I glanced up from the bacon I was cooking when Owen wandered into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands like one of my nieces or nephews would do. "Good morning," I said politely. "Did you sleep well?" I couldn't help but notice how the cordial greeting made me sound just like the tin man my family had described.

After a week of marriage, we were still tiptoeing around each other. I was frustrated, because I really wanted to get to know him better—I just didn't know how to break the ice.

"Yeah." Owen yawned as he shuffled over toward the tea kettle. "Thank you for asking. And you?"

"I slept great." I groaned inwardly at the overly cheerful smile I knew probably resembled a grimace. "Hey, I'm about to fry some eggs to go with this bacon. Can I talk you into helping me eat it?"

"Only if you'll let me make the toast. If you keep doing all the cooking, a claim could probably be made about me breaking our prenup." Owen flashed me a shy smile as he went to get the bread.

We didn't talk anymore until we were seated in the breakfast nook dipping into our food. I winced every time Owen dipped a corner of toast into his egg yolk then dove forward to take a bite before the yolk dripped. I was positive he'd end up wearing it, but so far he'd been faster than the drips. I lowered my gaze, focusing on my plate after the fourth time I saw his pink tongue dart out to catch the dripping yolk.

I'm not sure which part disturbed me more. The thought of egg yolk landing on my table or, God forbid, my rug where it might harden forever into a yellow egg tempera glaze was bad enough. But even worse was the way that darting tongue made my cock twitch.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, silently willing my cock to settle down and behave itself like a gentleman. It was slightly unnerving the way my treacherous body responded to Owen. It was a new thing for me, to be this attracted to someone I barely knew.

"Do you have any plans today?" I asked randomly, trying my best to make casual conversation. Stupid question. Now he's going to think you're checking up on him or calling him lazy, I scolded myself.

"Not really. I mean…" Owen looked like he was at a loss for words for a moment. "I haven't really figured out what to do with myself yet. You probably think I'm a real loser or something, the way I sleep all day."

Fuck. That's exactly what I hadn't wanted him to think I was insinuating. I shook my head. "Not at all, you're pregnant, Owen. Of course you're tired." As he fidgeted in his seat, it occurred to me that maybe he was unsure of himself and his new place in my household. It's not like I’d done much to make him feel at home. If only I were more like Dallas or Houston, maybe then I wouldn't be so awkward, and I’d know how to talk to people to put them at ease.

Inspiration struck, and it was all I could do not to feel giddy. "You know, you don't have to hide in your room—this is your house too now. Why don't we hang out today? We should probably get to know each other better anyway, don't you think?"

As I watched him put the lid back on the marmalade incorrectly so that it sat crookedly, I totally missed his mumbled response. I counted down from ten before casually picking up the marmalade and fixing it, only to feel awkward when I noticed those gray eyes gazing steadily at me. I swallowed then tried a new tack. "So… umm… what do you do for work when you're not pregnant? You said something about painting, right?"

Owen cracked up, his eyes sparkling as he snickered. "Wow, we really don't know each other, do we? Okay, let's start with the basics. I'm an artist, yes. I've had several successful gallery showings in the past, and yes, that's what I generally do for work. I'm supposed to be preparing for a showing in the spring, but I haven't been able to paint."

"Why not?" I asked curiously, then remembered Josh. "Is it because of your loss?"

"No." Owen sighed miserably. "I haven't been able to paint since I got pregnant in the first place. That's actually how I found out. The paint smell made me so nauseous that I kept puking every time I tried to work. So I went to the clinic, and got the shock of my life. I suppose the acrylic fumes aren't great for the baby anyway, so maybe it's not terrible that I'm not painting right now?"

"You have time to prepare though, don't you? I don't know how long it takes to do a painting or how many you’ll need, but it's only September and you said you have until the spring, right?" I leaned back in my chair, tapping my fingers on the table as I considered his conundrum. "Have you tried any other mediums? Maybe watercolors? Even pastels or charcoal might be interesting to work with, I would think."

Owen shrugged. "I've had experience with those, yeah. I was an art student—trust me, we tried all the different mediums over the course of my education. It's just that those take money and I haven't sold a painting in over six months. What with my funds being so slim, I've been trying to save everything I have left for the baby."

