I shuffle from the edge of the cushion to the middle of the booth where I’m sheltered by the high and curving backrest. It takes a minute to focus enough to actually read the menu, even though it’s short and well-structured, but by the time Jenna returns with my bright green drink, I’m ready to order.
And then stew in silence.
And drink in silence.
And eat in more silence.
I take out my burner phone and contemplate texting Rowan, but I end up putting it away when the pressure only makes me more antsy. I opt for a pen and my notebook instead, and flip to a new sheet of paper.
I pour my focus into translating the image in my mind into ink. The whole universe can collapse into a single page. Distractions ease, and my thoughts follow the lines of black ink, ideas and conversations existing in strokes of darkness rendered by my hand. Even when Jenna brings the charred Brussels sprouts and coconut curry soup, I barely notice, oblivious to the world around me.
At least, I am until the door opens and a boisterous group of seven enters the restaurant. I look up to lock eyes with a man I’ve never seen, but one whose features are unmistakably familiar.
Dark hair. Full lips slanted in a smirk. Tattoos that climb the side of his neck from beneath his collar. His arm is draped over the shoulders of a tiny brunette woman, the rings on his tattooed knuckles glinting beneath her perfect waves. He’s tall and powerfully built. Even with his leather jacket and thick sweater I can tell he’s basically a wall of muscle. And with those dark, predatory eyes that sharpen like a blade set to cut me, I know he’s trouble.
Big fucking trouble by the name of Lachlan Kane.
I break my gaze away as Jenna returns to my table with my dessert, a fig phyllo Napoleon. “I’m so sorry, but can I get a box for this and the bill please? Something’s come up and I have to get going.”
Jenna’s smile doesn’t falter. “Of course, it’s no problem. I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks.”
When my gaze returns to Lachlan, his attention is on a long table in the center of the room where his friends are finding their places, some already seated, others chatting as they take off their coats. But the second I pull my jacket closer across the seat to slide it on, his eyes snap back to mine, amusement coloring their dark hues with the kind of light that sets me on edge.
I drop my focus to my sketch and force myself not to look up as I shrug my jacket over my shoulders and fasten the buttons with a slight tremor in my fingers. Jenna arrives with the boxed dessert and I give her more than enough cash to cover the bill before she heads toward Lachlan’s table to gather drink orders. When I hear an Irish accent among the voices, I seize the opportunity to bolt, but not before tearing the drawing of a raven free from the notebook. Some part of me just wants to leave a little piece of myself behind, to exist in a place that means something to Rowan, if only for a moment. Maybe Jenna will throw it away. Or maybe she’ll pin it up somewhere in the kitchen. Maybe it will remain here long after I’ve found a hole to crawl inside to die.
As soon as the sheet is torn free, I’m out of the booth.
I make it halfway to the door with hurried steps before a single word stops me dead.
“Blackbird.”
The voice carries across the restaurant and I’m pretty sure everyone is now staring at me.
I whisper a curse, taking a deep breath that fills to the bottom of my lungs in a futile attempt to rid my cheeks of a crimson flame. When I make a slow pivot on my heel, my eyes track to Lachlan first, whose smirk is nothing short of diabolical.
And then my gaze collides with Rowan’s.
The sleeves of his chef coat are rolled to his elbows, a few flecks of orange dotting the otherwise pristine white fabric. The stains are the same color as my soup, and for some reason that makes the blush smolder even hotter in my cheeks. His black, baggy pants are impossibly sexy and adorable at the same time. But it’s his expression that grips my throat in a vise. It’s full of shock and confusion and excitement and something hot, something that burns me up from the inside. The combination shortcircuits my brain until all that comes out of my mouth is a single, squeaked word. “Hey.”
Rowan almost smiles.
…Almost.
“Meg,” he barks, shifting his attention to the front door as he gestures toward me. “What the fuck?”
Meg the Hostess freezes in place, the color draining from her face as though her blood has been sucked out with a straw. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Chef. I meant to come tell you but got sidetracked.”