I blinked. I was pretty sure I'd heard him wrong. "Huh?"
"I said, truce?" Those gorgeous amber eyes focused on me. "Look. I know we got off on the wrong foot over and over again, but it's pretty obvious that we're going to be stuck with no company but each other's for the next month. And I'd really prefer not to spend my time hiding from each other. So why don't we declare a truce and try to be decent to each other for the next few weeks?"
He stuck a hand out to me to shake.
I narrowed my eyes and stared at it, not quite trusting him. After a moment, I reached out and gingerly touched his fingertips, then turned his hand over and examined the other side.
"What are you looking for?" he asked.
"A joy buzzer. This is a trap, right?"
He drew back and sighed heavily. "It's not a trap, Boston. Jesus, you're suspicious."
"Well, how do you expect me to behave?" I said defensively. "From day one, you've mocked the way I talk, told me I sucked at challenges, and turned everyone against me."
"Yeah, that worked out really well for me, didn't it?" he said sarcastically. "Seeing as how I was out second?"
Was this...an ass-backwards apology of some kind? "So you admit that you were wrong?"
"No," he said, tilting his head as if he were trying to reason with some strange creature. "I'm admitting that I'm super competitive. You are, too."
Well, that was true enough. I toyed with the edges of my notepad. "So are you going to keep making fun of my accent?"
A hint of smile flashed across his face. "I might."
I made a face at him and searched for a rejoinder. His cupcake tee-shirt glared out at me, and inspiration struck. "Then I'm going to call you Cupcake every time you do."
"I wish you wouldn't."
"Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up faster," I told him, using one of my Pops' favorite sayings.
"God, Boston. You have a mouth on you." He shook his head.
"Thank you," I said primly. And then I couldn't think of anything else to say so I turned back to my notepad. I was character sketching, and until now, I'd been completely dry. Hero's brother has ridiculous name, I wrote in the margins. You couldn't de-masculine the hero, but I could always add a comic relief male character. Maybe I'd call him Cupcake. A big, bulky guy named Cupcake could be fun. I wrote that down.
Owen stretched out on the couch across from me and propped his head up on one elbow, watching me. "So what's in the notepad?"
"Work," I said abruptly, and scratched out Cupcake so he couldn’t read it. Too obvious. I changed it to ‘Sugarbean.’
"What kind of work?"
"Script work."
His brows drew together. "What do you mean, script work?"
I began to write some more, mostly to keep my fingers busy. "You go to the movies much?"
"Sometimes."
"You like horror movies?"
"Sometimes."
"You ever see The Termite or The Termite 2: Walls of Blood?"
He snorted. "Not if I can help it."
"Those are my movies," I told him proudly. "I write horror movie scripts. Sometimes they get picked up by Hollywood, sometimes not." Okay, most times not, but I wouldn't tell him that. "I've had two picked up by production companies and two more purchased by TV channels who want some Saturday night flicks." I gestured at my pad. "Right now, since I have time on my hands, I'm sketching out some preliminary ideas for Termite 3."
"Huh."
"What's that 'huh' mean?"
"It means you're a tiny little chick, you know? Kinda girly except for that Boston mouth on you. You don't seem like the type that would be into horror movies."
"I happen to love horror movies, "I told him loftily. "They're escapist fun."
He grinned, and for a moment he was so gorgeous my heart flipped. "So what's The Termite about? Is he a big bug that eats people?"
I shook my head. "Nah. That's too easy. Plus those B-movie special effects look like shit. He's a serial killer that likes to hide in the walls and kill his victims. He's called The Termite because he emerges from the woodwork and attacks, and then drags them back into the walls. No one knows where people are disappearing to until they smell something, or the blood leaks through." Both of which I'd used to great effect in the first and second movies.
Owen wrinkled his nose. "Sounds nasty."
"It's supposed to." I tapped my pen on my notepad. "What is it you do?"
For a second, his gaze flicked away. "I'm a pastry chef."
I blinked. "Really?"
"What, a big guy can't be a pastry chef?" he said defensively. "I like cooking. I especially like baking."
"Okay," I said, since he'd gotten all pissy about it. "Is that why you keep wearing a cupcake on your chest?"
He patted his shirt. "Family business. My mom makes the wedding cakes, and I make everything else."
"That's kind of...cute. My mom hates my job."
He grinned. "You make her go see your movies?"
"Not after the first one. She screamed at all the wrong moments." A reluctant smile was curving my mouth. God, it was so nice to talk to someone, even if it was Owen. "So what kind of pastries do you make?"