Page 9

cilla

I stand over my kitchen island, maniacally chopping capers for the chicken piccata and wondering for the millionth time if inviting Rowan Malone to my house for dinner counts as encouragement. Because I shouldn’t be encouraging him. I should be discouraging him with extreme prejudice.

“What do you think, guys?” I ask Birdie and Brody, who are sitting at attention by my feet, their little dachshund bodies vibrating with the promise of dropped food. “Am I making a huge mistake?”

Brody tilts his head. Birdie whines.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought too.”

The truth is, after our coffee date last week—which I’d only agreed to because he’d fixed my porch steps for free—I’ve been having a hard time remembering all the reasons why dating is a terrible idea right now. Especially when dating someone like Rowan, who practically has “HEARTbrEAKER” tattooed across his absurdly perfect chest.

The doorbell rings, and both dogs erupt into frenzied barking.

“Oh, fudge,” I murmur, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “He’s early.”

I smooth down my dress—nothing fancy, just a simple blue wrap dress that happens to match my eyes—and take a deep breath. “Be cool, Priscilla. He’s just a man. An unreasonably attractive man who looks at you like you’re the last slice of pizza after a marathon.”

When I open the door, Rowan is standing there with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of wildflowers, looking like he stepped out of some small-town romance novel with his perfectly fitted jeans and a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to showcase forearms that should be illegal.

“Hi,” he says, and I swear his voice drops an octave. “You look beautiful.”

I’m about to respond when Birdie and Brody dart between my legs, launching themselves at Rowan like heat-seeking missiles.

“Whoa there!” He laughs, crouching down to let them sniff his hands. “Hello to you, too.”

“Sorry,” I say, trying to corral my traitorous dogs. “They usually don’t like strangers.”

“I’m not a stranger anymore, am I?” He looks up at me with those hazel eyes, and something warm unfurls in my chest.

“The jury’s still out,” I reply, smiling as I say it.

Dinner goes surprisingly well. Rowan compliments my cooking approximately seventeen times, asks thoughtful questions about my dissertation, and somehow manages to slip chicken to my dogs without me catching him in the act.

“I saw that,” I say after the third time.

“Saw what?” His innocent expression is undermined by Brody’s enthusiastic licking of his fingers under the table.

“You’re creating monsters.”

“They were monsters before I got here,” he says with a grin that makes my stomach do a weird little flip. “I’m just enabling them.”

It’s dangerous how comfortable this feels. Sitting across from Rowan at my little dining table, the bay visible through the windows, conversation flowing easily between bites of chicken and sips of wine. I catch myself staring at his hands more than once—strong, capable hands that built things that could probably build and break a woman if given half a chance.

“Earth to Cilla,” he says, and I realize I’ve missed whatever he just said.

“Sorry,” I mumble, heat rising to my cheeks. “I was thinking about my dissertation.”

“Liar.” His eyes twinkle with mischief. “But I’ll let it slide if you tell me what you’re really thinking about.”

I take a long sip of wine. “I was thinking that this is nice. And that scares me a little.”

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, followed by a softness I haven’t seen before. “Why does nice scare you?”

“Because nice things don’t last,” I say before I can stop myself. “Especially nice things with men who look like you.”

“Men who look like me?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, come on.” I wave my fork at him. “You know exactly what you look like. The whole town practically swoons when you walk down the street.”

“I’m only interested in one woman’s swooning,” he says quietly.

After dinner, we move to the couch with our wine. The dogs immediately claim Rowan’s lap, the little traitors, and he absently strokes their backs while we talk about his latest restoration project—a historic boathouse on the north side of the bay.

I don’t know if it’s the wine or the way the setting sun casts golden light across his features, but I find myself leaning closer, my defenses lowering with each passing minute.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Depends on the question.”

“Why have you been avoiding me since you moved in? And don’t say you haven’t because we both know that’s not true.”

I sigh, setting my wine glass on the coffee table. “Because you’re distracting. And I don’t need distractions right now.”

“Is that all I am? A distraction?” There’s a hint of hurt in his voice.

“No,” I admit. “You’re worse. You’re... tempting.”

His eyes darken. “Tempting how?”

