Page 30 of Sparks Still Fly

“You done ogling me, Maeve?” This is the moment the asshole leans on the doorway, biceps straining against his T-shirt, tattoos peeking out beneath the fabric.

I want to trace those tattoos with my fingertips. With my tongue.

NO! You absolutely do NOT! What is wrong with you? Months of not a single sexual thought and one look at Owen, and you’ve literally got your tongue out?

I collect myself with one deep, calming breath and slip into the house, being careful not to touch him.

“What’s for breakfast?” My eyes devour every detail of his home. The walls are creamy white, the furniture is a mix of worn woods and metals, the couches and chairs a mix of soft leather and neutral linens. There isn’t much color, but it feels warm and cozy. It’s a more polished version of the guesthouse with pictures on the shelves and artwork on the walls. He even has plants. Like real, live plants.

Owen walks past me, pointing straight ahead. “Kitchen’s this way. Do you prefer the table or the island?”

I take in the place settings at the island, complete with mugs, glasses, and cloth napkins.

“I usually eat at the island, but if you want to eat at the table instead, that’s okay, I just?—”

I cut him off, shaking my head. “The island is great. Perfect.” I chance a look in his direction, thankful he’s not facing me as he takes the juice out of the refrigerator.

“What can I do?” I ask.

“Is orange juice okay?”

We speak at the same time, and I bite my cheek to avoid a smile as he turns, holding a jug of what looks like freshly squeezed orange juice and a plate of fruit. I nod as he sets them down in front of me, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Can I help with anything?”

“I’ve seen you in the kitchen, Maevey. You sit down, and I’ll finish up.” He looks up, and my eyes must show some of the shock I’m feeling at his easy-going tone.

He clears his throat. “Sorry. Maeve.” His shoulders tense again as he turns to the stove, quickly pouring the eggs into an already hot pan. “Habit.”

The silence in the kitchen is thick, the tension swimming in it and making me feel uneasy.

Do something. Say something. He’s letting you live in his guesthouse and making you breakfast. Be nice!

I spot the plate of muffins on the counter. There’s my in.

“I didn’t realize muffins were an option.”

He turns his head toward where the plate sits, brows furrowing slightly.

“Oh. Yeah. If you’d prefer a muffin instead, please go ahead.”

Shit. No. That’s not what I meant to say. Or how I meant to come off. Does he think I don’t want or appreciate the breakfast he’s making me now?

He begins plating the eggs, adding bacon slices to the plates.

“Lainey made me bring them yesterday, so they’re still fresh. She sent chocolate chip just in case you decided to come. I guess she knew something I didn’t.” When he turns, I catch the way his brows come together ever so slightly, causing a crease to form between them. I want to smooth that crease. I want to soothe his insecurities. I also want to make him sweat a little because I am, after all, still more than a little sour about...well...everything.

“Wow. She sent muffins and snacks? I’ll be sure to call and thank her.”

His brows furrow further as he tentatively sets the plates down on the island.

“What snacks?” He doesn’t move to sit, but rather waits for my answer, standing next to me where I can smell the delicious bacon he cooked.

“Um, I opened up the pantry last night. I saw the snacks she either sent or told you I liked.”

Owen walks to the teapot I hadn’t seen and carefully picks it up, bringing it over to where I’m sitting. He sets it down slowly, standing closer to me than before.

“Lainey didn’t send the snacks, Maeve.” My brain cannot compute this. Did he talk to Charlie? Who else would know my favorites? I open my mouth to ask, but he cuts me off.

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