Just like where Dakota and I are staying.
Nerves bloom in my stomach as I walk through the gate, which creaks out my arrival. I hope this was a good idea. My determination to get to the bottom of what Rowan was starting to say at the coffee shop wanes, and regret creeps in. What if he truly wants to be alone and I’m barging in on that time?
I look behind me, down Loch Lane. The rooftops of town peek out beyond a grove of trees. I could run away undetected—
The door to the cottage suddenly opens, revealing Rowan, standing in a pair of low-hanging sweatpants and nothing else.
Uh, I don’t think someone could get me to flee even if there was a fire. I don’t mind the prospect of staring at this man all night.
His hand grips the edge of the door, his knuckles whitening from how hard he’s squeezing the wood. I catch a ripple in his forearm as my eyes travel over his intricate tattoo to his clenched jaw and narrowed eyes.
God, angry looks so sexy on him.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
I’m met with silence as his eyes do a slow once-over, traveling up my leggings and plain T-shirt. And just when I think he’s about to say no, he pushes the door open a little more. I duck under his arm and walk into his cottage.
It’s simple, clean, and everything I would expect from him. To the right sits a black leather couch facing a small fireplace. There’s no TV in sight, but instead, an open book is turned facedown on the coffee table. To the left is a small kitchen and a two-person dining table. It’s just like our cottage, but Rowan’s is better organized, with newer wood cabinets and modern hardware. Above the coffee maker is a row of beautifully crafted mugs, hanging from hooks and bringing a sense of color to the white, rustic space.
When he shuts the door, I turn to face him, and his eyes rake over me one more time. He looks like a wolf on the prowl, and I’m the prey. It’s equally terrifying and exhilarating.
“Uh . . . Leith told me where you live.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I keep on going, my pulse rising every second.
“I wanted to finish our conversation from earlier. I didn’t think it had a proper conclusion.”
Nothing. Not a quirk to the brow, not a tick in the jaw. Just arms crossed, staring at me.
“Were you, uh, interested in finishing that conversation?” I ask, twisting my hands together, a jittery sensation bouncing inside me.
Rowan is a private person. I know this. Did I just completely overstep my bounds?
Then again, if he didn’t want me here, he wouldn’t have let me in, right?
Motioning to his cottage, I say, “You’ve done a lovely job with the space. I like the subtle pops of color.”
He runs a hand along the side of his jaw, and . . . can I just pause for a second and appreciate the specimen in front of me?
Chiseled, sculpted, a Scottish Adonis with a handsome face and the perfect amount of scruff on his jaw, which seems to never change in length. He’s unlike any man I’ve ever seen in person but have always dreamed up. His carved V borders an extreme set of abs. His large pecs connect to boulder-like arms and large, sexy hands.
And when anger vibrates through him—like it is now—every one of his muscles fires off. It’s quite the sight to behold.
“Are you going to say something?” I ask, feeling myself shrink in his presence, beneath his intimidating stare. “Because it’s rude to invite someone in but not talk. You have company, Rowan—be a good host.”
His jaw works side to side but remains clamped shut.
Well, this seems to have been a huge mistake.
Not in the mood for a blowup, I let out a heavy, defeated breath. I should probably leave—catch him on another day when he’s ready to be human, not a Neanderthal.
“Okay, well, this was a lovely visit. Thank you for the hospitality.”
I push past him, but he reaches out and gently takes my arm, halting me in place. We’re standing side by side—he faces one direction, and I face the other. “Coffee?” he quietly asks.
“Uh . . . sure.”
Slowly, he releases my arm, and his fingers trail over my skin like feathers, sending a shiver up my spine as he pulls away.
He strides to the kitchen, keeping his back toward me. I watch him prepare a simple pot of coffee and then pull two mugs from the hooks. While the coffee brews, he opens a cabinet that’s next to the fridge and pulls out a Tupperware container full of . . . oh dear God.
It’s cake.
Things are about to get embarrassing.
“Is that, uh . . . cake you’ve got over there?”