Page 55 of Book Boyfriends
His answering smirk is so much like Lars or my brother’s, I wonder if theyarerubbing off on him.
“Is everything okay?” Davis asks.
“Yep. Just an early morning. Those muffins don’t bake themselves, you know?”
“Muffins?” Forehead pinched, Davis looks between me and Owen. “You’re a baker like Owen in the book?”
“What are the odds?” A nervous laugh punctuates his retort.
“Do you need to go too?” Davis looks at me.
“No!” Owen’s protest is high-pitched. “I mean”—he offers an apologetic smile—“don’t end your fun because of me. You two, stay. Enjoy your ice cream.” He scoops up the leftover biscuits and his ice cream. “Can you walk Georgia home? It’s not far and I know she doesn’t need anyone, but I’d feel better.”
“Of course.”
“Sorry, Georgia.” The twitch of his lips telegraphs that he’s only sorry-ish.
It’s clear he’s playing matchmaker.Seriously, how much of my bestie did I use to inspire his character?
Shaking his head, Davis watches as Owen leaves. “You have a friend named Owen who is a baker?” It’s more accusation than question.
“Yep.”
“The resemblance is uncanny.” He nibbles on the corner of his mouth.
“Yep.” Shifting in my seat, I spoon up some ice cream.
“Did you base the character on him?” he asks, sliding onto the bench across from me.
“On my best friend Hope.”
“He’s so much like the character.” He clicks his tongue twice.
“You want to try this?” I hold up my dish as a distraction.
As much as I tell fictional stories in my books, lying isn’t my forte. Each time I do, the knot in my stomach coils tight, causing a queasy ache. Avoiding the topic is preferable. Though it’s just a form of a lie. It’s more like lying lite. Like diet soda, it leaves the same artificial taste in my mouth, but without the unwanted calories.
He spoons up some of my ice cream and some of his own on the same spoon. “So good,” he moans after his first lick.
“Yeah?” I do the same with his and mine. “Oh god! Why haven’t I done this before? Next time a scoop of each.”
“Agreed.” He spoons up another bite.
Next time?Those two words thrum through me with the promise of something I shouldn’t have, but I crave anyway. Five days ago, I sat across from Davis at Fisher’s Landing, scoffing at the idea of a next time with him, but here I am daydreaming about it.
“Hope is the inspiration for Owen Baker?” he asks.
“Yeah.” Chuckling, I scoop up another bite. “I didn’t realize how much of an inspiration until recently.”
“Do you pull a lot from your life?”
“Bits and pieces. Most writers cannibalize their lives just a bit. But at the end of the day, it’s fiction.”
“Willournot-so-meet/cute make it into one of your books?” he teases.
“Maybe.” With a bat of my lashes, I offer a cheeky smile.
He leans back and his boyish grin erupts, every feature bright with playfulness. “It would be the perfect start for the female main character to be rescued from Mr. Foot-in-His-Mouth by herMr. Right. The perfect meet-cute.”
