hours in the kitchen to get a head start on the week. The man wouldn’t know a day off if it bit him in the tight, muscular ass.
My breathy exhale of relief is cut off when he rushes through the swinging door, coming to a screeching halt by the register.
“Fin?” he asks, like his eyes can’t be trusted.
My hopeless heart flutters at what would be an insignificant choice to anyone else, but those three letters have felt sacred since the moment he gave them to me.
Not Finley. Fin.
I swallow the emotion welling in my throat and force it down, trying to drag as many of my nerves with it.
It gathers into a ball of restless energy, and I fight the overwhelming urge to stride toward him and repeat our doomed history all over again.
Only Grace’s presence at my shoulder keeps me rooted in place.
“I thought—” Whatever he was about to say is cut off when Annabelle bursts through the kitchen door and practically launches herself over the counter to get to me.
I barely have time to brace before she collides with my chest. I scoop her up, wrapping my arms around her in a bear hug and burying my face in her hair.
The stakes of the conversation I’m here to have double instantly as it hits me that it’s not just her uncle who’s worked his way under my skin.
I’m not sure I’ll survive losing her either.
“I missed you,” she whispers, like it’s a secret meant only for us. “Owie was sad and grumpy when you were gone.”
My gaze flickers to the man over her shoulder. He looks unusually wary, but he doesn’t look away.
“I was sad and grumpy, too,” I confess, loud enough for him to hear.
A throat clears to my right, and Annabelle leans back in my arms, turning her attention to Grace. Her green eyes—so like her uncle’s—spark, and she scrambles out of my hold in favor of shinier prospects.
“How about Princess Annabelle and I go to the park? Leave these dumb boys to talk it out, yeah?”
That sets her into a flurry of giggles. “Boys are dumb,” she agrees once she gets her laughter under control.
Grace makes quick work of gathering Annabelle’s shoes and coat while Owen and I stand frozen like a pair of dumb boy statues, struggling to hold eye contact for more than a few seconds at a time.
It’s like Grace knows the longer she takes, the less likely I am to follow through.
In fact, while she’s creating a distraction, it would be a great time to bolt.
The moment for escape passes too quickly, however, and before I know it, they’re heading out the door. Grace’s parting whisper, “Try using your words,” reverberates in my head.
Right. Words. Simple.
Open your mouth and speak.
And yet, time stretches until the silence between us grows so awkward that no combination of syllables feels right to break it.
I’m starting to regret not playing along with Grace’s idea to rehearse this on the drive over.
At the very least, we could’ve drafted an opening line.
If this were a romance novel, I’d open my mouth and say something incredibly suave.
A zinger of a one-liner that would have Shakespeare rising from the grave to take some notes.
Instead, what finally comes out is a stuttering whimper. “Sorry…talk… Can… I should…”
Smooth.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Owen finally suggests, putting me out of my misery, if only for a moment. He gestures toward the glass window and door behind me. “Better without an audience.”
My cheeks heat. That hadn’t been on my mind at all yesterday when I’d thrown myself at him.
There are shades we pull down late in the morning, when the sun rises over the line of shops across the street and floods the cafe for an hour or so before climbing higher into the sky.
They weren’t drawn yesterday afternoon. The main street of this usually sleepy little town was likely at its busiest.
Dread simmers in my stomach at the thought someone might have seen our kiss. Seen his rejection. God, it’ll be the talk of Windy Pines.
There’s no erasing that now, so I bottle up my shame and will my feet into motion, following him up to the apartment that feels too quiet without Annabelle’s laughter drifting down the halls.
Owen pauses in the kitchen to fill two glasses of water, so I head for the sofa, bending to gather the sheets and blankets.
I fold them into a neat pile at one end before dropping into the newly vacated space.
It’s unlike him to leave the couch set up for sleep.
The evidence of his nights there is usually long gone by the time I drag myself out of bed.
“You slept here last night?” I ask as he sets both glasses on the coffee table before perching on it himself. “It has to be doing murderous things to your back. You could have taken the bed.”
