Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(36)

“Shit, you scared me!” My heart is thumping so loudly, I can hardly hear him talking as he closes my front door behind him and walks closer to me, a bag or something in his hand.

“Here,” he says, reaching for my hand, helping me to my feet. His grasp on my wrist is for a purpose, and he lets go quickly, but I still look at that spot he touched on my skin, rubbing my own hand around it, like I’m trying to recover from a burn.

Owen sets my bench upright again, then slides onto the end of the seat, looking over the keys, and the pages spread out on the ledger.

“I’m sorry, you…were practicing?” He’s starting to stand; I don’t want him to leave. I move closer to the piano, resting my hand along the top, trying to make him more comfortable—and maybe blocking his exit just a little.

“No…I mean, I was thinking about it, but…I’m just not feeling it,” I say, watching his finger trace the small layer of dust that’s formed along the top of the ledge where my music books sit. He stares at the line he’s drawn along the wood for a few seconds before breathing in deeply and pulling the small plastic bag to his lap.

“My mom’s out—at work. Andrew’s out, too. And I was going to make some grilled cheese for dinner, but then,” he says, pausing to pull out a brick of cheddar cheese from the grocery bag and setting it on the bench next to him, “I realized I don’t have any bread.”

He looks up at me with a sideways grin that’s unlike any face I’ve ever seen him make. There’s no taunting to it, no motive or front. And with this one look, everything that’s always been so hard and scary about being near him fades away.

“I have bread,” I say, motioning for him to follow me to our kitchen. He trails closely behind me, and lightly kicks a box that’s taken up a sort of permanent residence next to our kitchen island before he pulls himself into the stool at the counter and sets down his block of cheese.

“You’ve been here for what…a month?” he asks, looking around at the few boxes still remaining in the kitchen. Some of them have been repacked, and are getting donated or shipped tomorrow.

“Some of this stuff…it’s my dad’s,” I say, my back to him so I can’t see his face. It’s easier to say the hard things this way.

“Oh,” is all he says.

“Hit me with the cheese,” I say when I turn around, and he makes that same silly smile again—it’s almost…playful. He picks up the cheese and tosses it to me, but my fingers fumble the reception, and it slides through my hands, arms, knocks off my knee, and skids along the floor.

“Good thing it’s wrapped,” he teases.

“Shut up,” I sass back, picking it up and squinting at him, like I’m daring him to cross me. He makes the same face back, but it’s overly exaggerated, and dare I say goofy; it makes me laugh.

Owen is making me laugh. And it feels….

If there is one skill I have in the kitchen, it is making grilled-cheese sandwiches. The secret is not to be stingy with the butter, and I lather our bread well so that way by the time I slide the sandwiches from the pan, both sides are golden brown.

“Here, you can have the one with more cheese,” I say, sliding a plate over to him. He picks up his sandwich and inspects it, raising an eyebrow at me before putting the bread almost in his mouth and stopping.

“How do I know you’re not poisoning me?” he asks.

“You don’t. You’re just going to have to trust me,” I smile, then take a bite of my sandwich, letting the crunch drag on slowly while I close my eyes and let my lips hum an mmmmmm sound.

“Right, trust you,” he says, his expression soft and his eyes cautious while he considers me. I was joking about our sandwiches, but I get the feeling Owen is now on a different subject. He’s making this heavier than I meant it to be, but I like that he’s having such heavy thoughts. I don’t think trust is something Owen has done in a long time, and it’s a belief I fear lately I may be at risk of losing.

Owen finally gives in, and within five bites, maybe six, his sandwich is gone.

“Look, you’re alive,” I tease as I take his plate and rinse it in the sink.

“So it seems,” he says, patting his chest, then gripping over his heart and making the most ridiculous croaking noise.

“You’re so obnoxious,” I say, reaching over to him and pushing on the arm that’s resting along the counter as he sits. Before my hand slips away, he grabs it with his. It’s an action I don’t think he meant to do—a move he didn’t calculate—and everything feels awkward. Both of us are giggling nervously for a few seconds, our fingers sort of tangled and unsure, until he finally grips my hand tightly, squeezes it once, then pushes it away.

I’m thankful for the bread that’s still out on the counter, grateful that I have this distraction to busy myself with now. I twist the bag closed and turn to face our pantry, taking a deep breath and staring intently at the knuckles of my hand, the ones that were just embraced by the roughness and warmth of Owen’s. When I turn back to face him, he’s no longer sitting, but instead is standing by the kitchen window with his back to me, his hand by his side and his fingers flexing and contracting.

Our touch. He felt it, too.

“Thanks, by the way,” he says.