Page 7 of At First Smile

“Wait! Don’t hang up. Can you get a pic of hot guy Rowan? There are like a hundred Rowan Iversons coming up.”

“Goodbye, JoJo.” Laughing, I hang up.

Reaching me, Rowan dangles the keys. “Ready to head to the hotel?”

“Yes.” My belly swoops just a bit, wondering if there’s only one room at the inn and secretly hoping my life is like a romance novel.

It’s not a romance novel. Not at all.

Discontent sighs through me as Lola, the peppy clerk at Three Dog Night Inn, drawls, “You’re just in luck, we had a last-minute cancellation, so we have two rooms available.”

“Great,” Rowan says, tapping his long fingers on the reception desk’s dark wood surface.

Eyebrow arched, my head tilts to him. Was there a faint trace of disappointment in his “great”? You’re hearing things that aren’t there, Pen.

It’s been at least two hours since he caressed my cheek and peered into my soul with those eyes that look either gray or green.

Since the almost plane crash, he’s had ample opportunity to make his move.

Rowan doesn’t strike me as the type of man to hold back.

Like the flight attendant said…he’s commanding.

Even without the low rumble of his voice and Viking-like physique, a quiet confidence radiates from him.

If he wants to kiss, he’ll kiss. And I remain very much unkissed.

I need to let this schoolgirl fantasy go.

To quote Sex and the City , he’s just not that into me.

This isn’t a pity party. I know I’m cute.

Like best friend’s little sister or the unthreatening gal pal of your boyfriend cute.

It’s an aesthetic I embrace. There’s just one thing that sometimes shades that cuteness.

“Will the two of you be checking out the Milford Waterfall while in town?” Lola asks, handing me back my credit card and ID. “It’s a big tourist attraction a few miles outside of town. I can give you a map and mark the various trails to get you to the waterfalls.”

Lola continues checking us in and going over the inn’s features.

The small inn, tucked into the brick building-lined downtown street, is a restored colonial-style mansion.

Landscape oil paintings in ornate gold frames, a nod to the town’s past, decorate the wood panel walls.

Antique sofas and chairs with red velvet fabric trimmed in gold fill the cozy lobby.

Despite the décor, there’s not a stuffy museum vibe.

The sweet scent of vanilla wafts in the air, as if someone is baking delicious treats.

Alongside the uncomfortable-looking furniture, there are life-size statues of different dog breeds.

“That’s adorable.” I giggle, elbowing Rowan to check out the pug statue, tongue poked out, flat on their back in front of the lobby’s unlit fireplace. “Someone wants belly rubs.”

He twists. “What in the hell?”

“They’re all over the inn,” Lola explains. “The owner’s wife makes them. Some are for sale. She donates the proceeds to a local animal rescue.”

“Oh my god!” I squeal, shuffling over to a bulldog statue, leg raised, in front of a potted Ficus tree in the corner. “This is amazing!”

“That’s Pisser,” she calls.

“Of course you are, aren’t you.” Bending, I coo at the statue. “Is he for sale?”

“You’re not buying that.” Rowan’s laugh-filled words pull my attention.

“Excuse me?” I straighten and offer an indignant of an expression.

Sauntering towards me, he motions to Pisser. “Why on earth would you want a statue of a pissing dog?”

My body hums with the Irish brogue lacing the way he says “pissing.” Mental note: find a way to get him to say pissing a lot.

“Why on earth wouldn’t you want one?” I narrow my eyes, fighting a blooming grin.

“Sound argument.” He winks, reaching me. Crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes drop to Pisser for a beat and then back to me. “Do you really want it?”

“Sir! Pisser is not an it ; he’s a he .” Bending, I cover the bulldog’s ears.

“Adorable,” he rasps.

“What?” I blink.

“That…uh…you think it’s…uh…he is adorable.” He rubs the back of his neck.

It’s an endearing tick. Under his brutishly handsome exterior, he’s a little bashful.

Without his hat, I get the full effect of his rugged good looks.

The combination of his short cropped dark hair and neat beard meld perfectly with the broad shoulders and muscular body.

Every inch of him screams man. Rough hands.

Sometimes gruff timbre. An energy pulses from him making me think of an Irish bandit who could hoist me over his shoulder and take me to his lair to have his way with me all night long.

And I would revel in every minute of it.

Good god, did I pack my vibrator? Also, what is wrong with me? I’m never like this. Never. We’re talking about a pissing bulldog statue and heat is crisscrossing my body. It’s been a while, but seriously…

“Do you really want him?” he asks, pushing his hands into his pockets.

I straighten. “No. Wouldn’t fit in my suitcase or my carry-on bag. But…” I pull out my phone. “Would you mind taking a pic of me with it for my social?”

He nods, reaching for the phone. “Sure.”

His hand brushes mine. Goosebumps bloom across my skin with the brief contact. Can’t get the one-bed trope but bring on the accidental brushing hands cliché.

Cane Austen and I pose with Pisser. Positioning my leg next to Pisser’s aiming one, I widened my eyes in faux shock and flash a goofy expression causing Rowan to laugh.

“I took a few,’ he says, handing back my phone. “Let me know if you want more.”

“My followers will love this.” I beam, flipping through the photos.

“Followers? Are you an influencer or something?”

“Not like that. My job is in healthcare, but I have a social media page as a disability advocate. I post videos and photos related to blindness and my adventures as a legally blind woman. My handle is Cane Austen and Me.” I slip my phone into my pocket.

“I started doing it when I was a freshman in college. I guess I just wanted to show the world what it means to be blind through my eyes. For them to see the good, the bad, and in-between.”

A warm smile curls his lips. “Cane Austen and Me. I like that name. My mam would too.”

“It was my Aunt Bea’s idea. She always said that I may lack sight but not vision.

So, I’m using my social media to reshape the world’s vision about blindness and help visually impaired people see themselves as the amazing humans they are.

It was lonely growing up being the only legally blind kid.

I’m still often the only one in the room.

Part of what I want to do is show other blind people, especially kids, that they aren’t alone. ”

“You’re a light in the darkness,” he says.

I push back the threatening tears. Aunt Bea’s singsong voice saying the same thing echoes inside me. “We should get our keys.” I nod, pivoting to walk back to the counter.

“If you two are looking for something fun to do, my nephew Harley will be performing here tonight,” Lola offers, handing us our keys.

“That sounds fun.” I grin.

“He’s really good. Like Ed Sheeran, only sexy. Do you like men who play guitar?”

“Uh…” I try not to visibly grimace at an aunt referring to her nephew as sexy. “I’ll get back to you on that.”

Rowan grunts something and then grabs my suitcase and his duffle.

We follow the small hallway to an alcove on the first floor with three sets of doors.

I’m grateful to not have to lug my suitcase up the spiral stairs to the second and third floor rooms. Though I suspect Rowan would happily lug it for me since he’s insisted on pulling my suitcase since the airport.

“This is me.” I pull out my key card and swipe. Pushing the door open, I twist and face Rowan. “Oh, your hat.”

“Keep it. It looks better on you.”

Swoon. “Okay.” Reaching out, I take the handle of my suitcase from him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And now it’s awkward. We just stare at each other. Neither one of us speaks or moves. We’ve not made plans beyond checking into the inn. I know I’m going to explore the town a bit. Would he want to join?

“I’ve got to return a few calls,” he starts.

Guess that answers my unasked question.

“Do you have runners in your luggage?”

“Runners?” My forehead scrunches.

“Sneakers.”

“Yeah. Why?”

Mischief radiates off him. “I thought we could go on an adventure.”