Page 33 of Buried Roots

“Maybe a tiny peek.” I tread water.

“A peek for a peek.”

“You already got one.” But I can’t blame a man for trying to get another.

He blinks. “Kayla would be proud of me.”

“She would.”

He paddles closer, a glint in his eyes when he splashes me.

I splash back.

I realize we’re acting like teenagers. As though he’s reading my mind, he says, “I feel twelve years old.”

“I think that’s a good thing.” I kick my legs to stay afloat. “So, Mr. Responsible Owen Brooks. Have you ever gotten yourself into trouble?”

“Hmm. When I was ten, Sheriff Baxter caught me trying to steal a piece of candy from The Sweetie Treat. Hauled me straight to the station. Even made me sit in the cell for an hour or two until my pa came and bailed me out.”

I laugh so hard my head lolls back. “I bet you never stole again.”

“That I did not.”

After we paddle to where we can touch the sandy bottom, he says, “So what are you gonna do when you get back to New York?”

“Finish up the apartments for Klein Homes. Reinvest the money that I make from selling Bo’s Château to bring my business to the next level.” With my own words, sadness ripples through me. I knew this before today, but it hits much harder now—my life is work.

Owen sighs. “Ah, big cities. There, people live to work. Here, they work to live.”

“Truth.”

“I know it’s cliché, but there’s something about enjoying each moment. Getting off the hamster wheel for a while.”

“Yeah. Mostly, I’m just trying to make it through the day.” I can’t believe I just admitted that to Owen. Or myself.

“It is good here. But it’s better here with you.” He smiles, shyly. His eyes drift into the distance again, and when his gaze returns, it’s got a spark to it. He sighs before he says, “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t know how, what?”

“I don’t know how you got me to do this, but I’m glad.”

My skin tingles, and this time, it isn’t from the cold water. It’s Owen’s words, the way his voice shifts lower as his eyes lock with mine.

My pulse kicks up, and I step closer. “I’m glad too. And you’re blushing.”

“You can’t see me well enough to know if I’m blushing.”

“I can hear it in your voice.”

“Possibly.”

He moves in. So close, I can feel the heat emanating off his body and wrapping around me. So close, I can smell the tea tree oil in his shampoo.

For a moment, both of us are still, as though we’re trying to figure out if we’re going to make the next move—the one where everything changes.

I go for it. I’m aching to feel his skin so much, I rest a hand on his pec before moving to his scar where I run a finger over it. “You gonna tell me about this?”

“I will. I promise. But not now.”

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