Page 273 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet

“Damn, Declan takes care of his mom,” I say, admiring the place.

“He sure does. I kinda love when these superstar athletes I work with have soft spots for their families,” Owen says.

“Me too,” I say, and I want to just gawk and talk and ask why he loves that, and if it’s because maybe it makes them human and real and not quite so larger-than-life.

But there’s no time to linger.

“Anyway,” I say, gesturing to the rest of the home, “we have to do the rest of the taps, right? Other cabinets too?”

“Yes. That’s the point. Anything can freeze so you want the water to be flowing through the pipes. At a trickle, that is,” he says.

“Too bad. I kind of wanted to take a tour,” I say, then glance at the time on my phone. “But we’ll have to be speedy, so we won’t be stuck here. No time to stare.”

Owen shoots me a look like I’ve gone mad. “I wasn’t staring. I was just answering your question.”

“I know, but there’s no time to lose,” I say, shooing him along.

“Got the message. I’m going,” he says, then bends, unties his motorcycle boots. His gaze drifts down, and he points at my shoes. “Take off your shoes too. It’s rude to walk around in shoes in someone’s home.”

“Obviously. I’m not a troglodyte,” I say, as I toe them off.

“I wasn’t saying you were.” Shoving his hand through his hair, he hoofs it down the hall. Like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

Owen darts into the hallway bathroom, turns on the faucet, then wheels out of there before I can reach him. He continues down the hall, passing the framed photos on the wall—pictures of mountains, sunsets, and seascapes. At the end of the hall, he turns through the doorway. “Guest room,” he says.

“Is there a bathroom in there?”

Not answering, he pads softly over the beige carpet, around a king-size bed, then to the en suite bathroom.

He’s in and out in a flash. “Done. Opened the cupboards too.”

“You are indeed speedy,” I say, injecting even more cheer in my tone.

Owen doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t pick up from our texts earlier in the day about speed. He simply pushes on, through the cold, eerily quiet hallway, continuing the task, and I follow him, as if I’m some sort of puppy.

Silence has fallen over the house, and us.

“We’re almost done,” I say, just to fill the emptiness.

Owen jerks his gaze back, locks eyes with me briefly, then shakes his head.

“What? We are,” I say, like I need to emphasize just how on track we are with every task.

“I know,” he mutters, then pushes past me to the stairs going up to the loft-style second floor. His feet fall heavily, the loud clops of a pissed-off man.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t seem like nothing.

It sure as hell seems like something.

It’s not in my nature to let things go. I come from a family who works shit out, that airs grievances so we can talk throughthem, move past them, hug it out. “Owen,” I say, insistent as he climbs the steps.

“What?” It comes out caustic. He’s never used that tone with me before, not even when I forgot to get him Arcade Fire tickets that one time.

“Why are you so pissy?” I ask.

“You want to get going. If you want to drive in this weather, we need to go,” he says, making a move-along gesture.