Wait.
Wait a second.
Wait a fucking second.
Owen opens his mouth to say something else, but I hold up a hand to stop him. I need a minute, or five, to think this through.
I turn around, so I don’t have to look at him or the potatoes.
I get hyperfixations all the time. I get obsessed with a subject, research it to death, buy every single piece of associated paraphernalia, squeeze every last ounce of joy from it, and then move on to something else. It’s just the natural order of the ’tism.
Owen and his potatoes are simply my next obsession. That’s all.
I’m not in love with him. I’m just caught up in the food he brings me. Maybe I’m actually in love with Tyler, the nineteen-year-old Little Thatch chef.
“And,” Owen says before I’ve turned around. “Sticky toffee pudding with Cornish clotted cream.”
Shit. I’m done for. Not even any fucking potatoes in that, so I have no excuse.
“Why are there two plates of everything?” I ask, finally turning to look at him.
“Thought you might want company. I can take mine back over to the pub if you’d rather be alone.”
I don’t want that, I realise. For the first time in forever, I don’t want to be by myself.
I say nothing and walk back to the house. Owen hops along behind me, the dishes jangling on the tray.
“Weren’t you about to go for a run?” he asks.
I lift one hand out, palm up like I’m holding a tennis ball. “Gruyere rostis . . .” I lift the other hand. “Or yet more fucking exercise . . . No-brainer, really.”
The dining room is the smallest space in a very small cottage, and the only word apt enough to describe the ancient-looking mahogany table is cosy. It’s beautiful and handcrafted, and no doubt the ornate knobbly legs are hand turned, but I’m willing to bet the original carpenter had never seen a person over five foot tall, let alone imagined that one day it’d have to accommodate two burly rugby players. Owen sits opposite me, and our legs not only touch under the tabletop, but are mashed together. The press of a denim-clad knee grazes my inner thigh. I move my leg after a few seconds so the friction of his jeans rubs my bare skin. He knows I’m doing it deliberately, but he says nothing. Presses harder with his knee, if anything.
Our plates have to slot side by side so they’re not overlapping each other. I hadn’t twigged how hungry I was until we start to eat, so I’m barely supplying conversation. I’m being a terrible host, though Owen doesn’t seem to mind. He seems happy to just sit in silence as we eat, occasionally glancing up to share a smile.
He’s very comfortable to be around, I realise, and the only complaint I have about the food is that there’s not more of it. Owen obviously senses this, and slides his rosti over to me.
“No, I can’t accept it.” I push it back.
He tips the thing onto my plate. “It’s going on your tab. Five ninety-five.” Then his knee brushes against my thigh once again, and suddenly I want a lot more than cheesy potato cakes.
Dessert is also fucking excellent, even if it has gone cold. I drag it out, eat slowly, because I don’t want Owen to leave. We haven’t said more than ten words to each other, but his presence is calming. It’s a balm to my overthinking brain.
“Don’t you need to be over the road?” I ask, acutely aware that I’m stealing his precious time. It’s a Saturday night, and it’s hot outside. The first proper day of sunshine we’ve had in what feels like a decade of winters. Owen’s pub will be heaving, the beer garden too. He’ll be needed there.
He shakes his head. “Daisy’s running the place tonight, and we’re fully staffed. Two behind the bar, three in the kitchen, and Lando has agreed to clear tables and wait.”
“Okay,” I reply.
Owen must mistake my answer for something else. His smile drops. “But I can go if I’m outstaying my welcome.”
“You’re not.” I want to tell him I like having him around, that he’s always welcome here, but the words turn to paste in my mouth and I can’t get them out. Why do those types of things come so easily to him and not to me? “Do you fancy a beer?” I ask instead.
“Got any Hooker’s Dribble?”
“No chance.” I grab two beers from the fridge, and slap a cold bottle of Staropramen into his hands.
“We hanging out, then?”
