I said my piece, and it’s never felt better.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tessa
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I ask from the bed, where I’m still curled under the top sheet, hair wet, Rowan’s T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. “The doctor said rest.”
“I am resting.” He’s standing in front of the dresser with a pair of slacks on and his shirt hanging open. “I’m skipping the cigars this evening. That’s resting.”
“The doctor just removed your IV not too long ago.”
“And now I’m hungry. Should I not eat and starve myself?”
“Depends. What are you in the mood for? Suffering and smugness? Or actual food.”
He turns just enough to smirk over his shoulder. “For revenge and roasted chicken.”
Heaven help me, I grin.
But even as I tease him, my mind’s stuck on this morning.
I told him everything.
About the gray days. The heaviness. About the way depression crept in like fog—soft, but suffocating. I told him how I disappeared because I couldn’t let the one person who always saw me clearly see me when I didn’t recognize myself.
And he didn’t blink.
He held me like I wasn’t broken.
And somehow, in forty-eight hours of fake dating, bathtub confessions, and shared pillows, I feel closer to him than I ever did back when we were technically together.
“Are you coming?” Rowan asks, dragging me back to the present. “Or are you going to sulk under that sheet like a Grecian widow?”
“I’m not sulking,” I say, slipping out of bed and grabbing the wrap dress I’ve yet to wear. “I’m deciding whether you deserve my company.”
“Excellent. Apply that same rigor to your quinoa.”
I roll my eyes, and we walk Waffles before heading to the main dining room, where everyone is gathered. I spot at least four different salads on the serving table, none of which look fulfilling.
“Ugh,” I groan. “I was hoping for a burger or tacos. I’m tired of bird food.”
Rowan smirks and pulls out my chair. “Just one more day, and then we can stop for the juiciest burger in all of Georgia.”
“That sounds good to me.” I sit and unfold my napkin just as a familiar voice sounds behind me.
“King,” Harris says smoothly, appearing beside our table like he teleported out of thin air. “Mind if we join you?”
Rowan’s jaw flexes. “Of course not.”
He doesn’t ask me.
Because this isn’t a question.
This is a power play.
Harris slides into the seat next to Rowan. Masden takes the one beside me, his elbows already resting on the pristine linen.
I glance at Rowan.
