Page 13

cilla

I wake up to the sound of Birdie and Brody whining outside the bedroom door, their nails scratching against the wood. Sunlight streams through the window, and I squint, disoriented for a moment still sore from Rowan’s exquisite skills. Two months in and his prowess never ceases to amaze me.

I carefully extract myself from Rowan’s warm embrace, trying not to wake him as I slip out of bed. I grab his discarded shirt from the floor and pull it over my head, the fabric drowning my small frame but smelling deliciously of him.

"Where are you going?" he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep.

"Dogs," I whisper. "They need to go out."

He makes a noise of acknowledgment and rolls onto his back, one muscular arm thrown over his eyes. I allow myself a moment to admire him—the broad expanse of his chest, the sheet draped dangerously low on his hips—before slipping out the door.

Birdie and Brody dance around my feet, their entire bodies wiggling excitedly.

"Alright, alright," I whisper. "Let's go outside before you wake the neighbors."

I let them into the backyard, standing on the porch in Rowan's shirt as they race around, sniffing everything with renewed interest, as if overnight, the yard had transformed into unexplored territory. The morning air is cool against my bare legs, the sky a watercolor of pinks and oranges as the sun rises over the bay.

My phone buzzes from inside, and I hurry back in to grab it from my purse, fearing it might be the department secretary with some emergency about my classes.

Instead, I see my mother's name on the screen.

"Oh, crap," I mutter. I'd completely forgotten my parents were coming today.

I answer the call, trying to sound like I haven't just rolled out of bed after the most incredible night. "Hi, Mom."

"Priscilla! We're at the airport. Your father is getting the rental car now. We should be at your place in about an hour his jaw. My heart does a little flip despite the panic setting in.

My stomach drops. "Now? I thought you weren't coming until this afternoon."

"We managed to get an earlier flight. Isn't that wonderful? More time together!"

I glance frantically around my living room. Clothes are scattered everywhere—my skirt hanging off the back of the couch, Rowan's jeans crumpled by the coffee table. And in my bedroom is a six-foot-four, very naked, very gorgeous man who my parents definitely aren't expecting to meet until I surprise them over dinner.

"That's... great," I say weakly. "See you soon."

I hang up and dash back to the bedroom, nearly tripping over Birdie and Brody, who have followed me inside. Rowan is sitting up now, looking unfairly gorgeous, his hair mussed and stubble darkening his jaw. My heart does a little flip despite the panic setting in.

"My parents are coming," I blurt out. "They're an hour away. Maybe less."

Rowan's eyes widen, and he sits up straighter. "I thought they weren't coming until later?"

"Earlier flight." I run a hand through my tangled hair. "We need to clean up. Fast."

He's out of bed in an instant, gloriously naked and seemingly unconcerned about it, as he starts gathering his clothes. "I'll help," he says, pulling on his boxers. "Just tell me what to do."

I'm momentarily distracted by the flex of his muscles as he bends to retrieve his socks. "Stop being so distracting and put some clothes on.”

He offers a smile that still makes my knees weak. "You're wearing my shirt."

"You'll get it back when I find my clothes." I toss him his jeans. "Can you let the dogs out again while I shower? Then maybe straighten up the living room?"

Thirty minutes later, I've showered, dried my hair, and put on a sundress that says "responsible daughter" rather than "just had mind-blowing sex with the town's most eligible bachelor." The living room is spotless, and Rowan, now fully dressed, is in the kitchen making coffee.

"You didn't have to do that," I say, watching him measure grounds into my French press.

"I figured your parents might want coffee after their flight." He looks up, and his expression softens. "You look beautiful."

I feel my cheeks heat. After two months, Rowan still has this effect on me. "Thank you for helping. And for staying. You don't have to, you know. This wasn't exactly how I planned to introduce you."

He sets down the coffee and approaches me, his hands gentle on my waist. "I want to meet them, Cilla. Unless you'd rather I didn't?"

The uncertainty in his voice makes my heart ache. For all his confidence, there are moments when I glimpse the vulnerability underneath.

"No, I want you to meet them. I just..." I trail off, not sure how to explain my nervousness.

"They're important to you," he says simply. "So I want them to like me."

Before I can respond, the doorbell rings. Birdie and Brody erupt into a chorus of barks, racing toward the door.

"Showtime," I whisper, squeezing Rowan's hand before going to answer it.