I rolled my eyes. "Have you forgotten that you’re now married to a rich guy? Let me help you. Think of the children," I teased, bringing back the line that had worked so well in the past.

"Didn't we have this discussion already about me not wanting your money?" Owen asked with a raised brow.

"Okay, we'll just circle back to that later. How about this, you know how I think we should spend the day together? You're a painter, and I happen to be a big fan of the arts. Why don't you go shower and change while I clean up the kitchen and then we can go hit the museum? Speaking of watercolors, I noticed on the website a few days ago that they have a John Marin exhibit right now that I would really like to see. Are you familiar with his modernist landscapes?"

Owen looked intrigued as he shook his head. "I think you may have happened upon an artist that I'm not familiar with, Austin. You know what? Let's do it. I think a trip to the museum sounds like fun."

I wanted to stand up and do my best rendition of an end zone dance, but I settled for a subtle nod as I took a sip of my coffee. While Owen went upstairs to get ready, I got to work cleaning the kitchen. When I went to put the marmalade away, I frowned at the shelves inside the fridge door.

Why were my condiments out of place? In what world did mustard come before grape jelly? Biting back a sigh, I squatted and made quick work of getting everything back in alphabetical order. I was just putting the Worcestershire sauce in place when Owen came back in.

"You ready to go?" he asked softly, his eyes watching as I rotated the ketchup a quarter turn to face the label outward before rising to my feet.

"Definitely." I smiled easily, mentally crossing my fingers that he didn't think I was weird. "Let's go get our art on."

*****

I smiled at the look of sheer delight on Owen’s face as we sat in a small café across the street from the museum discussing the exhibits we’d seen. We'd had a lovely day so far, and I’d enjoyed finding this new connection with him. Somewhere in the middle of discussing form and composition versus the usage of color and contrast, I'd forgotten to be awkward. Once I'd found a subject I knew something about that wouldn't bore the guy to tears, we'd finally started to connect.

"I'm still not sold on that whole postmodernist stuff you like so much, but that's probably just me being a neoclassical snob again," Owen said with a grin, referring back to an earlier conversation we'd had at one point during the day. "I have to say though, I do feel inspired now. I kind of want to take your suggestion and make a return to watercolors. Maybe even try doing a few pastel drawings too…" He trailed off thoughtfully then shook his head. "But then I'm back to the whole money thing."

Now that I was starting to understand him better, it occurred to me that it wasn't my money he found fault with, as much as the way it made him feel like a charity case. With that in mind, I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and set my empty plate aside.

"About those art supplies." Owen immediately stiffened as I began to speak. I held up a hand. "Wait. Before you start saying no—hear me out."

"Okay, fair enough. I'm all ears." He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands over his baby bump as he waited for me to continue.

"There are two options that I would like to offer you. Instead of me shoving my money down your throat and making you feel like it's a handout, what if we looked at it another way? Either you could let me buy you the things you need and we could call it a wedding present, since it is traditional to exchange wedding gifts, or you could let me buy the supplies and pay me back when you sell your first painting."

"The only problem with your first option is there's no exchange. That's just you finding an excuse to give me a gift." Owen's eyes sparkled with amusement, telling me that at least he wasn't offended.

"There could be an exchange involved." I leaned forward, excited when I had my answer. "What if you painted me something? You could make that your wedding gift to me. I actually like that idea better than a loan, if I'm being honest. I have a blank wall upstairs that is just begging for a neoclassical watercolor."

Owen's lips twitched as if he were fighting a smile when I said that. "So basically, your gift is to buy me the stuff to make your gift?"

"Exactly," I said easily. "How much do your paintings sell for, Owen? I guarantee you the supplies won’t cost nearly as much as I'd pay for a decent painting. And if you’ve had several shows in the same gallery, I don't need to see your work to know that you have skills."

"You win." Owen chuckled. "I can't even argue with that because you're totally right. Come on." He stood, waiting impatiently for me to get up. "Let's go hit the art store before I change my mind. But I'm telling you right now, I just want to get a few basic supplies—no going crazy."

