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He doesn’t look convinced it’s possible. “Wish me luck.”
I start the timer and he moves branches out of the way to peer deeper into the tree. Growing up, I wasn’t allowed touse my hands, only my eyes, but he’s a beginner and Nana isn’t watching. I let it slide.
The seconds turn into minutes. I love his long fingers and large hands. I watch the way his muscles move under his button-up shirt. How he scratches his bearded cheek absently as he focuses on his task. The way his thighs tighten when he squats to look low. He hasn’t worn shorts once since we arrived in Maine, and I miss seeing his legs.
As the minutes accumulate, he doesn’t get frustrated or give up. He’s focused, even if his search method is erratic; he’s in one spot, then the next. He looks past the pickle at least three times before he finally pauses.
“Found it!” he crows and unhooks it from the branch. He turns, his face alight with his triumph. “That was harder than I thought it would be. How long did it take?”
His happiness at finding the silly pickle is sweet and sincere. It distracts me, and I forget to stop the timer. I shave off a minute as a personal punishment for staring. “Six minutes, twenty-one seconds.”
He blows out a breath and wipes at his brow with the back of his hand as if he’s just run a seven-minute mile. “It seems I need practice.”
“Give it twenty years, and you’ll be a pro just like I am.”
His eyes turn serious and his smile melts away as he studies my face. “I’d like to.”
Time stops. A tangible current runs between us. He’s so close I can reach out and touch his chest, just like I did on the beach. My hand lifts a few inches before I remind myself that this is myfriend. The hug was pushing the friend boundary enough. Feeling up his chest a second time is way too far.
Spencer had a right to his anger this afternoon. I’m angry at myself for letting my feelings run this deep. I need space, so I walk to the other side of the room, putting the table between us, but I don’t leave. There isn’t anywhere else I’d rather be.
“What’s my prize for the quickest time?” My voice is wobbly, as are my legs. I steady myself by grabbing onto the back of a chair.
He glances at my lips for a split second before turning away. “I’ll go grab it.”
He exits through the serving door and this time when he comes back he has a tray with a stollen loaf cake covered in powdered sugar.
“Weihnachtsstollen,” I whisper. The faint scent is enough to transport me back to my childhood.
“Um, what?”
Why does Owen have to remember everything I tell him? Why is he so wonderful?
“Weihnachts is Christmas in German. Weihnachtsstollen.”
“Do you speak German?”
“Not enough to have a conversation, but a little.”
Owen places the tray on the table and cuts a thick slice off the end. Inside the loaf cake are the bright colors of dried fruit, candied citrus peel, and almonds. Baked through the center is a rope of marzipan.
He hands me the first piece. I break off a corner and drop it on my tongue. I close my eyes as the memory of Christmases past envelopes me.
“This is just like Nana makes it,” I whisper, my feelings of missing Nana so close to the surface that I have to sit downbefore I fall down. “I’ve tried to make it like this, but it’s never had the right texture or mixture of spices.”
“It looks like fruitcake.”
If he were closer, I would smack his arm for the insult. “I am offended on behalf of Germany. It is not a fruit cake; it’sstollen.”
He uses a fork instead of his fingers, but his eyes widen as he chews. “This is delicious.”
“I told you.”
I savor each bite and appreciate Owen’s silence as I do so. I need the mental space to collect my thoughts and feelings and package them away, never to think on again.
When I’ve eaten my last bite, he asks, “Are you ready for your gifts?”
Gifts plural? This is all too much. He’s blurring the lines between friendship and more, almost as if on purpose.
