Page 8
rowan
I arrive at the job site before anyone else, checking the lumber delivery and reviewing the plans for the Marshall addition. We’re adding a sunroom facing the water; the windows arrived yesterday. I’m marking measurements when Fox’s truck pulls in.
“Someone’s chipper this morning,” he says as he climbs out, travel mug in hand. “Date went well?”
I try to wipe the smile off my face but fail miserably. “It was good.”
“Good?” Fox raises an eyebrow, grabbing his tool belt from the truck bed. “You’re practically floating, and all I get is ‘good’?”
I shrug, but I can feel the grin breaking through again. “Fine. It was great. Cilla’s... refreshing.”
“Different how?” Fox asks, eyeing me suspiciously. “Because the last time you said a woman was ‘different,’ it was Amber, and she turned out to be exactly like every other wingman who’s thrown herself at you since tenth grade.”
“Cilla’s not throwing herself at me,” I say, frowning. “If anything, she’s making me work for it. And I don’t mind.” I pause, surprised by my own admission. “Actually, I like it.”
Fox stops mid-sip of coffee, staring at me like I’ve just announced I’m moving to Mars. “Rowan Malone likes the chase? Since when?”
“It’s not about the chase,” I say, realizing it’s true as I say it. “It’s about her. She’s smart—like, brilliant. She’s working on her PhD and teaches history at St. Agnes. And she’s funny, but in this dry way where half the time I’m not sure if she’s joking until I see that little smile.”
“Sounds like someone’s smitten,” Cole says, appearing from behind his truck with a knowing grin. “Our boy’s finally met his match.”
“I’m not smitten,” I protest, though the heat creeping up my neck betrays me. “I just had a good time.”
“Uh-huh,” Fox says, unconvinced. “And that’s why you were here an hour early, whistling while you measure.”
Was I whistling? Shit.
“Whatever,” I grumble, turning back to the plans. “Don’t we have work to do?”
“Sure thing, Romeo,” Cole laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “But fair warning—if this girl’s got you acting like this after one date, we’ll never let you live it down.”
I roll my eyes but can’t muster any real annoyance. They’re not wrong. One dinner, one kiss—okay, several kisses—and I’m already in deeper than I’ve been with anyone in years. Maybe ever.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I have to physically restrain myself from yanking it out immediately. I wait until Fox and Cole are busy unloading supplies before checking it.
Cilla: Good morning. The boys and I are heading to the beach for our morning walk. There’s a coffee shop nearby that makes excellent lattes. Just saying.
It’s not an invitation. Not exactly. But it feels like one.
I glance at my watch. We have the framing to finish today, and I should supervise. But...
“Hey,” I call out to Fox. “I need to make a quick run. Can you handle things for an hour?”
Fox narrows his eyes, but there’s a hint of amusement there. “Are you meeting Cilla?”
“How did you?—”
“Because you’ve got a dumb smile on your face.” He waves me off. “Go. But you owe me.”
I’m already backing toward my truck. “You’re the best, man.”
“And don’t you forget it,” he calls after me.
As I drive toward the beach, I try to tell myself this is casual. Just coffee. But there’s nothing casual about the way my heart is hammering against my ribs or how I check my hair in the rearview mirror before getting out of the truck.
I spot them right away. It’s hard to miss an auburn-haired beauty being pulled along by two enthusiastic dachshunds on the otherwise quiet morning beach. The dogs are racing ahead of Cilla, leashes taut as they investigate every interesting scent in the sand. Cilla’s laugh carries on the breeze as one of them—Birdie, I think—darts sideways to chase a seagull.
She hasn’t seen me yet. For a moment, I just watch her, noticing how the early sunlight catches in her hair and how her face lights up when she calls to her dogs. She’s wearing jeans rolled up at the ankles, sand clinging to her bare feet, and a blue sweater that matches her eyes. No makeup, hair pulled back in a messy bun—completely different from the polished professor who sat across from me at dinner last night. Somehow, she’s even more beautiful this way.
Then, one of the dogs spots me. Brody’s ears perk up, and he lets out a series of sharp barks that have Cilla turning to follow his gaze. When she sees me, she freezes for just a second, then breaks into a smile that hits me like a physical force.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I call out, walking toward her.
“What a coincidence,” she says, eyes sparkling with mischief. “And here I thought I was being subtle with my text.”
