Four Years Later (One Week Girlfriend #4)(37)

He’s trying to impress me? “I like to come here with my roommate. It’s cheap and the food is delicious.”

“Do you make your own sauce or do you follow the menu?”

Huh? Sometimes Owen asks really weird questions. “Um, I always follow the menu.”

“Of course you do.” He smiles down at me and I tilt my head back, offering him a tiny smile in return. He’s so ridiculously good-looking that I tend to get a little lost when I’m with him. So lost that we stare at each other for a while, until the guy standing behind us clears his throat to indicate we should get moving.

“Sorry,” I mumble at the middle-aged man as we step forward, my apology making Owen chuckle.

We both grab our bowls and go down the buffet line, preparing our meals until we stop in front of the sauce station, my shoulder bumping against his arm. It’s like falling into a wall of muscle, he’s so solid.

I study the menu of various sauces, my gaze snagging on the recipe I always stick with. A few scoops of soy, another couple of teriyaki … and I always bypass the spicy stuff since I’m a total wimp.

I’m also totally boring. I never venture out of the familiar. Ever. I keep to myself. I read, I study, I do my homework, I hang with Kari when I can, and I work, work, work.

“Live a little,” he says, bending down so his voice is right at my ear. A shiver moves down my spine. He’s so close I can almost imagine his lips grazing my skin. “Don’t follow the recipe. Just throw in a bunch of different ingredients and see what happens.”

I wrinkle my nose. “What if I hate it?”

“Trust me. You won’t hate it.” He reaches past me and grabs the ladle that’s in the garlic oil, scooping it up and dumping it in my bowl.

“But—that wasn’t on the menu,” I say, a little shocked that he’d take such liberties with my food.

He laughs and then dumps two scoops of the garlic oil on top of the ingredients overflowing his bowl. “I know. We’re gonna get a little crazy tonight, Chels. I gotta warn you.”

“What if I’m allergic to garlic?”

Owen turns to look at me, his green eyes open wide. “You aren’t … are you?”

Slowly I shake my head, smiling a little. “No, I’m not.”

He blows out a harsh breath. “You scared me for a second.”

I doubt anything scares him. “But now I’m going to have garlic breath.”

“No big deal. So will I.” He grabs the ladle in the soy sauce and adds it to his bowl. “When I kiss you later, it won’t really matter, right? We’ll both have garlic breath.”

My heart skips three beats, I swear. He says he’s going to kiss me so casually. Like it’s no big deal. It might not be for him, but for me …

It’s a huge deal. Like major. When I’m comparing a kiss from Owen Maguire to the measly few boys I’ve kissed in my life, I know without a doubt this is going to be different. The way I feel about Owen is different. Cody Curtis attacked me and it had been awful.

A kiss from Owen is going to be the complete opposite of awful. As long as I’m not awful either …

I start tossing a variety of ingredients into my bowl just like he does, my mind going over what he said again and again. Worry dances in my stomach. Anticipation is such a killer. “So you plan on … kissing me tonight?”

He lavishes on the homemade teriyaki sauce, scoop after scoop, until all the vegetables and meat and noodles are swimming in it. “I have lots of plans for you tonight.”

His voice is full of so much rich promise I feel slightly dizzy. I follow Owen to the giant barbeque griddle, where the cook takes each of our bowls and tosses them on the round surface, separating my ingredients from Owen’s with a large metal cooking utensil that looks like a sword.

This is usually my favorite part of the process, but I can’t focus tonight. I’m too aware of the boy standing next to me. The things he just said. It’s as if he’s purposely trying to unnerve me, keep me on edge, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. I’m a logical person. I like facts and figures. Yet what’s happening between us is completely illogical.

And I can hardly wrap my brain around it.

He turns toward me, dipping his head and lowering his voice. “Can I confess something to you?”

I brace myself. “Um, sure.”

Glancing up, he looks around, like he’s making sure no one’s listening. Considering there’s no one near us at the moment and the cook can probably only hear the sizzle of the food on the gas grill, it’s kind of funny. “I used to like coming here when I was high as hell. The food always tasted a lot better.”

Ah, a drug reference. I almost forgot the rumors I’ve heard that Owen Maguire was once a major pothead. I’m pretty positive that the one night I went to his house to help him study he was high, but I can’t be sure. As if I’d know. I have no experience with drugs whatsoever. Mom and Dad both completely sheltered me. “Do you still get high?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs, avoiding my gaze.

Disappointment settles over me and I try my best not to judge. “Don’t they drug test you to be on the football team?”

He sends me a look. “There are ways to get around that, Chels. Trust me.”