Page 11
rowan
I've been staring at her for the past ten minutes.
It's ridiculous, really. Me, Rowan Malone—the guy who's never been at a loss for words with a woman—sitting here like some tongue-tied teenager while Fox, of all people, is making Cilla's sister laugh so hard she's practically spitting out her wine.
"So then I told the client, 'Ma'am, that's not a load-bearing wall. That's your refrigerator,'" Fox says, delivering the punchline with his rare grin.
Prue throws her head back, laughing while I take another swig of my beer, trying to look anywhere but at Cilla. Yet my eyes keep drifting back to her like she's magnetic north, and I'm a damn compass.
The Dockside Grill is packed tonight, the usual Friday crowd spilling onto the deck overlooking the bay. String lights twinkle overhead, and somewhere behind us, someone's playing acoustic guitar. It should be perfect—romantic even—but I'm blowing it.
"Your construction stories are way better than Rowan's," Cilla says, those blue eyes finally landing on me. "He mostly talks about how he saved some historic molding or something."
I nearly choke on my IPA. "I do not talk about molding."
"You talked about crown molding for twenty minutes when you saw me walking the dogs last week.” Her lips quirk up at one corner, and suddenly, I can breathe again.
"That was different. That was the Peterson house. That molding is from 1892."
Fox kicks me under the table. "Jesus, man, you're proving her point."
Cilla's smile widens, and something in my chest loosens. "I thought it was interesting, actually. My dissertation focuses on Pacific Northwest settlement patterns, so I appreciate architectural history."
"See?" I tell Fox before turning back to her. "How's the dissertation coming?"
"Slowly. Teaching three classes while trying to write is..." She makes a face that is adorable and completely relatable.
"I can imagine. My mom was an English teacher. She'd bring home stacks of papers to grade every weekend."
"Your mom's a teacher? Why haven’t you told me that before?” Something in her expression shifts and softens.
"Retired now. Dad too—he was the high school shop teacher for thirty years."
"That's where Rowan got his start," Fox chimes in. "Building birdhouses in Mr. Malone's class."
"They were excellent birdhouses," I defend myself.
“Do they still live in town?" Cilla says so quietly I almost miss it.
My heart skips a beat. “My parents retired two towns over–in Maplewood. And they'd love to meet you, too. They're always asking when I'll bring someone special around."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. The table falls silent. Cilla's cheeks flush pink, and I can't tell if it's embarrassment or something else.
"Someone special, huh?" Prue raises an eyebrow, looking between us with barely concealed amusement.
Cilla takes a long sip of her wine. “My parents live in San Francisco."
"Both professors, right?" I remember this detail from one of our awkward conversations over her fence when I was pretending to check the property line, but I really just wanted an excuse to talk to her.
She nods. "Dad's in Philosophy, Mom's in Literature. They're... intense."
"They're terrifying," Prue corrects, then turns to Fox. "My father once made my prom date discuss Socrates for an hour before we could leave."
Fox looks genuinely intrigued rather than horrified. "I could brush up on my philosophy.”
I can't help but notice how Fox leans toward Prue, his usual scowl nowhere to be seen. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here trying not to sweat through my shirt because Cilla just implied I might meet her parents.
"My folks are a lot less intimidating," I say. "Dad'll probably try to show you his fishing lures, and Mom will force-feed you until you can't move."
"That sounds nice, actually." Cilla's voice has that soft quality again, the one that makes me want to build her a house with my bare hands. "I like people who are passionate about things."
Our eyes lock across the table, and the restaurant noise fades for a moment. There's just her—those blue eyes, that small smile, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear.
"I'm passionate about many things," I say, my voice dropping lower than intended.
Fox clears his throat loudly. "And on that note, I'm getting another round. Prue, want to help me carry?"
They disappear toward the bar, leaving me alone with Cilla for the first time all evening. The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but charged.
"Your friend is nice," she says finally. "I've never seen Prue laugh like that with someone she just met."
"Fox is a good guy. Doesn't usually talk this much, though." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. "Must be a Griffin sister effect."
"Is that what I have? An effect?" She's teasing, but there's a genuine question underneath.
"You know you do." The words come out more honestly than I intended. "I've been trying to get your attention since you moved in."
"With crown molding discussions?" Her smile is playful now.
"Hey, I've got other moves. I just..." I run a hand through my hair. "I forget them all when you're around."
Cilla's cheeks go pink again, and it's not embarrassing this time. She takes another sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine over the rim of her glass.
"You're not what I expected, Rowan Malone," she says.
"What did you expect?"
She shrugs one shoulder, a delicate movement that draws my attention to her collarbone, the gentle curve of her neck. "I thought you'd be like every other good-looking guy who knows he's good-looking. All confidence, no substance."
"And now?" I can't help the smile spreading across my face.
"Now I'm... reassessing." Her eyes flick down to my mouth for a moment before returning to meet my gaze.
"I'm glad to hear it," I say, voice lower than I intended. "Because I’m falling hard, Priscilla Griffin, and I hope you’re coming along for the ride."
She smiles and leans forward to whisper in my ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Yes, I do. More than I you’ll ever know.”