Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

5. Miles

Chapter 5

Miles

“You’re doing what now?”

The incredulous look on Owen’s face confirms that Georgia’s plan to matchmake for me is just as bonkers as I imagine it to be. I see no need to mention the Kissing Corn Maze and sink his opinion of me even lower.

It’s been days, and Georgia’s talked almost nonstop about her goal to find me a date to the Andromeda Awards. After useless agonizing on my own, I enlisted my friend to join me at Lupe’s Escape for dinner. We’d barely dug into our enchiladas before I blurted out what’s bothering me.

Owen and I don’t usually have heart-to-hearts, but I’m not usually this tormented by my best friend’s “goodwill,” either.

“I am reluctantly participating in Georgia’s dating schemes,” I confirm.

He’s looking at me like I just revealed I’m secretly a cyborg here to spy on the human race. Which is probably something I should write down for brainstorming later. A secret cyborg spy could be good.

He scrapes a hand over his beard. “This is a terrible plan. ”

“I know.”

Letting her set me up is a nightmare scenario. Like when I relive college in my dreams and show up to class completely unprepared, unsure if I’m in the right room, and wearing nothing but my underwear.

However, the alternative involves telling her things I don’t know that she’s ready to hear. She’s turned down every guy who’s asked her out for the last two years, possibly longer. She’s comfortable with me now, but she might see me differently the minute I tell her how I feel about her. I’m not ready to lose our closeness.

If that means I have to go on a few dates with someone else, I’ll do it.

I guess we’re both bonkers.

“I don’t have room to throw stones,” Owen says. “But this…this is a truly terrible plan.”

He shares my pain. For months now, he’s been pining after Josie, an environmental scientist new to Magnolia Ridge. She joined a couple of the book clubs that meet at Dogeared, and I see her once in a while around town. She seems lost in her own thoughts half the time, but when she speaks up, it’s clear she’s brilliant.

Owen has managed to talk to her exactly never. We’ve only been friends for two years, but I’ve never seen him lack for confidence with a woman like this. He’s a burly MMA instructor who owns every room he walks into.

Unless she’s in the room. Then, he stares longingly for a few minutes, avoids all possibility of actually speaking with her, and turns right around and leaves. It’s painful to watch, but so far, it seems I’m the only one who’s noticed the pattern.

“I think you’re wrong about Josie.”

You can tell when people are judging you. It’s in the way their eyes move over you or an inflection in their voice. They’ve seen something in you that doesn’t measure up, and they write you off. But Josie’s never given me those vibes.

He grunts. “What would a literal scientist want with a guy who teaches people how to throw punches for a living? She has a PhD.”

“You’re a lot more than just your fists.”

He takes a drink of his margarita. “High praise.”

“You have interests beyond the ring. I still say your gardening is a good place to start.”

Another grunt. “I’d come away from any conversation with her sounding like an idiot.”

“Unlikely.” Our friendship sprang up from conversations in the bookshop. He can be gruff, and he’s about as easy to get to know as I am, but he’s an interesting guy when he gives himself space to talk.

“She’s…soft and delicate. And crazy smart. We won’t have anything in common.”

“She could be a motorcycle aficionado, for all we know.”

He has two. Despite his suggestions I should learn to ride, I’ve avoided that deathtrap so far.

“Don’t even think it. She’d have me on my knees if she were.”

“So give her a chance. Be honest with her. Try.”

He glares. “Says the guy who’s letting the woman he’s in love with set him up with other women.”

Yeah, that kind of springs a leak in my “be honest with her” advice. I’ve parroted those same words for a while now, but it’s different when you’re on the receiving end.

“In my defense, I created a loophole. If Georgia’s set ups don’t pan out, she’ll be my date to the awards ceremony.”

Owen nods over his enchiladas verdes. “So you’re going to torpedo the dates.”

I lay a hand over my heart. “With the utmost respect. ”

I had enough first dates explode on the launchpad in my twenties. It shouldn’t be hard to get the same results on these setups.

“And then you’ll tell her?”

Nerves plummet through my gut. I don’t have a specific plan beyond taking her to the awards ceremony. Will I actually tell her how I feel afterward? I’ve been waiting for her to give some kind of indication she has feelings for me, too, before I confess anything.

I might end up waiting for the rest of my life.

“I don’t know what I’ll tell her. But the date is a start.”

“Why wait? You two spend most of your days together as it is. You could just tell her how you feel any time.”

“You could just come to one of the book clubs Josie’s in and ask her out.”

He splays a hand at me. “Take your time.”

I chuckle. Neither of us is ready to risk breaking our own hearts. “Is Rumble Room doing something for the Harvest Festival?”

He grunts confirmation. “The gym owner seems to think I’ll do well with the kids. I’ll probably be in charge of bobbing for apples or something like that.”

“Do they still let kids do that?”

“Can’t be worse than anything else kids do.”

He’s got a point. Half of what I’ve seen Georgia’s younger siblings touch with their bare hands makes me want to whip out some disinfecting spray.

“It’s a good idea though.”

Owen’s eyebrows tug together. “The apple bobbing?”

“Sorry, no. My mind wandered there. I mean having businesses volunteer their time at the Harvest Festival.” It encourages a sense of community involvement and reminds residents we’re all in this together .

His mouth tugs into a smirk. “You say that because you’re planning to have Georgia volunteer right along with you.”

“Guilty.” I have to subdue a smirk of my own. Of course, my volunteering together plan would have been a whole lot smoother without her matchmaking plan heaped on top of it.

“How’s your arm doing?” I ask.

He lifts his short sleeve to reveal a new tattoo scene covering his left upper arm. The right is already covered shoulder to wrist. He’s got more tattoos on his chest I’ve glimpsed when we spar at the gym where he teaches. Probably even more than that, but I haven’t asked for a full inventory.

“All healed.”

He twists his arm so I can see the design. It’s an underwater image that includes everything from softly floating jellyfish to starfish along his elbow to the hammerhead shark centerpiece.

“That’s good work.” I don’t know much about tattoos, but I know good art when I see it.

He replaces the shirt sleeve. “I’m happy with it. Hammerheads are the coolest.”

“Maybe that’s what I need. I’ll get a tattoo to confess to Georgia. One of her drawings permanently inked on my skin would be a pretty good love declaration.” I’m joking, but it’s not the first time the thought’s crossed my mind.

His dark look tells me he isn’t impressed. “You’re a writer. Seems like you could think of another way to confess to her.”

“Possibly.” Like possibly the drawer full of letters I’ve written and never given her. Once in a while, when my heart feels like it’s going to overflow from longing, I write everything I’m feeling in a letter. It’s a relief to get it off my chest, however short-lived. I’ve got a good thirty letters stashed away now.

A full-body tattoo would be less painful than sharing those.