Page 6

cilla

I tap my finger against the stem of my wine glass, trying not to stare at Rowan across the table. The candlelight plays across his features in a way that’s frankly unfair. Who looks that good in flickering amber light? It should be illegal.

“So your dissertation is on the Oregon Trail’s impact on westward expansion?” he asks, leaning forward with genuine interest.

“Yes, with a particular focus on female voices and the spread of religion,” I say, feeling that familiar academic excitement bubble up. “Everyone thinks the Gold Rush was the big draw, but actually—” I catch myself before I launch into full professor mode. “Sorry, I’m sure you didn’t ask for the whole lecture.”

Rowan’s smile widens. “I wouldn’t mind if you did. I like hearing you talk about things you’re passionate about.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. When he showed up at my door tonight, looking devastating in a blue button-down that made his hazel eyes seem greener, I reminded myself this was just dinner. Just because the absurdly attractive contractor down the street finally wore me down with his persistent charm doesn’t mean I’m breaking my no-dating rule.

Yet here we are at Bella Vista, the little Italian trattoria overlooking Cedar Bay, and I’m having... fun. Actual fun. With a man who makes my stomach do that horrible butterfly thing I thought I’d outgrown.

“You’re staring,” he says, a hint of that trademark confidence returning.

“I’m evaluating,” I correct him, taking a sip of my Chianti.

“And? What’s the verdict, Professor Griffin?”

“Still collecting data,” I reply, but I can’t help smiling.

The waiter brings our entrées—cacio é pepe for me, osso buco for him—and Rowan immediately offers me a bite from his fork. It’s intimate in a way that makes my cheeks warm.

“So,” I say after swallowing, “tell me something you haven’t told anyone else in Cedar Bay.”

He considers this, his expression shifting to something more vulnerable. “I read poetry. Actual poetry books. It’s not something to share with the guys, but I enjoy them.”

“Shocking,” I tease. “The town heartthrob has hidden depths.”

“Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.” He leans closer, voice dropping. “Your turn. Tell me something nobody knows about you.”

“I talk to my dogs in weird voices when nobody’s around,” I admit. “And I make up songs about what they’re doing. There’s the ‘Getting Ready for Walkies’ song and the ‘Please Stop Barking at the Mailman’ ballad. They also have extensive backstories about what they do when I’m at work. Birdie is working on a novel about the migratory patterns of birds of the Pacific Northwest, which is why she loves watching them from the bay window. Brody is working on his game, hoping to win the heart of Mrs. Caldwell’s Maltese. Of course, she’ll have to live with us because he will still need his mama to cut the crust off his sandwiches.”

His laugh is warm and genuine. “You’re far too adorable for words, Cilla Griffin.”

“Thanks for noticing, Malone.”

The conversation flows easily after that, through dinner and dessert—a tiramisu we share with two forks, our hands occasionally brushing. The restaurant has mostly emptied out except for a few couples lingering over wine. When Rowan reaches across the table to brush a strand of hair from my face, I don’t pull away.

“I haven’t felt like this in... maybe ever,” he says quietly, the confidence momentarily replaced by something raw and honest. “I know you weren’t exactly thrilled when I first asked you out?—”

“Seven times,” I correct him, smiling. “You asked seven times.”

“Eight, actually. You were wearing headphones for one of them.”

“Persistent.”

“Worth it,” he counters, his eyes not leaving mine. “Every time you shot me down and still I couldn’t stop thinking about the beautiful girl with the dachshunds who scowls at me when I work without a shirt.”

I nearly choke on my wine. “I do not scowl at you!”

“You definitely do. It’s adorable.”

“It’s a professional concern for workplace safety,” I counter, but my face is burning.

Rowan laughs, then grows serious again. “Look, Cilla, I know you’ve been focused on your work, and I respect that. But I’m thrilled you finally said yes.”

The vulnerability in his expression makes my chest tighten. I take a deep breath and decide to be honest. “I have... feelings. Which is inconvenient because I had my whole ‘focus on my career’ plan all mapped out.”

