I don’t know if this is going to work—living with him, working from home every day, being in a new city, trying to build this foundation we’ve made into something more. But I’m going to try.
“You’re hella excited,” I say to Lark, trying to divert attention from my own blistering anticipation as we weave through the busy restaurant. The lunch rush has passed, but there are still more full tables than empty ones, even if many of the patrons have finished main courses and have moved on to desserts.
“Of course I am. My bestie is in l-o-v-e and I get to meet her man for the first time.”
I snort. “I never said anything about love.”
“Didn’t you sneakily install a security camera in the kitchen?”
“That’s stalking, not love.”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to. And clearly, he adores you, too. He knows my baby,” she says, gesturing toward the booth as Meg lays the menus on the table. “A perfect Sloaney choice. Sheltered and equidistant between the exits.”
Oh my fucking God. She’s right.
Lark slides onto the padded seat and Meg disappears to grab Rowan from the kitchen, and I’m still standing off to the side like a dumbass, staring at the table like I’ve never seen one before.
He permanently reserves the booth he knows you would want at his popular restaurant. He beats the shit out of an emo pervert for watching you masturbate. He has some random neighborhood kid bring you groceries.
Who the fuck are you kidding? You don’t just ‘more than like’ this guy.
Lark’s head tilts and a crease appears between her brows as her gaze travels across my face. “You okay there, Sloaney? You look broken.”
I’m about to say something. I open my mouth, manage a stuttered start to a sentence that never materializes. It dies on my tongue when I hear the subtle Irish accent rise above the conversations of diners and the clang of cutlery on plates, glasses on tables.
“Blackbird,” he says loud enough to carry across the noise. When I look over, he’s striding past tables of patrons, looking much like he did the last time I came to 3 In Coach, his chef coat rolled to his elbows and a white apron tied around his waist. But this time, there’s no look of shock, only a warm smile and his arms spread wide. “Get over here.”
I glance at Lark and her grin is electric, her eyes dancing. She jerks her head in his direction and even though I know I probably look like some lovesick teenager, I can’t help it. My heart is pounding its way up my throat. If it had its way, I’d already be running in his direction.
I might not run, but I still walk. Fast.
When we meet in the middle of the restaurant, Rowan grasps my face between his palms and takes a moment to just absorb the details of my face, as though he’s savoring every nuance. He’s radiant, clearly in his element in this space, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners with the width of his smile and the depth of his relief.
The kiss we share doesn’t linger. But its heat does, infusing every cell with both comfort and the need for more than we can take in this moment.
“You look so much better,” he says when he pulls away.
I shrug. “A little sore still, but getting there.”
“Trip was okay?”
“Winston hated every moment of the drive from Raleigh. I think I’m going to hear his growl in my sleep for a week, but he’s settled down now that he’s in your place. He seems a bit weirded out but I’m sure he’ll adjust in a day or two. I left my stuff on the floor in the living room, so I’m ninety percent certain my cat will have all the luggage shredded in retribution by the time we get back.”
“Our place,” Rowan corrects, and loops an arm over my shoulder to guide our way back to the booth. “Our cat. I can’t wait to be kitty litter influencers together, what a great side hustle. We’re gonna be rich.”
I huff a laugh and roll my eyes. “You’re the worst.
“You’ll love me someday.”
One of my steps falters.
Today is that day.
Maybe yesterday too. And the day before that. Maybe for a while, in fact.
I can’t tell exactly when it started, but I don’t think it will ever stop.
I take Rowan’s hand where it lays over my recovering shoulder, the joint still a little tender but getting better every day. When I look up at him, I try to repress a smile but fail. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Rowan doesn’t call me out, doesn’t prod for more, but I know he can see it in me like it’s written in the constellation of dots on my skin, even when I try to force my gaze away.