“Bree?” The interloper touched Bree’s elbow to get her attention.
Owen growled low.
“Ryan, this is my friend Owen.”
Owen growled again at being called friend. He was her friend, but that title didn’t hold enough of a stamp in it. There was nothing in “friend” that saidstay away.
Ryan and Owen shook hands. Owen wanted to crush his puny fingers like an oatmeal cookie, but decided to play nice. He’d love to have Bree all to himself, but he wasn’t going to bethatguy, the kind that insisted she break off friendships—the jealous boyfriend.
“Are these your brownies?” asked Ryan.
Bree’s eyes crinkled. “Yeah. I’m raising money for the summer reading program.”
“I’ll take one.”
Bree’s chest lifted.
Owen’s eyes blurred with fierceness. “I’ll take the rest.”
“Owen.” She spoke softly, and he had to lean closer to hear her. “You don’t have to do that. They’re selling well tonight.”
“I’d like to.” He handed her a hundred-dollar bill. Let the little guy look like a cheapskate. One measly cookie? Ha.
“Great,” said Ryan. “That means you’re free for the next dance.”
Bree rolled her eyes. “I guess so.”
“What’re we waiting for?” Ryan snatched her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor before she could give him a proper reply.
Owen grabbed a cookie and crushed it in his palm. It was soft and crispy and smelled like vanilla and cinnamon. Crushing it did nothing to make him feel better.
He would have marched out there and snatched Bree away from this Ryan character if she looked at all uncomfortable.Give me a reason,he silently taunted Ryan. One false step, one frown, one stray hand and Owen would toss the guy onto the street before he had a chance to hop and chassé.
Owen’s mood darkened because Bree didn’t object to dancing with Ryan. She smiled and moved lightly, taking pleasure in kicking her boots up. That was wrong—so wrong. She shouldn’t be with another man. She should be with him. The knowledge was strong and true and he couldn’t deny it if forced to run twenty miles in his practice pads.
He folded his arms again. He could wait. And watch. Just one small reason to step in, that’s all he’d need.
Chapter Eighteen
Bree went through the moves of the dance on autopilot. Ryan led her around, not saying much.
Her brain repeated the same phrase over and over again. And it wasn’t even an intelligent phrase: He’s here. He’s here. He’s here.
She’d been watching for him, but until he showed up she didn’t realize how much she missed him. His walking into the room was as good as filling the place up with the scent of melted chocolate—it infused her with warmth and desire and cravings for things she knew weren’t good for her, but she couldn’t help but want them anyway.
“… much vanilla?”
Ryan’s voice rose above the din and she lifted her glasses up on her nose in an effort to refocus. “I’m sorry?”
Ryan leaned closer. “I asked if there was any such thing as too much vanilla in a cookie.”
She blinked at him. “Vanilla?”
“Because you make cookies,” he added rather lamely.
“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m sure there could be, but I’ve never thought about it before.” Ryan was a nice guy. He really was. And if this dance had happened several weeks ago, she would have been happy to debate the ratio of flour to vanilla for a good half hour. However, the topic of conversation plopped between them like flat cookie dough on a baking sheet. Truly, Ryan’s only fault was that he’d come home after Owen Mattox had moved in, and for that, Bree felt bad.
The accordion player drew out the last note of his solo, stretching his time in the spotlight. The second he released the keys, Owen was at her side, his blue eyes cutting into Ryan and his hand placed possessively on Bree’s lower back. “I believe the next dance is mine.”