“About as subtle as your guard dogs,” I reply, nodding toward the dachshunds who are now circling my legs, still barking.
“Birdie, Brody, enough,” she says firmly. They quiet down but continue to eye me with suspicion. “They’re still deciding if you’re a threat or not.”
“And what’s the verdict so far?” I ask, reaching down slowly to let them sniff my hand.
“The jury’s still out,” she says, but there’s a warmth in her voice that wasn’t there the first few times we spoke. “But they’re accepting bribes in the form of bacon treats if you’re wondering.”
“Noted for future reference.” I straighten up, suddenly very aware of how close we’re standing. “So, I hear there’s excellent coffee nearby?”
“There is.” She winds the dogs’ leashes around her hand. “Though I should warn you, the owner is the biggest gossip in Cedar Bay. So if you’re seen with me, the whole town will know by lunchtime.”
“Let them talk,” I say, feeling bolder than usual. “I’m not exactly hiding my interest here, Cilla.”
A blush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t look away. “Fair enough. Though I should warn you, I won’t provide anything interesting to gossip about. I spend most of my time grading papers and working on my dissertation. Not exactly scandalous material.”
“I don’t know,” I say, falling into step beside her as we walk toward the coffee shop. “Smart is the new sexy for me.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and I can feel the tips of my ears getting hot.
Cilla looks up at me, a mix of surprise and something else—something I very much want to explore—in her eyes. “Is that so?”
“Absolutely,” I reply, holding her gaze. “Watching you talk about the Louis and Clark expedition at dinner last night? When your eyes lit up and you used your hands to show their path through the Rocky Mountains? Sexiest thing I’ve seen in years.”
She laughs, but it’s different from her usual laugh—lower, almost shy. “Most men don’t find my academic rants particularly appealing.”
“Most men are idiots,” I say simply.
The dogs have calmed down now, trotting alongside us as we reach the boardwalk. I think one of them—Brody— bumps against my leg in what feels almost like acceptance.
“Progress,” Cilla notes, nodding toward the dog. “He only does that with people he’s decided aren’t serial killers.”
“High praise,” I say, smiling down at the little dachshund. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy.”
The coffee shop is a small place tucked between a souvenir store and a bait shop. It has a faded blue awning and mismatched outdoor furniture. As soon as we walk in, a plump woman with silver hair spots us, and her eyes widen with obvious delight.
“Professor Griffin! And Rowan Malone! Well, isn’t this a surprise?” She bustles over, wiping her hands on her apron. “What brings you two in together this fine morning?”
“Coffee, Mrs. Winters,” Cilla says smoothly. “I’ve been telling Rowan about your lattes.”
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Winters says, her eyes darting between us. “The usual for you, dear? And for you, Rowan?”
“Black coffee is fine,” I say.
Mrs. Winters tuts. “Nonsense. A big, strong man like you needs something substantial. I’ll make you my special—espresso with a touch of cinnamon and honey.”
Before I can protest, she’s off behind the counter, humming to herself.
“Told you,” Cilla murmurs, leading me to a table by the window. “Town gossip central.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, meaning it. I pull out Cilla’s chair, an automatic gesture that earns me a raised eyebrow.
“Chivalry?” she asks but sits down anyway, arranging the dogs’ leashes so they can lie comfortably beside her chair.
“Force of habit,” I explain, taking the seat across from her. “My mom would skin me alive if she heard I didn’t pull out a chair for a date.”
“Is this a date?” Cilla asks, her head tilted slightly. “I thought our first date was last night.”
“This is...” I search for the right words, distracted by the way the morning light catches in her hair. “Let’s call it date one-point-five. An unscheduled bonus round.”
She laughs, and the sound does something to my chest that I can’t quite explain. “I like that. Very precise categorization.”
“I try,” I say, leaning forward slightly. “Though to be completely honest, I’d categorize any time spent with you as a win.”
Her cheeks flush, but she holds my gaze. “Smooth talker.”
“Only with you,” I admit. “Usually I’m much better at this whole flirting thing. You make me nervous.”
“I make you nervous?” She looks genuinely surprised. “That’s... unexpected.”
“Why? Because you’re barely over five feet tall, I could probably bench press you?”
She rolls her eyes, but a smile plays at her lips. “Something like that. Plus, you have a reputation in this town, Rowan Malone.”
“Do I now?” I lean back in my chair, curious. “And what reputation is that?”
