Page 61 of The Charm of You

eighteen

CAROLINE

Austin was right. I felt closer to nature and to my dad out on the river. With a fishing pole in my hand, I felt like I held the key to the past.

Beyond that, I was also at peace with Austin next to me.

My phone ringing—which was on loud, per Addie’s request—pulled us apart. It’s been almost an hour since I got her call, and now, I’m standing in the middle of a nineteenth-century mansion with glue on my nose from when I ran into Addie. Thankfully, her glue gun was just warming up for its evening duties, or I could’ve ended up with a scar.

Owen Conrad is currently trying to stick the end of a feather boa to my nose.

“I know we were in high school together ten years ago, but this is not high school,” Addie scolds him. “We’re adults, so if you could act like one, that would be super.”

She punctuates her words with a snatch of the boa from his grasp.

Except he doesn’t let go.

“Give it.” I didn’t think it was possible, but Addie glares harder than before. She still hasn’t blinked since I saw her at Austin’s last night. When was the last time she enjoyed a good night’s rest? “If you can’t be trusted to do a single thing, let the grown-ups handle it.” With her free hand, she points between me and herself.

Her other hand clings to the end of the boa as the warring pair fights for victory.

“Here’s a question we’re not asking ourselves—is this necessary?” I fight a laugh as Addie sinks into her competitive volleyball stance, ready to throw down over a yellow boa.

Should I take the scissors and cut it down the middle? This logical course of action occurs to me, but this is pretty hilarious.

Instead of intervening, I rub the end of my scrunched nose, thankful once again that the glue gun hadn’t been fully hot when I passed Addie on the way in. My nose could’ve melted off.

“You want it? You can have it, baby,” Owen goads with a playful twinkle in his eye, and then he lets go.

Addie skids backward, but she doesn’t go far, nor does she topple over like I might have. She’s graceful on her feet, thanks to the years of dancing when she was younger. She volunteers at the local dance studio now, and it’s safe to say she’s kept up her own training.

“Don’t call me baby,” she says with a huff, along with a flick of her hand on the bill of Owen’s baseball hat. “Can we get back to decorating?”

“Sure.” Owen shrugs. “I never knew decorating could be so fun.”

“That’s because you’ve never shown up to decorate. Not for school dances when we were younger, and definitely not for anything as a teacher,” Addie retorts, and my gaze bounces between them as they verbally spar like I’m invisible.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” He spreads his muscled arms to both sides.

“Shockingly,” my friend mumbles. “What’s not shocking is that you forgot to shower before you came, and now I have to put up with your smell.”

“I was at basketball practice with Coach Stevens, and we ran late.” Although I expected him to sound defensive, Owen’s steady and relaxed. He simply leans his elbow on a sleek black neo-Gothic accent piece, the eggshell-colored wall behind him a stark contrast to his tan complexion. “You don’t like the smell of a real man,” he says, but it’s more of a question.

“I like one who doesn’t smell of feet and mold.” Addie swats at him. “And don’t touch the furniture. Your filth is leaving a smudge.”

“I’m filthy all right.” He snorts.

“You are…” Addie shakes her head and finally closes her eyes. She doesn’t open them again for a beat too long. Did she fall asleep?

Owen doesn’t seem concerned in the slightest as he proudly finishes her statement. “Hilarious? Handsome as hell? Handy?”

“Those are a lot of Hs.” Addie slowly pries her eyes open like her eyelids were sealed shut. “We have a lot of work to do, and I don’t have the time or energy to explain your ineffective—and definitely unamusing—sloppy use of alliteration.”

“I wish you would, though. Sounds awfully riveting,” he deadpans. “Why exactly do we have to decorate this place now? The reunion is not until Saturday night. Besides, this mansion is decorated enough.” He waves his arms over the paintings of generations past.

Through the open arch that leads into the sitting room, vases and urns boasting intricate designs sit on the mantel of the fireplace and on the end tables. Lamps with pale shades are lined with fringe similar to the flapper dresses of the past. Antique bronze candleholders hang on the wall on either side of a matching mirror.

The fabulous décor rolls throughout the house like a sparkling wave of history.

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