“Yes.”

“And she baked you muffins just for fixing her water heater?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t buy it.”

“Her water heater’s been on the fritz for the last year. She doesn’t want to buy a new one unless she has to. So when it goes out, she calls me, I come over, I fix it, and she bakes me muffins as a thank-you.”

“Oh,” I said, sitting back down on my stool. Oh.

“What the hell was that about churning my butter?”

“Never mind. So nothing happened with you and Missy Friday night?”

“Nope.”

Shit. “Well, don’t I feel like an asshole.”

“You should,” he said, lifting the pan of burned bacon and dumping it in the trash. The eggs followed.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I’ll clean the pans. Maybe we can go grab some breakfast in town?”

He looked at me for a moment, really looking at me. I tried a half smile, which coaxed one from him.

“You’re a bit loony—you know that, right?” he asked, reaching out and grabbing a handful of pigtail.

I grinned. “Comes with the territory.”

We did go into town for breakfast. Tucked into the last empty booth at the coffee shop, we ordered up a big mess of waffles based on the waitress’s recommendation.

“These are special, the last of the blueberries for the season till next year.”

“Then that’s what we’re having,” I said, not bothering to open my menu.

“Done,” Oscar agreed, handing back his menu as well. “And coffee, lots of coffee.”

“I’m not surprised. The way you two were carrying on at Pat’s last night, you should need some caffeine.” She raised her eyebrows at the two of us, and went off to put our order in.

“You think the town’s talking about us?” I asked, looking around the busy restaurant. There were definitely some interested looks being thrown our way. And we had been a little ridiculous last night.

“Do you care?” he asked, leaning across the table and picking up my hand, then kissing it slowly, his lips just barely brushing the backs of my knuckles.

“Do you?” I breathed, already knowing the answer. Oscar did what he wanted, when he wanted, and really didn’t care what anyone thought.

His answer was in fact another kiss, leaning across the table and giving me one hell of a lip smack.

“You’re determined to make us the town topic, aren’t you?”

“People are gonna say what they want to; I can’t stop that,” he replied, a teasing look in his eye. “Besides, they’re always trying to figure me out. It’s been that way since I moved here; best to keep them guessing.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked, enjoying the warmth of his hand in mine.

“Hmm, five years now? Six?”

“And where were you before that?”

“Dallas.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

“Nope,” he said, chewing on his bottom lip. I noticed he did this when we were talking about something he didn’t really want to. “Cream?” He gestured to the silver pitcher that a busboy had just set down on the table, along with our coffee.

“Please,” I nodded, tearing open a sugar packet and adding it to my cup. “So you didn’t grow up in Dallas. Where were you before Dallas?”

“LA.”

“You lived in LA?” Holy shit, my country boy in Los Angeles was hard to envision.

“I didn’t live in LA, I just went to school there. I didn’t like Los Angeles much.”

“What school did you go to?”

He chewed his bottom lip again. “USC.”

A lightbulb went off. “You played football there, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “Full-ride scholarship.”

I squeezed his hand. “That’s incredible!”

He squeezed it back, then let go. “It’s not that incredible.” He looked out the window, watching the clouds. “Looks like we might get rain today.”

“Wait a minute, you went to one of the best colleges in the country on a full-ride scholarship and you say it’s not that incredible?”

He shrugged. “I come from a football family. We all played, all my brothers.”

“Did any of them go pro?” I asked. Finally, a reaction on his face. He blushed and smiled sheepishly. “You played pro football?”

He shrugged once more. “Dallas.”

My head exploded. “You played for the Dallas Cowboys?” My shriek caused several to look our way, and he winced.

“Could you not yell, please?” His expression was guarded now, closed off somehow. “Yes, I played pro ball.”

“How long?”

He didn’t answer for the longest time. When he did, his voice was quiet, and harder than I’d ever heard it. “Six and a half.”

“Years?”

He shook his head. “Games.”

I remembered our conversation from earlier, all the scars. The broken fingers, the busted elbow, the blown-out—

“You blew out your knee playing, didn’t you?”

He sighed, a sigh that seemed to go on and on and carried such a heavy load. “Yes,” he finally said through gritted teeth. And when he met my gaze, those piercing gray-blue eyes were full of so much hurt.

“Here we are, waffles for everyone!” the waitress chirped cheerfully, setting down two platters of waffles studded with enormous blueberries, pulling a container of syrup out of her apron pocket.