*****

As I loaded the last of the bags into the back of my SUV, Owen was still shaking his head. I gave him my best puppy dog eyes and pouted playfully. "What? I didn't buy anything you didn't want or need, did I? I thought I was pretty well behaved in there."

"You didn't have to buy everything I looked at for longer than ten seconds, Austin," Owen said with a chuckle. "And for the record, you spent way too much for supplies that I'm just going to dabble with to try and create art again. I appreciate the high-quality brushes, but I still don't think I needed those extra easels."

"Sure you did," I said easily as I helped him into the car. "Different-sized easels for the different-sized canvases. Now hush. This is your wedding gift. Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to complain about a gift?"

Owen snorted. "That's not what you were saying when I opened that oil can." My only possible response was to close the door on his laughter as I walked around to my side of the car.

I ignored his snickers as I got in and buckled my belt. "I'm sure you're exhausted after our long day; I know I am. How would you feel about going out to dinner with me tonight? There's a restaurant I love not far from here, if you like steak." I started the car then waited for his answer.

"You had me at steak." Owen moaned as he leaned his head back against the seat. "Feed me, and I'll be your best friend forever."

"Your friendship is that easy, huh?" I said then smiled to myself as I merged into traffic.

"As hungry as I am right now? I could be bought for a cheeseburger from the dollar menu." Owen turned to look out the window as I drove. It was that magic hour of twilight when everything looked slightly silver, yet the colors came to life. Neon signs sparkled against the color-streaked sky.

As if reading my mind, he tapped the glass to point at the sunset. "I would love to capture that, right there. The dark sky merging with the fading light of day, with the stripes of color ranging from lavender and coral to those blues that are so dark they're almost black. I swear, if I could capture that on canvas, I'd be a happy man."

"When you do capture it, as I'm sure you will at some point—that's the painting I'd like for my wedding gift," I said softly as we arrived at my intended destination.

"Fogo? You brought me here?" Owen blurted as I pulled into the parking lot.

"What?" I asked innocently. "You agreed to a steak dinner. This just happens to be my favorite Brazilian steakhouse. Now come on, let’s go get our grub on, as they say."

Owen surprised me by letting me get away with taking him out for this expensive meal. While we waited for our desserts, he regarded me curiously. "You know, as much crap as I've given you about money—and to be fair, you do spend it like it's nothing—can I just ask how you have so much disposable income? I know you do something from home, and you work at the foundation. Surely that can't be enough to pay for the lifestyle you lead. Feel free to tell me if I'm being too invasive."

I chuckled as I shook my head. "Not at all, it's a fair question. And I did tell you that I wanted to spend the day getting to know each other better, so there's nothing wrong with asking me what I do. Especially after we spent the day talking about what you do."

When I trailed off, Owen motioned for me to continue. "So what do you do?"

"As far as the center goes, that's just a passion project. My pay gets donated right back to the center. No, I make my money the old-fashioned way… investments. But," I lowered my voice and leaned closer as I shared my darkest secret, "when I was in high school, I designed a popular video game. It was just supposed to be for a class project but then it took on a life of its own. And then Nintendo bought it and… yeah. Here I am, with more money than I know what to do with and the skills to invest it so it keeps growing like a bad patch of mold."

Owen gaped at me for several seconds. "Holy shit, you created Kid Coyote? I love that game and I totally know your story."

"You do? How would you know that? It's not exactly widespread information these days, and the game has pretty much been forgotten by now." I stared at him in surprise, intrigued that he'd known what I was talking about so quickly.

Owen rolled his eyes. "You do realize that you have an entire shelf in the living room devoted to Kid Coyote, right? That was the tip-off right there. But I'm not lying when I said it was my favorite game when I was younger. I was obsessed with that game and I remember being amazed that a kid not that much older than me had invented it. I was tempted to ask you if that Lucite case in the living room could be opened so we could break that bad boy out the moment I saw the game."

I chuckled, amazed at the turn the conversation had taken. "No, we can't play that version. However, I do have an original copy at the house if you'd like to play it with me."

Owen gaped at me again. "Are you seriously asking if I want to play my favorite game with its creator? Duh. My only question is how fast can we pay the bill and get home?"