He shrugs, leveling me with the same look he gives every time I bring up changing our sleeping arrangements. If this conversation goes the way I hope, we’ll need to come up with an alternative. Of course, I’m hoping the alternative involves us sharing the very comfortable bed down the hall.
Once again, I force myself to rein it in before my brain gets carried away.
“I didn’t know if you’d be coming back.” Every word of that simple sentence is packed with crushed hope that I didn’t sneak back in at some point during the night. “If Grace hadn’t texted to let me know you were with her, I probably would’ve driven around all night trying to find you.”
That makes my insides turn into the consistency of a warm chocolate chip cookie.
“I knew the second I walked into the kitchen, leaving you there, after what I said was the wrong thing to do. I needed a moment to gather myself. By the time I figured out what I wanted to say, you were gone. I called out, but I don’t think you heard me.”
I hadn’t, however, it soothes the achy part of me that felt abandoned, knowing he at least tried to stop me.
“I should have followed you, but I figured if you were interested in anything I had to say, you would’ve stayed long enough to hear it.” He looks down at his hands, picking at a cuticle with intense focus.
“I was embarrassed,” I admit. “I wouldn’t have been in the headspace to hear what you needed to say. Not yesterday.”
Owen nods in understanding. “And what about now?”
“I can’t promise I’ll like it, but I can at least agree not to run until you’re done talking, if you promise you won’t either.
” I clear my throat. “I told Grace what happened. I hope that was okay—I don’t know if you’re…
” My words trail off. We haven’t exactly covered the topic of Owen’s sexuality yet. “She won’t tell anyone.”
“It’s okay, Fin. She’s your friend. I’m glad you had someone to go to with this.”
I nod, pressing forward with all the courage I can muster. “She pointed out I might have come on too strong.”
That earns me a snort and a bashful sort of smile I wish I could capture on film. For a split second, he looks years younger.
“You see, I’ve developed quite the crush on you.”
He glances down at himself, confusion flickering across his face, like he isn’t the hottest man to ever walk the earth. It pulls a scoff from me as it dawns he really is that blind to how incredibly fuck-hot he is.
It’s more than that, though, isn’t it? I’d sworn myself off men so completely that it would take more than good looks and an easy smile to break through my defenses.
His heart might as well have been a hammer, with the way he applied just enough pressure to shatter them to smithereens. It only took one strike.
“Everything goes calm in my head when you’re around. You make me feel safe. You’ve made this strange town feel like home so quickly…and the way you look at me sometimes, Owen…it makes me feel like I’m something precious to you. It’s—”
He cuts me off with a rasped, “You are.”
I nod hesitantly, not willing to acknowledge how those two words make my insides pop and fizz.
“I took things too far,” I admit instead. “Grace got it into my head that I should flirt with you, see if some of that interest was returned. It was supposed to be harmless fun. I let it turn into a game because, honestly, your reactions—and non-reactions—were addictive. Then you…”
“Kissed you?”
“Yeah. And I thought, holy shit, maybe you were interested after all.” I huff out a quiet breath.
“I panicked. All the feelings I’ve been harboring for you wanted to explode out of me.
I didn’t want to scare you away. In my experience, men usually only want one thing—from me, at least. I’m not a settle-down-with person. ”
He looks affronted by that, but doesn’t interrupt.
“That kiss was so hot, I would’ve given you anything you asked for.” I try to pass it off as a joke, but it lands transparent as hell. “I didn’t stop to think it might have been too fast. That you might not even be into…men.”
I wait for some kind of confirmation. It doesn’t come, so I try again. “Are you…into men? Or…”
The words feel sticky. This would be much easier if Owen’s expression were anything but unreadable. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, not in a flirty way, but as if he’s running through what he wants to say a few times, like lines of a script.
“I’m not sure what I am,” he finally admits.
“Oh?”
“I think I might be… Never mind, it’s a long story.”
“I have time.”