My parents stand on the porch, and my mother's immaculate appearance makes me suddenly conscious of every dog hair on my furniture.

"Priscilla!" Mom exclaims, pulling me into a hug that smells of Chanel No. 5. "You look wonderful. Small-town life agrees with you."

Dad hugs me next, his familiar cologne bringing a rush of homesickness. "Hi, sweetheart," Dad says, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. "The drive up was gorgeous. You weren't kidding about the views."

They step inside, immediately noticing the two dachshunds dancing around their feet.

"And these must be the famous Birdie and Brody!" Mom coos, bending down to let them sniff her hands. "Oh, they're adorable, Cilla."

That's when Rowan steps out from the kitchen, and I watch my mother's eyes widen slightly. I can't blame her—he fills the doorway, broad-shouldered and handsome in a way that seems almost unfair.

"Mom, Dad," I say, my voice higher than usual, "this is Rowan. Rowan, these are my parents, Elizabeth and Richard Griffin."

Rowan steps forward with that easy confidence, extending his hand to my father first. "It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Cilla speaks very highly of you both."

Dad takes his hand, and I can see him doing the subtle assessment thing fathers do, his professor's eyes cataloging everything from Rowan's firm handshake to his posture.

"Rowan," Mom says, taking his hand next. "Are you a colleague of Priscilla's at the college?"

I suppress a smile. Leave it to my parents to assume anyone in my life must be another professor.

"No, ma'am," Rowan says with a charming smile. "I own Cedar Bay Construction. We build and renovate homes throughout the area."

"A builder!" Dad says, his interest visibly piquing. "That's fascinating. Did you study architecture?"

"Engineering, briefly," Rowan replies. "Before the Army. But I've always loved working with my hands."

I watch my mother's expression shift from polite interest to genuine curiosity. "The Army? How long did you serve?"

"Six years, ma'am."

"Please, call me Elizabeth," Mom says, and I have to stop myself from gaping. It took my last boyfriend three months to get permission to use first names.

"Coffee's ready," I interject, gesturing toward the kitchen. "And I have those pastries from the bakery by the pier."

As we move to the kitchen, I catch Rowan's eye, and he gives me a reassuring wink. The knot in my stomach loosens slightly.

"This is a lovely home, Cilla," Dad says, looking around appreciatively. "Original craftsman details, aren't they?"

"Yes," I say, pouring coffee into the mugs Rowan has already set out. "The woodwork is all original. The previous owner maintained it beautifully."

"Rowan," Mom says, accepting her coffee with a smile that I recognize as her networking face, "what kind of projects does your company typically handle?"

"Everything from new builds to historic renovations," Rowan answers with that quiet confidence I've come to love. "We're working on a waterfront property right now—a complete restoration of a 1920s home with some stunning original features."

"Like yours," Dad says to me, his eyes lighting up in that way they always do when he's thinking about real estate. My parents' hobby of buying and renovating old houses has been a constant throughout my childhood.

"You should see the view from Rowan's deck," I say, then immediately blush at how that might sound. "His house, I mean. It's right on the water."

Mom raises an eyebrow but mercifully doesn't comment. "Actually, Richard and I have been thinking about getting a place up here. Something small, for weekend visits and summers."

"And to check up on me," I add with a smile.

"Well, that too," Dad admits with a chuckle. He turns to Rowan. "Would your company be interested in handling a renovation if we found the right property? We've seen a few listings online that need quite a bit of work."

I nearly choke on my coffee. Leave it to my parents to start interviewing Rowan as a contractor before they've even unpacked.

"I'd be honored," Rowan says, and I can tell he means it. "I could show you some of our completed projects while you're in town."

"Wonderful!" Mom claps her hands together. "We have an appointment with a realtor tomorrow. Perhaps you could join us?"

"Mom," I interject, "Rowan is very busy. I'm sure he?—"

"I'd love to," Rowan says, shooting me a look that clearly says it's fine. "Always happy to save someone from making a costly mistake on a property."

Dad nods approvingly. "Smart man. The listing we're most interested in is on Devon Street. Beautiful bones, but the realtor mentioned some foundation issues."

"The old Harrington place?" Rowan asks. When Dad nods, Rowan continues, "I know it well. Beautiful craftsmanship, but you're right about the foundation. The west corner has been settling for years."

Dad looks impressed, and I feel a strange surge of pride. Rowan knows his stuff, and my academic parents respect expertise regardless of the field.

