Page 7

rowan

I can’t stop grinning like an idiot as we walk up the stone path to Cilla’s bungalow. The moonlight reflecting off the bay creates this perfect silver glow around her auburn hair, and I’m trying like hell not to stare. But damn, it’s impossible.

“I had a really nice time tonight,” she says, her voice soft against the sound of waves lapping at the shore across the street.

“Me too,” I manage, suddenly feeling like I’m back in high school instead of a thirty-one-year-old man who runs his own construction company. Something about Cilla Griffin turns me into a nervous teenager.

When we reach her door, I can hear her dachshunds going ballistic on the other side. Yapping and scratching like they’ve been abandoned for days instead of a few hours.

“That would be the welcoming committee,” she says with a bit of a half-smile that makes my chest tighten. “I’m sure Birdie and Brody believe I’ve been kidnapped.”

“Very protective,” I say, taking a step closer. “I respect that in a dog.”

Cilla fumbles slightly with her keys, and I wonder if she’s nervous too. The thought gives me courage. I’ve wanted to kiss her since we set off for dinner, biding my time to feel her lips on mine again.

When she turns to face me, I don’t hesitate. I lean down—way down, given our height difference—and press my lips to hers. I meant it to be gentle and respectful, a goodnight kiss that leaves her wanting more. But then she makes this little sound in the back of her throat, and suddenly, her keys drop to the porch with a clatter, and her hands grip my jacket, pulling me closer.

Holy. Shit. I’m in love.

The dogs are losing their minds now, probably seeing our silhouettes through the frosted glass of her front door. But I couldn’t care less as Cilla’s mouth opens under mine, her tongue tentatively meeting my own. She tastes like the tiramisu we shared for dessert, sweet, rich, and intoxicating.

“We should...” she murmurs against my lips, then kisses me harder, contradicting whatever she was about to suggest.

“Yeah,” I agree to nothing, trailing kisses along her jaw.

Somehow, she manages to retrieve her keys without entirely breaking contact. The door swings open, and we stumble inside as two small black and tan blurs circle our legs, yipping excitedly.

“Hi babies, yes, I’m home,” she coos down at them, but her eyes stay locked on mine, pupils dilated in the dim light of her foyer.

I kick the door behind us and pull her back into my arms. The dogs are practically doing laps around us now, but all I can focus on is how perfectly she fits against me, how her body melts into mine as if we’ve done this a thousand times before.

“The dogs,” she whispers between kisses but makes no move to stop.

“They’ll survive,” I murmur against her neck, inhaling her scent—something citrusy and clean that’s driving me insane. My hands slide down to her waist, drawing her closer.

Birdie—or maybe Brody, I still can’t tell them apart—jumps against my leg while the other circles us, urgently barking.

Cilla laughs against my mouth, the vibration sending shivers down my spine. “They think they’re protecting me from you.”

“Smart dogs,” I say, nipping at her lower lip. “I’m definitely dangerous.”

Her blue eyes darken as she looks up at me. “Is that so?”

“Mmm,” I confirm, backing her gently against the wall of her entryway. My hand finds its way into her hair, cradling the back of her head as I deepen the kiss.

The dogs are going absolutely nuts now. One of them tugs at my pant leg while the other barks in what seems like perfectly timed intervals.

Cilla’s hands slide under my jacket, her fingers pressing into my back through my shirt. I want to feel those hands everywhere. I want to stay in this moment forever, with her pressed between me and the wall, her taste on my tongue.

“Rowan,” she breathes, and the sound of my name in that husky voice nearly undoes me.

But then she’s placing her palms against my chest, gently pushing me back. “I think we should slow down.”

It takes my brain a second to catch up, blood rushing back to my head from... elsewhere. “Yeah. Of course.” I step back, immediately missing her warmth.

She bends down to scoop up one of the dachshunds, who immediately licks her face while eyeing me suspiciously. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she says, her cheeks flushed in a way that makes me want to kiss her again. “It’s just...”

“Too fast,” I finish for her. “I get it. Believe me, I respect that.”

And I do. Even if my body is currently staging a full-scale rebellion against the concept of “slowing down.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling that half-smile again. “For dinner. And for being... you.”

I run a hand through my hair, trying to collect myself. “Does this mean there might be a second date in my future?”

Cilla bites her lower lip, which does nothing to help my current state. “I’d like that,” she says, adjusting the dachshund in her arms. The other one has finally stopped barking but remains firmly planted between us, guardian of virtue.

“Great. That’s... great.” Eloquent, Rowan. Real smooth.

She laughs a genuine sound that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” I lie, absolutely flustered. “I’m... contemplative.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?” She raises an eyebrow, and I swear I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want this tiny, brilliant woman with her judgmental dogs and smart mouth.

I take another step back, knowing if I don’t put some distance between us, I’ll be kissing her again in seconds. “For the record, Dr. Griffin, you’re the first woman who’s made me ‘contemplative’ in a long time.”