“Feelings are the worst,” he agrees, his eyes crinkling.

“The absolute worst,” I nod, but I’m smiling. “But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he echoes, reaching for my hand across the table.

Just as his fingers brush mine, a sharp voice cuts through our bubble. “Rowan? Is that you?”

I look up to see a woman standing beside our table. Tall, blonde, perfect makeup despite the late hour. She’s looking at Rowan like he’s a lost possession she’s just rediscovered.

“Vanessa,” he says, and I don’t miss how his posture immediately stiffens. “What are you doing here?”

“Girls’ night,” she says, though I don’t see any other women with her. Her gaze shifts to me, eyes narrowing slightly. “And who’s this?”

“This is Cilla,” Rowan says, and I’m surprised by the protective note in his voice. “Cilla, this is Vanessa... an old friend.”

The way he hesitates on “friend” tells me everything I need to know. Ex-girlfriend. Possibly recent, but definitely significant.

“Charmed,” Vanessa says in a tone that suggests the exact opposite. “How do you two know each other?”

“We’re neighbors,” I say, suddenly aware of how casual I look in my simple wrap dress compared to her sleek cocktail attire.

“Oh! You must be the little professor who moved into the Callahan place. How cute.”

Little professor? I feel my smile freeze in place. “Yes, that’s me. Working on my PhD in American History.”

“How fascinating,” she says, in a tone that suggests she’d rather watch paint dry. Her attention swings back to Rowan. “I’ve been trying to call you. Didn’t you get my messages?”

Rowan shifts uncomfortably. “I’ve been busy with the Miller project.”

“Too busy to return a call?” Vanessa places a manicured hand on his shoulder and something hot and unpleasant flares in my chest. “We need to talk about what happened at Tessa’s wedding.”

Oh. So this is recent. Very recent. The butterflies in my stomach turn to lead.

“Now’s not the time, Vanessa,” Rowan says firmly, gently removing her hand.

“When is the time? You’ve been avoiding me for months.” She glances at me with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m sorry to interrupt your... dinner. Rowan and I have some unfinished business.”

“We don’t,” he says, his jaw tightening. “We finished our business three months ago.”

“That’s not what you said at the wedding,” she counters. “After those tequila shots?—”

“Vanessa.” His voice carries a warning.

I suddenly feel like I’m watching a tennis match where I’m also somehow the net. I reach for my water glass, needing something to do with my hands.

“I should probably—” I begin.

“Stay,” Rowan says immediately, his eyes meeting mine. “Please.”

Vanessa laughs a brittle sound. “Oh my god, is this a date? Rowan, honey, you can’t be serious.”

My cheeks burn. I’ve been called many things, but never so dismissively. Something inside me snaps.

“Actually,” I say, straightening my spine, “it is a date. A lovely one, until about thirty seconds ago.”

Vanessa’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows rise. “Well, aren’t you feisty for such a tiny thing? Rowan likes his women a bit more... substantial. Don’t you, Ro?”

“That’s enough,” Rowan says, standing up. “Vanessa, you need to leave.”

“After what happened between us?” Her voice rises, drawing the attention of the few remaining diners. “You said we’d talk!”

“I said I’d call you to clear things up,” he counters. “And I did. Three times. You didn’t like what I had to say, so you hung up. Every time.”

I sit there, increasingly uncomfortable, wondering what happened at this wedding. The romantic bubble we’d been in has definitively popped.

“Excuse me,” I say quietly, pushing back my chair. “I need to use the restroom.”

I escape to the ladies’ room, leaning against the marble counter and staring at my reflection. My cheeks are flushed, and my eyes are too bright.

“Get it together, Griffin,” I mutter to myself. “This is why you don’t date. This is why you have dogs.”

I take a deep breath, straighten my dress, and remind myself I’m a grown woman with a PhD in progress, not some insecure teenager. Whatever happened between Rowan and this woman at some wedding isn’t my business. We’re on one date. One. It’s not like we’ve declared undying love.

So why does my chest hurt?

