Wild Reckless (Harper Boys #1)(71)

It doesn’t take long to understand why Elise likes carving so much. I’ve managed to create a pretty spooky-looking set of teeth, and Owen’s carved his into a series of triangles to form a face—sort of. Elise’s pumpkin, however, is straight out of the set for Sleepy Hollow, a headless horseman charging forward through thistle with bats and menacing tree roots tangling around him.

“Okay, I officially give up. That is seriously the best pumpkin I have ever seen,” I say, laying my knife down on the cardboard and running my messy hands through a towel.

“You should see the one she made last year,” Ryan says, standing up and giving up on his pumpkin, which looks about as intricate as mine. “She made a set of four and turned the whole thing into Mount Rushmore.”

“You’re an artist!” I say.

“Eh. It only works with pumpkins,” Elise says, her tongue stuck out on one side of her mouth—her focus still on perfecting her craft.

“It’s still art,” I say, stepping back and watching her work.

Elise keeps digging and nipping at pieces of pumpkin for the next hour, and eventually, Ryan, Jess, and Owen move outside to play basketball. House shows up with a few other guys, including Andrew, and pretty soon my driveway is serving as home court.

“You like watching him, don’t you,” Willow says, nudging into me while we sit on the stoop by my back door, sipping hot chocolate. I bite my lip and shrug, relenting to a small smile. It’s a fraction of my feelings, because yes, I love watching him. I love how he moves, how masculine he is when he pushes the other guys, when he dominates them on the court. The way the ball transfers from hand to hand is effortless for him, as is his ability to put up a shot from any distance—and have it find the safety of the rusty hoop and net above my garage.

I’m mesmerized by his skill, but more than that, I’m utterly taken with his form. It’s barely forty degrees outside, the sky veiled in a thick layer of cloud, but Owen’s shirt is off, his chest and abs and arms glistening with sweat. His hat is backward on his head, so he can see, and his jeans sling low on his hips, the red of his boxers like a target for my eyes. The things passing through my mind about him right now make me blush, and I’m almost worried that Willow can hear my thoughts.

“You…love him?” she asks. I think about pretending I don’t hear her question at first. But I know she’ll only ask me again. I don’t answer, but instead shrug and give the same hinted smile I did to her last question. When she breathes in deeply, I know she knows the truth.

I love him.

I want him.

I need him.

I breathe him.

Since the moment my eyes met Owen Harper’s, he has owned me, terrified me, consumed me, and I don’t even remember the girl I was before him any more.

“Just promise me you’ll still be careful. Just…don’t let yourself go, not completely. In case you need to come back from him,” she says.

With my eyes closed, I nod, knowing that it’s already too late.

“Hey,” Owen says, his body suddenly in front of me. My eyes start where they shouldn’t, and by the time I meet his, his crooked smile threatens to tease me, but he doesn’t.

“Hey,” I say back, my voice hoarse and raspy.

“So, House and a few of the guys are heading over to Sasha’s house, that place I took you for that party?” Owen’s shifting the ball back and forth in his hands, nervously. “Anyhow, we can all go, if you want…or not. I mean, whatever.”

My stomach sinks, because I can tell Owen wants to leave with his friends, and I can also see how much they don’t blend with mine. Ryan is the only connection; the only one among us who seems to move in and out of cliques seamlessly, unaffected. House is leaning on his truck, spitting sunflower seeds into my yard, and Andrew is caught somewhere between both groups, too young to really belong.

“I was kind of planning on hanging out here, passing out candy with everyone, until—” I say, not wanting to say the rest any longer. Not wanting to say I was planning on staying here until everyone left Owen and me alone—not wanting to say how much I just want to be with Owen, and no one else. In a flash, I feel na?ve and stupid, and I think of Willow, and her warning.

“No, that’s cool. I’ll just tell him we’re out,” he says, his fingers rapping a few times on the ball, his eyes still on me. He’s waiting for something, waiting for what? For me to tell him it’s okay?

“Why don’t you go? Maybe…just come back, if it’s not too late. Maybe I’ll be up,” I say, throwing the maybe in there totally passive aggressively, doing a poor job of masking my disappointment.

Willow stands quickly, slipping through the door with the excuse of helping Elise clean up. And for the first time in hours, I’m left alone with Owen, alone while his friends watch us from House’s truck along the roadside, his brother and Jess watching from Owen’s front porch, and the rest of my friends eavesdropping from inside my house. I’m alone with him, and embarrassed.

The practice conversation happening in my head starts with me telling Owen to just leave, but it always finishes with me begging him to stay. I keep my eyes on my knees, on the toes of his Converse, while I work out my words. I’m interrupted when Owen’s hand finds my chin, and I can feel the pressure of his fingers lifting my gaze upward as he kneels down in front of me.