Instead of answering, I reach over and gently relocate my dogs to the floor. Then, I slide closer until our thighs touch.

“Like this,” I whisper, and then I’m kissing him.

His response is immediate, one hand cupping my face while the other slides around my waist, pulling me closer. He tastes like wine and possibility, and I find myself making a small sound in the back of my throat when his tongue brushes against mine.

Before I know it, I’m straddling his lap, my dress riding up my thighs as his hands explore my back, my waist, the curve of my hips. Every touch sends electric currents through my body. I can feel him hardening beneath me, and I roll my hips experimentally, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

“Cilla,” he breathes against my neck, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good,” I murmur, tangling my fingers in his hair. “Now you know how I feel.”

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m losing my mind every time you’re around,” I admit, feeling vulnerable and reckless all at once. “Like I can’t think straight.”

His smile is slow and devastating. “I thought you were immune to my charms.”

“I was faking it,” I say, and then his mouth is on mine again, hungrier this time, more urgent.

I rock against him, the friction creating delicious pressure exactly where I need it. His hands slide under my dress, fingertips tracing patterns on my bare thighs that make me shiver. When his thumb brushes the edge of my underwear, I gasp.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

“More than okay,” I manage to say, surprising myself with how breathless I sound.

We move against each other, and a rhythm builds between us that has me forgetting why this is a bad idea. Rowan’s jeans are rough against my inner thighs, but the sensation only adds to the building tension. I can feel myself getting close, embarrassingly close, just from this.. “

“Rowan,”—” I break off as he shifts, angling his hips to press against me just right, and suddenly, I’m trembling, waves of pleasure washing over me as I bury my face in his neck to muffle my cry. “

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, holding me tight as I come down, my body still quivering with aftershocks.

Reality crashes back in as I realize what just happened. I just dry-humped Rowan Malone like a teenager and came on my couch. And he didn’t even?—

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, mortification heating my cheeks. “That was—I didn’t mean to?—”

“Hey.” He tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “Don’t you dare apologize for it. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

I bite my lip. “But you didn’t...”

“Trust me,” he says with a wry smile, shifting slightly beneath me. “I’m thrilled knowing I can affect you like that.”

A bark from the floor reminds me we’re not alone. I glance down to see Birdie and Brody staring up at us, both with their heads tilted in confusion. The mood breaks, and I burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, I forgot they were watching,” I say, burying my face in Rowan’s shoulder. “I feel like a terrible dog mom.”

Rowan chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest against mine. “I’m pretty sure they’re just upset we stopped paying attention to them.”

As if on cue, Brody lets out a pitiful whine and puts his paws up on the edge of the couch.

“See?” Rowan says, reaching down to scratch behind Brody’s ears. “Attention hogs.”

I slide off his lap, adjusting my dress and trying to regain some semblance of dignity. “I should probably take them out.”

“I’ll come with you,” he offers, standing up and discreetly adjusting himself.

The cool evening air helps clear my head as we walk the dogs along the shoreline path near my house. Rowan holds both leashes while I wrap my cardigan tighter around myself, watching the moonlight dance on the bay.

“So,” he says after a comfortable silence, “was this a one-time thing, or can I hope for a third date?”

I glance at him sideways. “You’re counting this as our second date?”

“Dinner at your place? Absolutely a date.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “A pretty successful one, I’d say.”

I snort. “Is that your metric for success? Making women come in their living rooms?”

“Only the women I’m crazy about,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes my heart skip.

“I should be focusing on my dissertation,” I say, but there’s no conviction in my voice.

“You can focus on your dissertation and still have dinner with me again.” He stops walking, turning to face me. “Look, Cilla, I know you’ve got this idea that I’m some kind of player?—”

“The entire female population of Cedar Bay seems to think so.”

“The entire female population of Cedar Bay doesn’t know me,” he counters. “Not really.”

I study his face in the moonlight, searching for signs of insincerity and finding none. “And you think I could?”

“Yes, I know you could.” He hands me back the leashes and takes my free hand in his. “I’ll be here on Friday, Priscilla Griffin. Be ready at 7.” He brings my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

I can’t help but smile. “I had no intention of uttering the word.”