"So," Mom says, settling into one of my kitchen chairs and fixing us with that penetrating gaze that used to make me confess to sneaking cookies before dinner, "how long have you two been dating?"

"Mom!" I protest.

"What? It's a perfectly reasonable question. You've never mentioned Rowan in our calls."

I glance at Rowan, who looks completely unruffled. "Two months," he says easily. "But I've been trying to get Cilla to notice me since she moved in."

"Really?" Mom's expression is delighted. "Do tell."

"I brought her welcome cookies," Rowan says, the corner of his mouth quirking up in that smile that still makes my stomach flip. "She was polite but...reserved."

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. "I was focused on unpacking. And my dissertation."

"And avoiding the local bachelor," Rowan adds, his eyes twinkling.

"You have quite the reputation around here," I explain to my parents, who are watching our exchange with undisguised interest.

"All exaggerated," Rowan protests, but there's a hint of color on his cheeks.

"The high school football hero turned soldier turned successful businessman?" I tease. "None of that is exaggerated."

Dad leans forward. "You played football? What position?"

"Quarterback," Rowan replies, and I can see Dad's interest pique further. My father, the distinguished professor of Philosophy, harbors a not-so-secret passion for college football.

"He was being scouted for Division I schools," I add, feeling that strange pride again.

"Until I blew out my knee senior year," Rowan finishes, without a trace of self-pity. "The best thing that could have happened to me, honestly. Made me figure out what I really wanted."

Mom's approving nod tells me she's mentally checking boxes on whatever scorecard she keeps for my potential partners. I feel a flutter of anxiety—this is happening too fast. We haven't even had the "what are we" conversation yet, and here he is charming my parents like he's auditioning for the role of son-in-law.

"Are you the friend who took Cilla whale watching? Do you have a boat?" Dad asks, and I groan internally. Dad's subtle as a sledgehammer.

"Yes, sir. Nothing fancy, but she's seaworthy. I take her out fishing whenever I can."

"Richard loves fishing," Mom says, giving me a meaningful look. "Perhaps you could take him out while we're here?"

"Mom," I begin, but Rowan cuts me off.

"I'd be happy to. The salmon are running right now. We could go tomorrow afternoon, after the real estate appointments?"

Dad's face lights up. "That sounds perfect."

I watch in disbelief as Rowan and my father start discussing fishing spots and tackle, while my mother catches my eye and mouths, "He's so handsome," with an exaggerated wink.

"I'm going to get more coffee," I announce, grabbing my mug and escaping to the kitchen.

Mom follows me, of course. "He's wonderful, Cilla," she says in a stage whisper.

"He's... yes, he is," I admit, keeping my voice low. "But this is all happening very fast."

"Life happens fast sometimes," she says, taking the coffee pot from my hands. "Your father and I got engaged after three months."

"That was different. You were both academics. You had common ground."

"And you don't?" Mom raises an eyebrow. "I see the way he looks at you, Priscilla. That's not casual interest."

I busy myself with refilling my mug, trying to ignore the warmth spreading through my chest at her words. "We're still figuring things out."

"Well, figure faster. Men like that don't stay available long." She pats my arm. "And I want grandchildren while I'm still young enough to enjoy them."

"Mom!" I hiss, glancing toward the living room where Rowan and Dad are now bent over Dad's phone, presumably looking at real estate listings.

"What? Prue has made it clear she's focusing on her career for the foreseeable future. You're my best hope."

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling. Some things never change. "Let's get through this visit before you start planning my wedding, okay?"

She gives me a knowing look. "Speaking of the visit, we should probably check into our hotel and freshen up. Dinner tonight?"

"I made reservations at La Marina for seven," I tell her, relieved at the subject change. "It's the best restaurant in town."

We return to the living room where Rowan is now showing Dad something on his phone.

"These are the Harrington place interior shots," he's saying. "Beautiful original millwork, but look at the slope in this doorway. The classic sign of foundation issues."

Dad nods, looking impressed. "You've got a good eye."

"Years of practice," Rowan says modestly. He looks up as we enter. "Your daughter has an eye for it too. She spotted water damage that even my inspector missed on her bathroom ceiling."

I blink, surprised he remembered that casual comment from weeks ago.

"We should head to the hotel," Mom announces. "Cilla says we're having dinner at La Marina tonight. Will you be joining us, Rowan?"

