“It’s not a long drive, at least.” I gently pick up the carrying bag and go down the stairs. I packed myself an overnight bag with the intention of driving past the bed and breakfast on the way home from dinner.
There was one room open as of this morning, and it’s not like Eastwood is a happening place. I can’t see it filling up, and just one night away from barking dogs will do Tulip and myself some good. Plus, everyone at the house will be thankful for a night of peace.
Setting the carrier on the passenger seat of Dad’s old Mustang, I pull the seatbelt over and loop it through one of the straps, just in case. Then I fire up the engine and drive to Owen’s house.
It’s just dinner.
Everyone eats.
Owen eats. I eat. Owen was really good at eating—stop it.
It’s just dinner.
Pushing my shoulders back, I make a promise to myself right then and there that no matter what Owen throws at me, I’m not going to bend. There’s no point, even though having him bend me over sounds like a good time.
Wes and Scarlet are pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, following behind Jackson on his bike. They wave as I drive by. I wave back and feel a tug on my heart. It’s one thing to resist Owen, but damn him for having such a nice and welcoming family.
I turn on the radio, only able to get the local country station to come on. Singing along with Luke Combs, I roll down the window and welcome the warm breeze through my hair. The drive to Owen’s ends too soon, and I have to repeat my it’s just dinner mantra over and over in my head.
I didn’t plan on coming. I know better than to put something tempting in front of me. But then I ran into Quinn, who did such a good job of talking Owen up I’m starting to seriously suspect her of witchcraft. The next thing I know, she’s giving me his number and I’m agreeing that dinner and catching up would be nice since I didn’t really get to do it Sunday.
It made sense at the time. It doesn’t make sense now. I put the car in park and kill the engine. If she’s not a witch, then she’s a Jedi who can pull mind tricks. Yes, that has to be it. Because something starts to build inside of me as I look at the perfectly manicured lawn. I blink and now I know a curse has been put on me because I see a flash of Owen standing on the covered front porch, a baby in his arms again.
Shaking my head, I make a mental note to burn sage or throw salt or whatever it is I need to do. Because I can’t let Owen hold me spellbound.
The wind picks up right as I walk up the steps to the front porch. The smell of rain blows in over the horizon. It’s fresh and reminds me of home. I pause before going up the last step to turn my head and feel the breeze in the air. There’s something else in it, a slight electrical charge that promises a storm.
It sounds weird, I know, to say I can sense storms like that. But it’s been scientifically proven that some people are more sensitive to the change in pressure and the electrical charges in the sky. I’ve always been one of those people, and bad storms give me terrible anxiety.
Growing up in the Midwest should have made me accustomed to bad storms. It should have taught me that tornadoes are inevitable, and as long as you’re smart and know how to hide, you’ll be okay.
But instead it left me with an almost panic-attack like reaction that makes me want to throw up, cry, and run around screaming at the same time. Yes, I’m thirty years old and scared of storms. Call me pathetic if you will.
Though technically, thunderstorms are okay. I enjoy them, really…as long as there’s no threat to my roof being torn off and my house turning into that one infamous barn scene from Twister.
I go up the last step and ring the doorbell, readjusting Tulip’s carrying case on my arm. She’s a small cat but is surprisingly heavy when she’s being carried like this. Only a few seconds pass before Owen opens the door.
He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and dark jeans. His hair is messily styled, and the perfect five-o’clock shadow covers his strong jawline. Light from the setting sun reflects off his chocolate eyes, and his whole face brightens as he smiles at me.
“Hey, Charlie. And Tulip.”
“Hey,” I say back, hating that I find it kind of cute that he remembered my cat’s name. “I have her stuff in the car.”