“It is now.”
I snatch the card, toss it over my shoulder. “Unbelievable.”
“Be quiet,” he says, already turning toward the stairs. “And walk.”
We descend in silence, his pace annoyingly efficient. Mine slightly uneven because I’m still trying to shove my phone into my back pocket without looking like I care that Rowan’s ass looks tighter than it used to.
He doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
And somehow, that silence is louder than anything he could’ve said.
Because I know Rowan King.
If he’s not talking, he’s thinking.
If he’s thinking, he’s planning.
And if he’s planning... I should be scared.
* * *
The restaurant is one of those too-polished cafés that serve things like eighteen-dollar avocado toast and sparkling water.
Of course, Rowan picked it.
The hostess recognizes him instantly. Rowan King is a reservation you memorize on instinct. She leads us to a table in the back, near the windows, where natural light hits just right and no one’s close enough to eavesdrop.
He doesn’t wait for me to sit.
He pulls out his own chair, shrugs out of his coat, and starts scanning the menu.
I slide into the seat across from him and immediately regret coming.
The silence stretches.
I fidget with my napkin.
“So...” I start, then stop. “This is weird, right?”
He doesn’t look up. “Only if you insist on making it that way.”
Ugh, I hate him.
A waiter appears before I can decide whether to slap him or stab him with my butter knife.
“Still or sparkling?” the waiter asks.
“Still,” Rowan answers. Then, with a glance at me, he says, “She’ll have the same.”
“I can order my own water.”
Rowan doesn’t respond. Just picks up the menu again.
“Do you know what you’d like?” the waiter asks, all fake cheer and hair spray.
“I’ll take the kale Caesar,” Rowan says. “No croutons.”
