Page 16 of At First Smile

“Magnificent. I think you got him. Bruiser over there looks like he’s either going to carry you off to his room or punch me,” he whispers in my ear.

“Bruiser?” I guffaw and pull away.

He just laughs like it’s the funniest thing I could have said. “If he doesn’t make his move tonight, I will,” he purrs, helping me off the stage.

“Even if he doesn’t, you’re not my type. I prefer men who don’t play games,” I say saucily and stride away with Cane Austen.

“Unless the game is hockey,” he drawls and turns to the mic.

I stop and look over my shoulder at him, my face scrunched.

He just smirks. “Pen Meadows, ladies and gentlemen. Give her another round of applause as she walks away having stolen all our hearts,” he calls out. “Now, grab that someone you want to dance with.” Harley strums “Galway Girl” and cements his Michigan Ed Sheeran status.

Asshole. Harley is brash and cocky. While I’d never date a man like him, I find him strangely endearing in the most obnoxious way.

Back at the table, I fold Cane Austen and take my seat. A filled champagne flute greets me. Lola must have dropped off that second round she’d promised, while I was singing.

“You were fucking stunning,” Rowan rasps, his Irish lilt rough and heavy.

“Th—th—thank you.” I stammer my words.

I lift the champagne flute and take a long drag. The fizzy sweetness steadies me.

“Pen,” he starts, but stops.

His head tilts as if considering something. With a quiet mumble of something that I can’t make out, Rowan slips his cap off and places it on the table. Those light eyes flash bright in the room’s dim glow as if they could illuminate the path forward.

He stands and puts out his hand. “Dance with me… Please.”

It’s part hopeful question and pleading command.

“Absolutely,” I take his hand.

Leaving Cane Austen folded beneath my chair, I allow Rowan to guide me to the center of the small open space in front of the stage.

Couples and small groups mingle, twisting and turning to the song’s lively rhythm.

Harley’s voice echoes, but all I can hear is the booming thrum of my pulse.

Rowan holds one hand in his and the other firmly on my waist, and then he pulls me in close and then spins me away.

My head tips back with unabashed giggles.

He’s a terrible dancer. His movements stiff and a little off-beat but utterly adorable.

Still my heart soars as he twirls me into his arms, out, and back again.

For three more fast paced songs, we weave through the clusters of fellow dancers. In the brief moments he brings me in close, the quiet hum of his voice singing along to the song drifts into my ears. His low off-key melodic timbre has its way with me causing goosebumps to lick down my skin.

Harley’s talented fingers seamlessly transition into an acoustic version of Elton John’s “Your Song.” The almost haunting melody twines around the room, pulling couples together.

Big hands clenched at my waist; Rowan brings me close.

My arms encircle the nape of his neck. I close my eyes, burrow in just a little more and press my head against his chest. His masculine woodsy scent, body’s warmth, and heart’s gentle beat cocoon me.

One hand still on my waist, while the other slides to my back and presses me tighter.

Caged between his firm chest and strong hand, I’ve never felt so free.

“Being in your arms feels right.” My admission is a muffled whisper against his chest.

No sound breaches his lips. The only response is the sensation of a gentle kiss on the crown of my head. It’s not patronizing or placating. It’s confirmation. His hold’s tender firmness punctuates our shared understanding that we’re both exactly where we want to be.

A few more slow songs, one laughter-filled clumsy attempt for Rowan to match the fast beat of Harley’s rendition of “Uptown Funk,” and three more glasses of bubbly we leave the bar.

Our chuckles echo against the hallway’s hardwood floors and the paneled walls as we head to our rooms. My left hand is in Rowan’s, while a folded Cane Austen rests in my right.

“I had fun tonight on our maybe date,” I tease, a little starry-eyed and tipsy, turning to face Rowan.

My back presses against my room door, it’s coolness powerless against the inferno that engulfs my body. Peering up through the fringe of my eyelashes, a coy smile curls my mouth.

His thumb swipes lazy circles across my hand still linked with his. “Me too,” he murmurs, his free hand rests on the door jamb above my head. His gaze, on full display with his now backwards cap, mingles with mine.

“What color are your eyes?”

“Green.”

“A green-eyed Irishman,” I say playfully.

“I’m half Swedish on my dad’s side.”

“Lutefisk and soda bread.” The joke emerges breathy and a little sultry from my lips.

God, I want him. I could just take him, but he needs to kiss me first. As much as I think this attraction isn’t one-sided, I need the assurance that I’m not the only one in this.

That I’m not the only one willing to risk for this growing connection between us.

It’s one thing to know someone is attracted to you, but quite another thing for them to want you. To want you so much that they act.

“Something like that.” He chuckles.

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me. The plea, no doubt, is visible in my eyes.

Releasing our linked hands, he places his warm palm on my cheek. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are, luv?”

My heart roars.

“This silky mane.” His fingers twirl a long strand.

“Those adorable glasses and big honey brown eyes. These plump lips.” His fingertips drag along my lower lip before moving down to my throat.

“Such soft skin.” He moves lower and traces a heart shape above the swell of my breasts.

“And this heart makes me want to fall to my knees and worship you.”

Every ounce of breath rushes out of me. My pulse’s cheetah-like cadence is wild and ravenous.

He leans in, his nose nuzzling a sensitive spot below my ear, and inhales deeply. “You have this candied smell like a fucking sweet treat that I know I shouldn’t have but am desperate to taste.”

“Rowan.” Both syllables thrum with a pleading need.

He pulls back. “Pen.”

Electricity surges between our locked stares. Desire blooms inside me, slickening my core with arousal. Hard peaks brush against my bra’s lacy fabric. My grip on my control and cane loosens. Cane Austen crashes to the hard floor with a loud clunk .

“Shit,” I gasp.

Rowan blinks. The crashing cane wakes us both from this spell. He bends, picks her up, and hands her to me.

“I’m sorry. I think I’ve had too much to drink.” He rubs his palm over his face. “I should…”

“Should what?”

“Go to bed.” He steps back.

My blood turns arctic.

“Goodnight, Pen.” He nods his head twice, turns, and then heads to his room across the small alcove. Once there he turns, his gaze meeting mine. A windstorm of confusion radiates off him. “I’ll wait until you’re in your room, so I know you’re safe.”

I nod, not knowing what else to say. Unlocking my door, I step in and pivot to face him.

“I’ll see you in the morning, luv,” he says and then slips into his room.

I could live in the way “luv” falls from his lips. It’s warm. It claims me as if I’m still in his arms and not standing alone – utterly confused and pulsing with want – in my room with a hallway and two doors between us.

“Goodnight, Rowan,” I whisper and shut my door.