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“Oh, come on, pretty boy,” I coo mockingly. “Afraid you’ll have a good time?”
“Please.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Watching a bunch of cowboys line dance isn’t my idea of a ‘good time.’”
Now why does he have to trail those eyes down my body to reiterate his point?
I mask a shiver by meeting him in the center of the room. “It’s not good for your health to be so damn grumpy all the time. Besides, aren’t we supposed to be convincing people we’re really engaged?”
His eyes snag on my ring when I wiggle my fingers in front of him. “I don’t dance, and I’m not grumpy.”
“Mmm, I don’t know.” I tap my chin. “You hardly ever laugh, you work constantly, have no friends, no pets, and from what I can hear, you even grumble in your sleep.”
Rowan’s gaze narrows sharply, but he helps himself to my body, tracing every curve and the patch of skin showing just above my jeans. “I’m immune to your tricks, kitten.”
We’ll see about that.
“Pretty please,” I beg sweetly, trailing the tip of my finger up the sensitive skin of his inner forearm and bicep—the exact spot I touched during our session with Piper. “For me?”
Rowan’s pupils dilate as his body involuntarily responds to me. His lips part and his head lowers when I stroke downward.
“I’ll only steal you for an hour,” I promise, my voice low.
He blinks, snapping out of my trap. I expect him to turn me away, but I can’t resist a smile when he relents. “One hour.”
Satisfied with that, I take his hand and drag him out to where Reginald parked my car. “Get in.”
Rowan stops abruptly. “You expect me to play passenger princess, but forget to open the door for me?”
I shake my head, shouldering him out of the way with a laugh. “My most sincere apologies, princess.”
I’m given a smirk that makes my belly flutter when I yank the handle and pat the seat. “Better?”
“Much.” He wedges his broad body inside my car, and I nibble my lip when he clicks his seatbelt, and says, “You better hurry. Your hour’s already started.”
I scurry around the back of the car, giddy for the first time in forever. It’s nice not to be so on edge, reading his every move or avoiding him entirely. For once, it’s almost like we’re friends.
“Why are they all staring at me?” Rowan asks twenty minutes later when we enter a bar named Tillie’s.
It’s known for being a hotspot on Friday nights, and sure enough, people are openly gawking at us.
“Probably because you’re the only guy in here dressed like you’re headed to a job interview.”
The air is thick with the scent of cheap PBRs and leather, but despite the whirlwind the last several weeks have been, I’m determined to get Rowan to relax and have a little fun.
We squeeze into a narrow opening at the bar, where the bartender, Johnny, is serving drinks to a demanding crowd with his usual ease. I order two of his famous matador shots while Rowan sneers at a group of young men who are shamelessly watching him.
“Is everyone in this town so nosey?”
Amused by the frown on his face, I slide his drink toward him. “Rowan. You’re a billionaire. What do you care what they think of you?”
“I don’t,” he mutters, but the way he’s bent over the bar, warily eyeing the cherry liquor floating on top of the cinnamon whiskey in his glass tells me he does.
It’s odd seeing him without his armor of confidence. It reminds me of how I’ve felt most of my life, dodging glances and trying like hell to make myself invisible.
It hasn’t occurred to me before now that we’re more alike than I thought. Just two loners trying to get by.
“Couple more of these, and you won’t care a lick,” I say, drinking my shot in one gulp, then shaking loose the shiver it leaves behind.
He doesn’t appear convinced, but he takes the shot, anyway. “Fucking hell. That’s terrible.”
