Always Never Yours(41)

“Whoa.” I nod to his outfit. “It’s not a real date.”

“Of course it’s not, Megan.” He furrows his brow quizzically and gets in the car. “Wait, why do you say . . . ?” He smiles wryly at me. “Are you saying I look nice?”

“Nicer than I’d want my boyfriend to on a not-date with another girl.” I turn around in Owen’s driveway.

“Sounds like you’re implying something, but I don’t really know why when I could say the same thing about you.” He gestures to my close-fitting, black velvet dress.

“Touché.” Part of me is glad he noticed, the part that chose this dress wondering what he’d say. Not that I’m the kind of girl who’d go for a guy with a girlfriend—not that Owen’s the kind of guy I’d go for in the first place—but I won’t say I don’t enjoy a little harmless flirting with him. “Seriously though, thanks for coming with me tonight,” I say as we’re passing Verona on our way to the other side of town.

“No problem. But, why exactly did you invite me? Why does carne asada require a platonic date?” He’s idly tapping on the armrest, and I know it’s because he doesn’t have his pen in his hand.

I realize he signed on for tonight without hesitation, without me even explaining the plan. “Remember Eric, the guy from the party? Anthony wants to have him over for carne asada. It’s Anthony’s best move. It always works.”

Owen raises his eyebrow. “What exactly do you mean by ‘works’?”

“Let’s just say, when he used it on me, we only got fifteen minutes into West Side Story before I decided there were things I’d rather do. Anthony, now that I’m thinking about it, probably just wanted to watch the movie,” I say, considering.

Owen laughs. “Sounds like Anthony should just have Eric over alone then.”

“Anthony’s afraid Eric won’t be into it. He wants me there in case Eric comes over not wanting tonight to be romantic, and I guess there’s the possibility Eric’s not gay. But if he is, and if things do go well, Anthony doesn’t want to have unintentionally created a group-hang vibe. That’s why he wants me to have a platonic date. It could be a casual hang, but it could also be a double date.”

“Wow, complicated.” Owen looks impressed, then thinks for a minute. “What if it does turn into a double date? What are we supposed to do?”

“Sex on the table sound good to you?” I promptly reply, unable to restrain myself.

We’ve pulled into Anthony’s driveway—and thank god, because I burst out laughing when I see Owen’s face. His eyes are blown wide, like he’s very earnestly trying to figure out if I’m joking. “Jesus, Owen. I was kidding. We’ll FaceTime Cosima or something. It’ll be fine.”

Eric’s not here yet. Ours is the only car in front of Anthony’s house. Anthony told me his parents are at an engagement party for one of his twenty-two cousins. I lead Owen up to the front door, positive he’s blushing a shade previously unknown to man. He’s silent, and, feeling guilty, I figure I must have gone too far with that sex-on-the-table comment. I should probably ease up on him.

I knock on the door, hearing Anthony’s go-to cooking music, the Black Eyed Peas, from inside. While we’re waiting, Owen leans on the wall in front of me. “Cosima went to bed hours ago. We’ll have to think of something better to do,” he says slowly.

There’s a suggestive look in his eyes, and I feel my jaw drop open. I know I’m joking when I flirt, but Owen?

He breaks into a grin. “Jesus, Megan. I was kidding.” His voice is playful, and he shakes his head. “Your face, I swear. I never thought I’d see Megan Harper stunned into silence.”

Anthony opens the door, and Owen walks in past him, leaving me impressed and even a little disappointed. He obviously was thinking of that comeback the whole walk up the driveway, and I find myself half wishing it wasn’t just a comeback. Which then has me thoroughly wondering why I’d wish that, even fractionally. This is Owen.

We’re overtaken by the smell of chili and lime inside. Anthony rushes back to the grill, and I follow him and Owen in, passing Anthony’s mom’s intimidating crucifix in the hallway. Mrs. Jenson is Mexican and was raised Catholic, though on Sundays she goes to the gospel services at Anthony’s dad’s Baptist church.

“This is a bad idea,” Anthony mutters behind the grill. “He doesn’t like me—”

“Shut up. You look amazing,” I reassure him. He does, too. “The vest, the rolled-up sleeves, the hair . . . it’s really working for you.” He meets my eyes and lets out a breath, looking like he’s regained some of his confidence.

Then the doorbell rings. Anthony’s panic returns, and he thrusts the grilling tongs he’s holding into Owen’s hands. While Owen, surprised, steps behind the grill, Anthony takes a hesitant couple of paces toward the door.

I stop him and reach for his apron. “Here.” I untie it, pull it over his head, and push his curls back into place. He gives me a grateful look, and I lightly shove him in the direction of the door.

When I join Owen by the grill, he’s deftly turning over the strips of beef. I guess he notices me studying him, because he shrugs. “I cook sometimes,” he says simply.