“In my opinion, more than one cat. JoJo has three – Mr. Rochester, Jamie Fraser, and Captain Wentworth.”
He stops. “She named them after characters from books?”
“After her favorite book boyfriends.”
“If she likes men, she may fall in love with him. He’s a bartender/actor. He played Mr. Rochester in a Hamilton-inspired musical version ofJane Eyrewhere he rapped a song called ‘Bertha’s Burning Down the House.’ He made me go twice.”
“Stop it!” My laugh is almost a cry. “Please tell me there is video of this.”
“God, I hope not.” Chuckling, he reaches his long arm out and raises up several branches over my head.
Rowan’s thoughtful gesture is done with no fanfare. Cane Austen finds ruts, drop offs, rocks, and other obstacles while detecting changes in the terrain, but low branches and things from above that aren’t at eye level pose head and face smacking danger. I’ve been slapped a few times by rogue branches during hikes.
It’s nice when someone points it out, but not in a showy way. Alex would have made a big deal.“If I wasn’t here, there’d be a blackeye marring your pretty face,” he’d drawl. Rowan just does it without making a fuss about it.Refreshing.
“Which way?” Hands on hips, his steps cease. “The easier path to the waterfall’s bottom or the harder one to its top?”
My gaze flips between each side of the forked path. To the right, the gentle trail leading to the riverbed. To the left lies a rugged path of uneven topography that slopes up a steep climb to the waterfall’s top.
I turn, facing Rowan. “Adventure?”
“Adventure.” Grin popping, he places his hand on my lower back and guides me to the left.
My nerves sing with the warmth coursing from his palm through the thin fabric of my tank top. There’s no question about how my body reacts to Rowan. Desire pools low in my belly, hoping his tender fingers will slip beneath my shirt.
You need to calm yourself!“So, you own a pub?” I blurt, a little breathless. “Is it Irish?” My face scrunches. “Sorry. That might be a stereotype.”
“Nah.” He chuckles and waves his hand. “It’s a little Irish. A little Canadian.”
“Ooh… Like corned beef poutine and hockey watch parties with pints of Guinness?”
“Something like that.” His fingers leave my lower back then wrap about my hand.
The path turns steeper. Clusters of large rocks mar our way. My pace slows as I traverse the rutted and more obstacle-filled trail.
“We could do human guide,” I offer, slipping my hand from his.
“What’s that?” He stops and faces me.
“Let me show you.” I take his bicep and try not to faint on the spot over how big it is.
I know Rowan is fit. My eyesight isn’t so bad that I haven’t noticed how clothes mold around his chiseled form. He’s barely broken a sweat or puffed out a breath during our hike. Whereas sweat forms in unsexy spots along my body and my breath stutters just a bit. I work out, but the hike’s increased difficulty and Midwest humidity hit me harder than I expect.
“I take your arm like this.” I squeeze his hard bicep.
Did he just groan?Focus, Pen.
Biting my lip, I continue, “I’ll be half a person and step behind you. You walk like normal and I’ll follow. Your body’s movement will indicate steps and obstacles. If there’s a narrow space, you’ll move your arm behind your body and I’ll follow. If you’re uncomfortable at all with this?—”
“I’ve got us,” he jumps in.
It’s not just the certainty in his low timbre that eases any doubt in my stomach, but a steady voice inside me. Human guide requires trust. I need to trust my guide will keep me safe, and they have to trust that I’ll keep them safe. It’s a partnership where either could lead the other astray. It’s only been eight hours since I met Rowan. My brain knows this. But my heart…
“I trust you.” I smile. “If you’re unsure of anything, just use your words. Open and direct communication is key for the human guide and visually impaired person dynamic.”
“Funny, Wes would say that’s key to any relationship.”
“So true. Ready?”
