Page 68 of Wicked Love

“We’ve got to eat, right?”

“Right.” He’s not asking me out, I remind myself. My heart is still doing embarrassing leaps inside. “Yeah…we’ve gotta eat. I’m in.” I fling my arm out and knock over the whole rack of balls.

I scramble to catch them and Bowie helps me put them back in place. I hear his chuckle again and I should be pleased that I’m making a grieving man laugh, but I just want a hole to swallow me.

“Shall we do Rose & Thorn?” he asks.

“I’ve never been there.”

“Oh, I think you’ll like it.”

“Should we meet there?” I ask.

He looks at his watch. “I would’ve picked you up, but it’s getting late. Yeah, how about we meet there?”

He was going to pick me up? No, it’s not a date. Right? We’re going with Becca. Not a date.

“Sounds good,” I say, keeping my arms to myself so I don’t send anything else flying.

He gives me a tight smile and calls Becca over. They hang out for a few minutes while I go to my office. When I walk out, he lifts away from the wall and holds the door open for us.

Yep, having his baby, I think.

I’ve never felt completely sane, a point to which Marley has always wholeheartedly agreed with me, but now I’mreallylosing it.

Fortunately, Becca keeps the conversation going at the restaurant.

“Oma likes lots of things,” she says. She holds her hands up to show me something tall. “Giraffes. And cups. And shoes.”

I laugh and Bowie nods begrudgingly.

“It’s true. She likes all those things…and then some,” he adds.

“Dad and I…” Becca starts, looking at Bowie for help. “We—” she shakes her head. “We not messy.”

“We don’t love as many things as Oma does, do we?” he says.

“We don’t,” she says.

“Can you talk her into storing some of her things…you know, have it ready to go for when she moves into her new place?” I suggest.

“If only she were agreeable to that,” Bowie grumbles. “This morning, she decided five thirty was the perfect time to reorganize my kitchen. Do you know how disorienting it is to reach for a mug and find a bag of prunes instead?”

I snort. “Yikes.”

“I had these nice glass containers that she’s replaced with bright orange Tupperware.”

“Wait, she’s replaced them? What did she do with yours?”

He leans on his forearms and he looks so delicious, I gulp.

“She tried to send them to Goodwill. I found them in a box and had to unpack my own damn bowls.”

My eyes widen.

“She’s not trying to reorganize, she’s trying to conquer. I thought she was moving in to grieve maybe, you know? But no, she’s on a warpath. Every drawer, every cabinet—nothing is safe.”

“Your house is already very organized,” I say.

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