Rowan is good at everything. It’s infuriating. It’s also unfair because he looks good while being good at everything, and honestly, someone should regulate that.
I risk a glance over my shoulder.
He’s rolling up his sleeves. Then he decides that’s apparently too limiting and pulls off the entire shirt, folding it once before tossing it beside him.
I absolutely do not mean to stare.
I do anyway.
His chest is lean and defined, every line sharp without being showy. Sunlight hits his shoulders in a way I’m pretending not to notice. His abs tighten each time he pulls the oars, and there’s a muscle in his forearm working hard enough that I suddenly understand why people used to swoon during fencing demonstrations.
Focus.
Water.
Buoy.
Winning.
Not the way his back shifts with every movement.
Not the fact that I want to run my mouth along that same path and?—
Okay. I need a therapist. And possibly a priest.
This is supposed to be fake. A performance. A job. But sitting here with him, moving in perfect rhythm, every bit of him focused and powerful and annoyingly beautiful, I have no idea how I’m expected to handle this without becoming a cautionary tale.
Rowan exhales, steady and too calm.
“Eyes on the water, Captain.”
I snap forward so fast my ponytail whips. “I was just checking our progress.”
“You were objectifying my rotator cuff.”
“That cuff is smug,” I shoot back.
He doesn’t deny it, which means he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.
And the worst part?
So do I.
He doesn’t answer, but the smirk in his silence is so loud I could probably hear it underwater.
And that’s somehow worse, because now I’m grinning, too.
Because now we’re actually winning. He knows it, I know it, and the boat knows it.
We fall into a steady rhythm—clean, tight strokes that move us forward with this easy glide I didn’t expect. The other boats are scattered behind us, and Rowan hasn’t even broken a sweat. Of course, he hasn’t. He rows like someone who did a quick mental calculation and decided exactly how much power he needs to exert to humiliate the competition without looking like he’s trying.
Showoff.
“You know,” I say, breath catching a little, “you’re alarmingly good at this.”
“I’m alarmingly good at everything,” he says, just dry enough to make me choke on a laugh.
“I’m serious. You’re actually doing really well.”
