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.”

I’m incredulous. I can’t believe he would admit such a thing. “I’m surprised you would risk it. Here you are working so hard to get your grades up to get back onto the team and then you admit you still spark up the occasional joint?”

“I never said I was perfect, you know?” He stares off into the distance, his jaw hard, his gaze dark. “I have my issues. Sometimes getting high helps me forget.”

“Temporarily,” I add. “You can’t run away from your problems, you know.” Listen to me, offering advice when I love running away from my own problems.

Well, it’s more like I avoid them. Pretend they don’t exist. Problems like my father.

He doesn’t say anything and I’m afraid I’ve made Owen mad. Whatever, since I’m not too happy with him at the moment anyway. His admission reminds me how different we really are. I’m the good girl, the straight arrow who never does anything wrong. The girl that learned it’s best to remain good after witnessing the demise of her very, very bad father.

Owen is a bad boy. I’ve turned into the total cliché. The innocent, naïve girl who’s fallen for the guy who smokes pot and plays football and can barely keep up his grades.

“Here you go.” The cook hands over our bowls and we go to the register to pay, Owen taking care of everything. I stand behind him, declining when he asks if I want a soda.

I want to run and hide. My appetite has left me, and that never, ever happens when I come here.

When we finally sit at a small table near the back of the restaurant, Owen leans toward me, his expression earnest and full of regret. “Hey, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I just … I’m trying to be better. It’s hard, you know?”

No, not really, but I’m not going to hold it against him. “Apology accepted,” I say, grabbing my fork and stabbing it into the steaming-hot bowl of food. “I have no business judging. I’m only … watching out for you.”

“I know.” He sighs. “You sound like my sister.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“A good thing.” His gaze meets mine, warm and green, and I forget everything else. He’s all I can focus on. “You’d like her.”

“Tell me about her.” I’d rather direct the conversation so he does all the talking and I do all the listening.

I don’t want him to ask personal questions. The last person I want to talk about is Dad. Or Mom, for that matter.

“Fable is five years older than me. She’s married and she just had a baby.”

Such an unusual name, Fable. Makes me wish I knew the story behind it. Because you know there’s a story. “Right. I saw the picture and you told me about the baby. Is it a girl or a boy?”

“A girl. Her name is Autumn.”

“Ah, that’s so sweet.”

We talk as we devour our food, my appetite back in full force once I caught a whiff of the delicious, mouth-watering scent wafting up from my bowl. Owen tells me about growing up here, that his sister means everything to him, and the influence her husband had on his early teen years.

He doesn’t mention his parents once. He doesn’t seem to even know who his dad is, but what about his mom? Where is she in this picture? Did she ditch her children? Was she always working? She’s a mystery, and I find it weird that he never talks about her.

Of course, I never talk about my father, so who am I to question him? Our first date isn’t the place for me to divulge to Owen all about the convicted felon who just so happens to be the man who raised me.

“What about you?” he asks, knocking me out of my thoughts. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

Uh-oh. Here come the personal questions. “No,” I say, shaking my head.

“You’re an only child?”

“Yes.”

He studies me, his gaze narrow, trying to figure me out, I’m sure. “You don’t like talking about your family?”

I shrug. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Hey. I get it,” he says softly, then takes a sip of his soda.

And that’s it. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask for more. I almost want to collapse with relief. He makes me feel so wonderfully normal.

“So you never did tell me how it was,” Owen says as he pushes his empty bowl away from him. For someone who’s as fit as he is, he can certainly pack it away.

“How what was?” I’m stuffed. I did my best to finish everything but as usual, my eyes were bigger than my stomach and my bowl is still practically half full.

“Your dinner. With the magical, crazy I’ve-never-tried-this-before sauce.” He smiles.

“Oh.” Crap. I almost hate admitting how delicious it was. “It was all right.”

“Uh-huh. You didn’t finish it.” He nods toward my bowl.

“I’m full. I guess I don’t have a big appetite like you do.” I wave my hand toward his very empty bowl.

“Hmm.” He snatches up my bowl and takes a bite that consists mostly of noodles. The look of pleasure that crosses his face is unmistakable. “Damn, this is good. Better than mine.”

“Give me a break. I pretty much copied you.” I roll my eyes.

He laughs and continues to eat my dinner. Where does it all go? “Maybe you have the special touch. Because this shit is amazing.”

I watch, enraptured with everything about him. He laughs and talks and eats like he doesn’t have a care in the world, but I know that’s somewhat of a façade. What Owen wants all of the world to see. There’s more beneath the surface. I can sense it, have seen glimmers of it, though he’s pretty secretive.