"Of course," I say, smiling at him. "Seven o'clock."

"Perfect!" Mom beams. "Richard, we should go. Let these two young people have some time before dinner."

I walk my parents to the door, accepting their hugs and promising to text the restaurant address. As soon as they're in their rental car, I shut the door and lean against it, exhaling heavily.

"That wasn't so bad," Rowan says, his expression amused.

"They ambushed us," I say, watching my parents' car disappears down the street. "My mother is probably already mentally planning our wedding."

Rowan laughs, standing behind me and wrapping his arms around my waist. "Is that such a terrible thought?"

My heart skips a beat, and I turn in his arms to face him. "We've only been dating for two months."

"Two incredible months," he murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "And I spent three months before that trying to get you to notice me."

"With cookies and 'accidental' run-ins while I was walking the dogs?" I tease, trying to keep the mood light despite the sudden flutter in my chest.

"Hey, those were legitimate coincidences." His smile fades slightly, his expression turning more serious. "Your parents are great, by the way."

"They liked you," I admit. "A lot. My dad doesn't offer to go fishing with just anyone."

"And is that okay with you? That they like me?"

There's something vulnerable in his question that makes my breath catch. Rowan, who exudes confidence in everything he does, is worried about what I think.

"Of course it's okay. It's just..." I trail off, unsure how to express my jumble of emotions.

"Just what?" he prompts gently.

"Fast. Intense." I bite my lip. "I came here to focus on my dissertation and teaching, not to fall for the town's most eligible bachelor. It’s just a lot at once."

His eyes widen slightly at the word "fall," and I realize what I've implied.

"Is that what's happening?" he asks, his voice low. "You're falling for me?"

I should backpedal. Make a joke. Keep things casual. But looking up at Rowan, at the hope in his eyes, I can't bring myself to do it.

"Maybe," I whisper. "And it terrifies me."

"Why?"

"Because I had a plan. Because relationships complicate things. Because..." I take a deep breath. "Because you could hurt me if this doesn't work out."

His hands come up to frame my face, gentle but sure. "Cilla Griffin, I have been crazy about you since I saw you struggle to carry that hefty box of books up your front steps. Every day since then has only made me more certain."

"Certain of what?" My voice is barely audible.

"That you're it for me." He says it simply, without grand gestures or flowery words, just absolute conviction.

"Rowan—"

"I'm not proposing," he says with a small smile. "Not yet, anyway. I know we're still getting to know each other. But I want you to know where I stand. I'm all in, Cilla."

I should be running for the hills. This is precisely the kind of commitment that I've been avoiding. But looking at Rowan—this man who fixed my leaky bathroom ceiling, who remembers how I take my coffee, who never complains when Birdie and Brody steal his side of the bed—I realize I'm all in, too.

"I think I'm falling in love with you," I whisper, the words terrifying and liberating all at once.

His smile is radiant. "I think I fell for you the moment you told me my welcome cookies were 'adequate at best.'"

I laugh, remembering how rude I'd been that day, stressed from unpacking and wary of the too-handsome neighbor with the reputation. "They were store-bought. I could tell."

"They absolutely were," he admits, pulling me closer. "But I was too nervous to bake. The great Rowan Malone was reduced to buying cookies because a five-foot-two professor made him forget how to operate an oven."

"I'm glad you persisted despite my rudeness."

"The best decision I ever made." He kisses me softly, then pulls back with a grin. "So, your dad and I are going fishing tomorrow..."

"You don't have to do that," I say quickly. "I know you're busy with the Wilson project."

"I want to," he says simply. "Besides, Tobias and Fox can handle things for a day. And it'll give me a chance to ask your dad's permission.

My heart stops. "Permission for what?"

His eyes dance with mischief. "To renovate their new house, of course. What did you think I meant?"

I swat his arm, relief and something like disappointment flooding through me. "You're terrible."

"And you love it." He kisses me again, deeper this time until I'm pressed against the door, my hands tangled in his hair.

When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, I rest my forehead against his chest. "We should probably get ready for dinner."

"Or," he says, his voice low and suggestive, "we could take advantage of having the house to ourselves for a few more hours."

I laugh, already pulling him toward the bedroom. "I like the way you think, Malone."

As Birdie and Brody trot after us, I realize that sometimes the best things in life are the ones you never planned for. And sometimes, they live right down the street.