Chapter 9

Owen nodded and eased his expression into a grin. “Also? I had a friend in grade three who used to call me Oliebollen instead of Owen. She said every time she heard my name it made her think of the pastry.”

“And that is?”

“Sugared deep-fried dough. If I’m remembering correctly, it translates literally to oil balls.”

“Sounds repulsive.”

Owen laughed. “Well, I think so, too. But…” He lowered his voice, firmed his smile, and leaned in, as if he was about the share one of the most coveted secrets of mankind. “You should know right off the bat that I kind of have a thing for purple. Grapes, acai berries, blueberries, currants…you know, pretty much any kind of purple…” He made a show of reconsidering his words, and grinned. “Snack.”