Page 50 of Butcher & Blackbird

His hand folds over the back of my neck and he presses a kiss to my forehead. The touch echoes long after his lips are gone.

My chest aches when he takes a step backward and lets his hand fall to his side. Rowan’s smile is faint, his brow furrowed. “Bye, Blackbird.”

“Bye, Butcher.”

I watch as he backs away, nearly bumping into couples on the dance floor, his eyes fused to mine until he forces himself to turn. And still I watch, my feet rooted to the floor and my hands clasped together, a statue among the lights and movement that swirl around me.

Just as he reaches the doors, Rowan turns. His eyes find mine. I give him a fleeting smile. He runs a hand down his face and a fierce, determined expression is left in its wake. He takes two steps in my direction but halts abruptly, his shoulders falling as he pulls his phone from his jacket pocket. With a final, defeated glance in my direction, he accepts another call and turns on his heel to stride away.

Five minutes later, a text buzzes on my phone with the contact details for the driver.

I leave as soon as it comes.

When I get back to the hotel, I run through my nightly routine and slide between the crisp linens, falling asleep almost instantly, as though my head and heart have run a marathon. I’m up just before my alarm, checked out within forty-five minutes of waking, heading on the covered walkway between the Hilton hotel and Logan airport when my phone chimes in my hand.

I miss you already.

Emotion clogs my throat. I stare at the screen for a long moment before I tap out a reply.

I miss you too.

Are we still on for August? No pressure if you can’t, truly. I know you have a lot going on.

I fully expect he can’t make it. Who would? With a new restaurant under construction and a popular one that appears to be falling apart at the seams, it would be reasonable to expect he would want a year reprieve. Would I be devastated? Sure. But would I understand? Of course.

Blackbird…

The dots of his incoming reply keep me motionless on the walkway.

I will blow this restaurant up myself before I miss it. I’ll see you in August.

And change your oil, you bloody heathen!

I pocket my phone and swallow the burn creeping down my throat, and then I keep going, ready to plow through these next few months. Maybe ready to try again.

What if I just try again?

What if I do.

13

HUMANITY ERODED

SLOANE

FOUR MONTHS LATER…

“Damn. Am I too late? Did you win?”

Rowan shoots a fleeting glance my way as I approach on the worn path, dust coating my sneakers in a roan-colored film. His arms are crossed over his chest, the sleeves of his t-shirt straining against his taut biceps. There’s a flash of trepidation in his eyes, their scrutiny cataloging the details of my face before he turns his attention back across whatever lies beyond the rolling hills of prairie grass.

“Nope. Didn’t win.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to psych myself up.”

My head tilts with a question, but Rowan doesn’t look at me. I follow his line of sight when I stop at his side.