I splash cold water on my wrists, a trick my mother taught me to calm down. “It’s fine. Totally fine. You’ll finish dinner politely, go home, and remind yourself why focusing on your dissertation is smart.”

The bathroom door swings open, and for a horrifying moment, I think it’s Vanessa. Instead, it’s an older woman with kind eyes.

“You okay, honey?” she asks, washing her hands at the sink beside me.

“Peachy,” I reply, forcing a smile.

She gives me a knowing look. “That blonde out there is making quite a scene. Your fella looks mighty uncomfortable.”

“He’s not my fella,” I say automatically.

“Well, he sent me to check on you, so I’d say he’d like to be.” She dries her hands. “For what it’s worth, I’ve lived in Cedar Bay my whole life. Rowan Malone’s dated half the eligible women in town, but I’ve never seen him look at anyone like he looks at you.”

She leaves before I can respond, which is probably good because I have no idea what to say.

I take one more steadying breath. “Okay, Cilla. You’re going back out there, handling this with dignity, then going home to your dogs who, unlike men, are consistently reliable.”

When I return to the dining room, Vanessa is gone, and Rowan is sitting with his head in his hands. He jumps up when he sees me.

“I am so sorry,” he says immediately. “That was completely inappropriate, and I?—”

“It’s fine,” I say, sliding back into my seat.

“It’s not fine. It was awful.” He looks genuinely distressed. “Vanessa and I dated last year. It ended badly.”

“And then there was a wedding with tequila shots,” I add, keeping my tone neutral.

Rowan winces. “Her cousin’s wedding. I was there as a friend of the groom. We talked, that’s all. She’s been trying to... reconnect since then.”

“You don’t owe me explanations,” I say, reaching for my wine. “We’re on one date.”

“I want to owe you explanations,” he says quietly. “I like you, Cilla. I like you in a way that scares the absolute shit out of me.”

The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard. I study his face, looking for any sign of the smooth operator I’d assumed he was when he first started flirting with me. All I see is raw honesty.

“That’s a pretty big statement for a first date,” I finally say.

“I know. I’m not usually like this.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in an annoyingly attractive way. “But from the moment you moved in down the street, with those ridiculous little dogs and that stink-eye whenever I waved at you?—”

“I don’t think I ever gave you a stink-eye.” I interrupt him.

“—I haven’t been able to think straight.” He reaches for my hand again, and this time, I let him take it. “I know you’re focused on your career. I respect that. But I’d like to see where this could go.”

His thumb traces small circles on my palm, and I try to ignore how such a simple touch sends warmth up my arm.

“What about Vanessa?” I ask. “She seems to think there’s something unfinished there.”

“The only unfinished business is her accepting that we’re over.” His eyes stay locked on mine. “I’m not going to lie and say I’ve been a saint. I’ve dated a lot of women in this town. But none of them made me feel like I needed to be better to be worthy of them. Not until you.”

“You hardly know me,” I point out.

“I know enough.” His smile turns sheepish. “I may have asked around about you.”

“Stalker,” I tease, but I’m smiling too.

“Research,” he corrects. “And I’d like to know more. Much more.”

The waiter approaches with our check, and Rowan takes it before I can reach for my wallet.

“I asked you out,” he says. “Next time, you can try to pay, but I doubt that will go over differently.”

“Pretty confident there’s going to be a next time, Malone.”

“Hopeful,” he corrects, his eyes crinkling. “Very hopeful.”

We walk outside, and the cool night air off the bay feels good after the tension of the restaurant. Rowan’s truck is parked at the curb, but my little bungalow is only a few blocks away, and I’d mentioned wanting to walk.

“I’ll walk you home,” he says, falling into step beside me.

The streets of Cedar Bay are quiet at this hour, just the occasional car passing and the distant sound of boats in the harbor. We walk in comfortable silence for a moment, and I’m hyperaware of his hand occasionally brushing against mine.

“So,” I finally say. “Poetry, huh?”

“Don’t tell anyone. It would ruin my manly reputation.”