“Cedar Bay’s most eligible bachelor,” she says, making air quotes. “Mrs. Winters told me all about you the first time I came in for coffee. How you built half the new houses in town with your bare hands. How you’ve broken hearts from here to Seattle.”
I wince. “That’s... exaggerated.”
“Is it?” She raises an eyebrow, but there’s no judgment in her expression, just curiosity.
“The construction part, no. That’s actually accurate. The heart-breaking...” I shrug. “I’ve dated, sure. But I’ve never made promises I couldn’t keep.”
Mrs. Winters chooses that moment to arrive with our drinks, setting them down with a flourish. “One lavender latte for the professor and my special for the handsome contractor. Can I get you two anything else? Some of my blueberry scones, perhaps? Fresh out of the oven.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Cilla says before I can respond. “Two, please.”
As Mrs. Winters bustles away, clearly delighted by this development, Cilla leans forward. “She makes the best scones in the county. Trust me.”
“I do,” I say simply.
Something shifts in her expression, a softening around her eyes. “You barely know me.”
“I know enough,” I reply, surprising myself with the certainty I feel. “I know you’re brilliant. I know you’re kind—you greeted Mrs. Winters by name the first time you came here, which means you pay attention to people. I know you love those two judgmental little dogs like your children.” I pause, taking a sip of my coffee, which is actually delicious. “And I know that when you smile—really smile, not that polite one you give your students—it’s like someone turned on all the lights in the room.”
Cilla stares at me, lips parted slightly, something unreadable in her expression. For a moment, I worry I’ve said too much and been too honest too quickly. Then she reaches across the table and rests her fingertips lightly on my hand.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says softly.
“Is that good or bad?”
“I’m still deciding.” But there’s a warmth in her eyes that gives me hope.
Mrs. Winters returns with the scones, giving our almost-touching hands a delighted glance before retreating to help another customer. When I take a bite, the scones are still warm, and the blueberries are bursting with flavor.
“Told you,” Cilla says, watching my reaction with satisfaction.
“You were right.” I brush a crumb from my lip. “I’ll never doubt your food recommendations again.”
We fall into easy conversation after that. Cilla tells me more about her dissertation—something about women’s roles in Pacific Northwest logging communities that actually sounds fascinating the way she describes it. I tell her about the sunroom we’re building for the Marshalls and how I designed it to maximize the view of the bay while maintaining the historical character of their Victorian home.
Time slips away. I realize immediately that I’ve been away from the job site for almost two hours when my phone buzzes with a text.
Fox: Bossman, lumber’s here. Need your approval before we start cutting.
I sigh, showing Cilla the text. “Duty calls.”
“I should get back to work too,” she says, gathering the dogs’ leashes. “I have papers to grade before my afternoon class.”
I leave enough cash on the table to cover our drinks, scones, and a generous tip, waving away Cilla’s protest. “Date one-point-five, remember? My treat.”
Outside, the morning has warmed considerably. Cilla slips on a pair of sunglasses, and I have to resist the urge to tell her how adorable she looks with those oversized frames on her delicate face.
“This was nice. Unexpected but nice. Thanks for meeting me.”
“I’m full of surprises,” I say, stepping closer. “You should keep me around to see what other unexpected things happen.”
She laughs, but it catches slightly in her throat as I move into her space. “Is that your sales pitch?”
“Is it working?” I ask, my voice dropping lower.
Her eyes flick to my mouth, then back up. “Maybe.”
One of the dogs—Birdie—lets out a short, sharp bark, as if reminding us they’re still here. Cilla jumps slightly, breaking the moment.
“I should really get going,” she says, fumbling with the leashes. “And you have a lumber delivery to approve.”
“Right,” I say, reluctantly stepping back. “But I want to see you again. Soon.”
She opens the back door, helping the dogs jump in. “I’m busy tonight. I have lots of papers to grade.”
“Tomorrow?” I press. “Dinner? Or lunch, if that works better with your schedule.”
She hesitates, then looks up at me with those clear blue eyes. “Dinner would be good. But I’m cooking this time. My place, 7 o’clock?”
My heart makes a ridiculous little leap. “Your place? Are you sure?”
“Don’t read too much into it,” she warns, but there’s a teasing grin playing at her lips. “It’s just that I have this recipe I’ve been wanting to try, and eating alone is depressing.”
“I’ll bring wine,” I offer. “Red or white?”
“Surprise me,” she says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “You seem good at that.”