She blushes at that, the pink in her cheeks visible even in the dim light of her foyer. The dog in her arms yawns dramatically, apparently deciding I’m no longer an immediate threat.

“I should go,” I say, though every cell in my body disagrees. “Let you get these two to bed.”

“Probably for the best,” she agrees, but there’s a reluctance in her voice that gives me hope. “Birdie and Brody get cranky without their beauty sleep.”

“We wouldn’t want that.” I reach out to scratch the head of the dog still on the floor—Brody, I think—who accepts my offering with suspicious tolerance. “I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“I’d like that,” she repeats, and the sincerity in her voice makes my chest warm.

I lean in for one more kiss, keeping it brief despite every instinct telling me to deepen it. When I pull back, Cilla’s eyes stay closed for a moment longer, and I file away that image for later.

“Goodnight, Cilla,” I say, opening the door behind me.

“Goodnight, Rowan.” She shifts the dog in her arms, “Drive safe.”

The walk back to my house feels ten times longer than the walk up to her door. I glance back once to see her silhouette in the doorway, both dogs at her feet, watching me go. She raises a hand in a small wave, and I return it, feeling ridiculously happy about such a simple gesture.

I’ve been with beautiful women before, smart women, and funny women, but never someone who hits all three with the force of a hurricane like Cilla Griffin.

I’m in trouble. The good kind of trouble that makes your heart race like you’re a teenager again.

On the short walk home, I can’t stop replaying every moment of tonight in my head. The way she laughed at my stupid jokes at dinner. The way she leaned in when I told her about the summer I spent rebuilding that fishing boat with my dad. The feeling of her lips against mine, soft but insistent.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes, and I half expect it to be Cilla, but it’s not. It’s Fox.

Fox: Job tomorrow still on? Tobias wants to know what time.

Right. Work. The real world. The one where I’m not just a lovesick fool mooning over the most brilliant, sexiest professor in Cedar Bay.

Me: 8am sharp

As I climb my porch steps, I notice Mrs. Hendricks’ porch light is still on next door. She’s probably up watching her crime shows again. The old woman misses nothing in this neighborhood, so she saw me leave for my date tonight. I’ll definitely be dodging her questions tomorrow morning.

Everything feels too quiet inside my house after the chaos of Cilla’s dogs and the electricity between us. I grab a beer from the fridge, drop onto my couch, and kick off my boots.

It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about anyone. Hell, maybe I’ve never felt exactly this way before. The women I usually date are... simpler. Not less intelligent, but less challenging. They don’t make me work for it. They don’t have tiny guard dogs, dissertations, or walls built around their hearts that I’m desperate to scale.

I take a long pull of my beer and grab the remote, but I don’t turn on the TV. Instead, I stare at the built-in bookshelves I installed last winter. I never mention the ones lined with the books to the guys at the job sites. Fitzgerald. Hemingway. A worn copy of “The Count of Monte Cristo” my grandfather gave me before he died.

What would Cilla think of my little library? If she’d be surprised. If she’d run those slender fingers along the spines, pull one out, curl up on my couch, and read while I examine the blueprints for our next project.

“Jesus, Malone,” I mutter to myself. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger. “

But I can’t help it. There’s something about Cilla that feels... right. Like I’ve been waiting for her to move into that little bungalow by the bay my whole life without even knowing it.

I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. Too soon to text? Probably. Definitely. But I want to. I want to tell her I’m still tasting her on my lips. That her dogs are cute, even if they clearly hate me. That I’m already counting the minutes until I can see her again.

I set the phone down without texting. Play it cool, Rowan. Don’t scare her off.

But as I head to the bedroom, I can’t stop replaying the feeling of her pressed against me in that tiny foyer, the soft sounds she made when I kissed her neck, and the reluctance in her eyes when she put on the brakes.

I’ve built an entire business from the ground up, served in war zones, and faced down angry clients who wanted to change plans mid-construction, but nothing has ever made my heart pound like Priscilla Griffin and her two judgmental dachshunds.

I strip down to my boxers and fall into bed, staring at the ceiling fan, turning lazy circles above me. Tomorrow, I’ll return to being Rowan Malone, owner of Cedar Bay Construction. I’ll wear my hard hat, give orders, and pretend I’m not counting the hours until I can call her.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I nearly fall out of bed, reaching for it.

Cilla: I just wanted to say goodnight again. And that Birdie and Brody might eventually forgive you for the kissing incident. Maybe. With sufficient bribery. - C

I read it three times, smiling like a fool, before typing back.

Me: I’ll bring dog treats on our second date. Fair warning: I plan to give them a reason to be scandalized again.

The three dots appear immediately, and my stomach does this weird flip thing I haven’t felt since high school.

Cilla: Looking forward to it. Goodnight, Rowan.

I fall asleep with my phone still in my hand, dreams full of auburn hair and moonlight on the bay.