Page 50 of Can't Help Falling

Turns out, leaning with one elbow on the table and having my other arm bent behind me, hand hooked on my back pocket like a Glamour Shot at the mall is not nonchalant.

Mom frowns at me. “What is wrong with you? What are you doing?”

I wave my hand at her. “I’m just, you know, chatting.”

“Don’t you need to set up?”

“Yes. I just took a little break.” I hop up, ignoring Reagan’s confused look and trying desperately not to read into the fact that Owen and Lindsay had tension. (And not the sexual kind.) I even whisper it in my head.

My mom’s question is valid. What is wrong with me?

But then, I remember chapter sixteen in Samantha Kismet’s Under Locke and Key, a standalone romance novel about an eccentric, wealthy recluse who hires a live-in nurse to care for his ailing father. Total enemies to lovers trope—she thinks he’s rich and out of touch, he thinks she’s a stickler for rules, but their argument in that chapter turns into a dinner table clearing make out scene.

Maybe their tension led to a deep heart-to-heart. Which maybe led to a make out session behind my shop. Which maybe led to. . .the reason Owen’s truck wasn’t in the driveway this morning.

My brain is a traitor.

“Speak of the devil.”

I follow Regan’s gaze across the pavilion and see Owen, wearing jeans and a navy blue T-shirt with an open flannel button-down over it. He’s wearing a backwards baseball cap, and I’m pretty sure he should be named “Sexiest Man Alive” by every single magazine in the world. Even Popular Mechanics and Bird Watchers Monthly.

“Crap!” I duck down, pretending to busy myself with the bins underneath the table and stay down there until Owen passes by.

What is he doing here? Do the firefighters have a booth?

And then, my worst nightmare happens.

My way too friendly mother starts shouting his name and waving at him. At the sound of the crazy woman, Owen stops and turns around. I know this because I have a perfect view of his boots, and I see them change direction.

I’m still squatting, and my quads are not strong enough for this. If this takes too long, I’m going to fall over.

“Owen Larrabee, you wonderful boy,” Mom gushes.

Reagan glances at me, eyebrow raised in a silent question.

I frown a silently loud answer.

My thighs are already burning. I really need to get myself to a gym. You never know when you’re going to need to stay still in a deep squat.

“Mrs. Smart.”

“Please, call me Jeannie.” I imagine her holding onto his arms in that motherly way she does when she wants to be sure she has your attention.

I imagine him nodding. Looking away. Trying to escape an actual conversation. Talking never was his strong suit. Except. . .he used to talk to me. My heart squeezes at the memory.

“It’s so good to run into you like this,” she says. “Emmy and I were just talking about you in the car.”

“You. . .um, you were?”

My cheeks are all ablaze. I mime slapping my hand to my forehead and beg for a quick death.

“Yes, she’s just—” Mom pauses. “Emmy?”

Double crap.

“Where is she?”

I glance up, from my spot low to the ground, in time to see Reagan pointing at me. It’s like someone told me to go play hide and seek but forgot to come find me. I pick up a bag of coffee beans and stand, blowing a strand of hair off my forehead.

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