*****

"Have you really never seen the gaming room?" I asked in surprise as Owen looked around my man cave with awe. “I would’ve thought you’d have explored the whole house by now. Houston sure as hell would have.”

"Does this face look like one who's been aware of this room's existence? This is insane." Owen walked farther into the room. "I never came down here because it's so close to the master bedroom and I didn't want to pry. I've only been into my room on this floor. But I can see now that I should have been nosier."

I carried the pile of art supplies I held toward the staircase that led to a loft area at the back of the room. I glanced over my shoulder to see Owen standing in front of my Fast and the Furious pinball machine. "Follow me up here, if you don't mind. There's more to see in the loft and I have another idea to run by you."

"Don't get so shocked that you trip on the stairs, but I'm not even going to bitch about you having another idea—I'm too happy right now to gripe about your largess," Owen said with a laugh as he slowly followed me up the stairs.

When we got to the loft area, I set my load down and stepped aside. When Owen entered the area, he walked around checking everything out. His hand ran over the felt of the pool table before he giggled gleefully when he found the foosball machine. He looked back at me, his eyes bright with wonder. "Is that also an air hockey table I see? I already thought your man cave was pretty cool, but I have to say that a two-story man cave is hands down the coolest, most epic thing I've ever seen."

"I mean, I did tell you that I was angling for coolest uncle when the kids are older, remember? This was part of that." I looked wistfully around the room, realizing for the first time what a waste it was to have a space filled with toys like these when I never used it.

Before Dallas and Houston had settled down, they'd occasionally come over for game nights, but for the past few years, it had just been me rambling around this old place by myself. Gaming isn’t fun when you’re doing solo. Thinking of that, I shrugged. "Honestly, I think I'm going to move everything out of here now. Unless the idea will break your heart, I think these machines would be a perfect donation for the afterschool program at the center anyway. The kids could always use more activities."

"Don't do that on my account," Owen said quickly. "I hope I'm not making you feel so guilty about your money that you're ready to just give everything away."

"No." I laughed. "It's nothing like that. Look around for a minute. Ignore the machines and take in the size of the space. The tile floor can handle having paint splattered on it without breaking my heart. If you look up, you'll notice the skylights. They flood this room with natural light in the daytime. I've always thought it would be the perfect garret for an artist, and now I seem to find myself conveniently married to one. That's why I brought your art supplies up here. If you like the idea, I'll bring the easels and everything else up here and arrange to have everything moved to the center tomorrow. What do you say?" I bit my lip, worried that maybe I’d pushed him too far since I knew he had a problem with anybody doing him any favors that he couldn’t reciprocate.

"You know what? I think I'd be a fool to turn down such a lovely offer. But can I make one request?" His eyes twinkled mischievously as he stepped back toward the foosball machine and ran his hand over the knobs. "Could we maybe find room downstairs for this one? Or am I being selfish and cheating the kids at the center?"

"Are you kidding? I have the perfect corner for it downstairs. I just sent an old Ms. Pac-Man arcade game over to the center a few months ago and the spot it was in is still sitting empty. And Owen? I'm pretty sure we both know the last thing you'd ever be was selfish," I said honestly as I turned back toward the stairs. I glanced back over my shoulder to see him watching me. "Are you coming, or did you want to hang out up here for a while? I was thinking that maybe it was time to get our Kid Coyote on."

Owen moved faster than I knew a pregnant person was capable of as he dashed toward the stairs. "Come on, dibs on being player one."

An hour later, as I sat there getting my ass handed to me with a game that I'd created, I didn't even care. I was loving every minute of it. I couldn't help but smile at Owen's laughter as he let himself relax for a change. Watching him have fun was probably one of the highlights of my year.

He glanced over at me suspiciously when he caught me staring. "What? Do I have grease on my face? Kudos on the popcorn machine, by the way; that may be my favorite part of this room."

I shook my head. "No, you don't have anything on your face. It's just nice to see someone still enjoying my game after all these years. You must have really played it a lot back in the day to still be this good at it."

"As your brother would say—bitch, please. I ruled this game back in the day." As I watched him giggle, my chest felt just a little bit fuller.