Page 128 of The Thought of You

Except she totally is.

With a stone-cold expression, she pins her brown eyes on me. “She could offer some clarity into your skewed perception of love.”

“She’d tell me there’s no such thing.”

“Has she ever actually told you that?”

“She doesn’t have to. Her entire life is an homage to the sentiment.” I roll my eyes.

Maren holds her hands up. “All I know is that when I brew a flat coffee or bake a sour cookie, I don’t blame the espresso machine or the mixer. I go to the source—me. What did I do? Did I confuse the ingredients? Measure the wrong quantities? Perhaps the recipe simply wasn’t a good one. Whatever the case, the mystery isn’t going to solve itself.”

“You paint quite the picture.”

“I try.” She pats my hand. “I have to help Tonya, but call me if you need anything. I have more colors with which to paint.” With a snort, she hoists herself off the picnic table as more noise drifts from the truck.

Several more people have crowded the window, one of which is none other than Nate McAllister. Has Maren caught sight of him yet? She’s about to be pissed.

I stick around for a beat to ensure I don’t need to stand in for backup. I’m at my weakest at the moment, but I could still do some damage, if needed.

Besides, I’m enjoying the fresh air after a long night of doom and gloom. It’s going to take a lot more than nature’s sweet offerings to rid my skin of such clamminess, including at least twenty showers, but this is a good start.

My other issue is not off to a pleasant start, though.

Talking to Rain? Discussing someone I care about with Rain? She’s going to tell me to dump him—I just know it. She’s going to list all the ways it’s not worth it to dedicate my heart to one man and tell me that I’m too young to do so to begin with.

None of that is what I want to hear.

It’s not what I want at all, but how can I make this work? It’s asking too much to have it all, isn’t it?

chapter

forty-one

OWEN

“Are you ready for our chat yet? Because I could use your advice,” I plead.

Smiling warmly, Mom ushers me inside. “You take a seat. I’ll get us some sweet tea.”

“Thanks,” I call over my shoulder as I power walk toward the living room, where I make myself comfortable on the couch.

Except there is no such thing.

I could lie down on a bed of fluffy puppies, and I still wouldn’t be at ease, not with Addie and me in such a fucking mess.

Mom returns with a tray, on top of which she’s arranged two glasses, a pitcher, and a ceramic bowl of cut-up lemons. As she pours us each a glass, I clear my throat and say, “Thanks again for helping with Addie yesterday. I couldn’t be there myself, and it was a relief to know you were there.”

“Of course, darlin’.” She squeezes my chin between her thumb and forefinger, wiggling my face this way and that as if I’m twelve again. It’s what she always used to do, following it up with, “What a handsome boy you are.”

I know Dad’s proud of me for the most part, but Mom has always been my number one fan, no matter what.

“I’m actually surprised you were free to help. I know you have your hands full.” I shift on the couch as I sip from the glass.

“I’m never too busy for my favorite son.”

I chuckle. “I’m your only son.”

She sinks onto the other end of the couch and lifts a brow, her lip twitching. “I’m surprised you asked for my help to begin with. You never do.”

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