I jog until I’m caught up with him again, and follow his footsteps until we’re at the driver’s door for his truck. “Owen, wait!” I say, wanting to say something better, something that would show him I didn’t doubt him. But then again, there was a moment where I did. I doubted him, for just a fraction of a second—because of everything I’ve been told.

“Here,” he says, tossing the silver chain, heavy with charms, to me. I catch it in both hands, looking down at it with a pinched brow, confused. “I got that for you.”

He leaves quickly, never looking me in the eyes. The light is fading as dusk starts to settle in, so I shuffle my feet back to my car, my fingers rubbing obsessively over the metal trinkets in my hand. I flip the dome light on as soon as I’m buckled in the car, then I open my palm and look at my gift from Owen. I fall apart all at once; each charm is thoughtful, precious—one a note, one a piano, one a pick-up truck, and the last one a Ferris wheel.

I dial Owen three times, each call going right to his voicemail. So I give up, slam the car gear into reverse, and speed away from the shopping center. A few times, I convince myself that I can see Owen’s lights, that it’s his truck I’m following. But it never is, each time the driver turning the wrong way.

When I pull into my driveway, the car skids over the dip in the gutter, grinding metal along pavement, but the noise is just enough to stop Owen as his foot is about to step up his porch.

I push the gear in park, fly from the door and leave the car running in my driveway—my feet skipping carefully over the rocks and dips from the concrete of my driveway to his front yard. Owen doesn’t move, but he doesn’t leave. He stands there, his hands limp at his sides, his hat pushed low over his eyes, hiding how pathetic he feels—how vulnerable he is. I ignore it all, my hand grasping my bracelet, my gift, so tightly that the metal is leaving an indentation in my palm.

“I love it,” I say, walking swiftly up to him, my breathing coming hard. “My bracelet. Owen…thank you. I love it.”

He doesn’t say a word, but he glances down at my open palm, his eyes twitching with the motion of my hands as I struggle with the clasp and work to wrap the chain around one wrist with my opposite hand. I hold my arm against my chest, keeping the end of the bracelet in place and finally hook it closed.

“It’s beautiful, Owen. This…it’s beautiful. Thank you,” I say, my eyes glossing over with the want to cry. I stand before him, waiting for him to say something, say anything. Instead, he’s motionless, and I give up. “I just wanted you to know how much I love it. How thankful I am…I’m sorry, Owen,” I say, my smile fading fast, my eyes falling low as I turn and walk back to my house, to a kitchen full of pasta and sauce, enough to feed a real family. Only I’m coming back alone….

“You’re beautiful. That…it’s just a bracelet. But you…” Owen says, and I stop, my throat catching my emotion at the sound of his voice. It’s deep and raspy, just like that first night in his truck. His hand is on my shoulder, my feet stopped and my body shivering.

With slow movements, his feet glide closer, an inch at a time, while his hand sweeps my hair around my neck. He slides his touch down my shoulder and arm until his hand is completely wrapped around my wrist. Lifting my arm slowly, Owen slides the edge of my sleeve with his finger, exposing the bracelet along my pale skin, the weight of the charms sliding up as he brings my hand closer to my shoulder, closer to him.

I can feel him breathe along my neck, and when the warmth of his mouth tickles my fingers, then my wrist, my eyes roll to a close—the feeling unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. This is the dream I’ve had in my bed every night since I’ve met Owen Harper. Only this isn’t a dream at all. It’s really happening.

Owen loosens his grip on my wrist, letting go completely—then moving his hand to my jaw, pulling my chin up so I look at the dark, cloud-covered sky. When his lips touch the freezing skin along my neck, my knees grow weak, and I nearly slip to the ground.

With a more forceful grip, Owen reaches into my hair and turns me into him quickly, my breath catching when I realize how close I am to him, how much of him I can smell, feel, touch—taste. Both of his hands rise to my cheeks, his thumbs giving each one a gentle stroke while he looks at me.

No boy has ever touched me like this. No boy has ever given me a gift. And I’ve never wanted a boy to kiss me more than I do right now—to kiss me like the way they do in the movies, like a grown woman, like the woman I’m so close to becoming.