“Save it.” She caps the mascara with a sharp click. “I don’t care.”
A firm knock at the door cuts off my reply. My stomach drops. He’s early. Of course, he’s early.
Tiffany’s already moving, yanking the door open before I can stop her.
And there he is.
Rowan, in a navy coat that looks far too good on him, while holding Waffles under one arm. The dog’s wearing a tiny travel harness in rhinestones—my doing, obviously—and his tail is wagging so fast it’s practically a blur.
Rowan looks expensive. Every line of him pressed and perfect.
Tiffany leans against the doorframe, all curves and confidence. “You know, if you ever get tired of charity cases...”
Rowan’s eyes don’t even flick to her. They simply slide past her.
“If I wanted dead weight,” he says, voice flat as a blade, “I’d bring textbooks.”
Tiffany’s smile freezes.
I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.
Rowan turns to me, and his expression softens just enough that I catch it. “Ready?”
“Yes.” I grab my bags, slinging one over each shoulder and nearly toppling backward. “Definitely. Super ready. Let’s go kick some ass.”
We’re halfway down the hallway when he speaks again.
“Your roommate seems charming.”
“She has her moments. Usually when she’s unconscious.”
I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s barely there, but I see it.
Outside, his car is exactly what I expected: black, sleek, and incredibly sexy. He opens the back door with one hand, still holding Waffles, who’s panting in excitement.
He takes the duffel from me without comment and sets it in the seat, aligning it with the carrier.
“Airport, right?” I ask, even though I already know.
“Where else?”
“I don’t know. You could have booked a helicopter or a car service or something else ridiculous. I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“It’s a two-hour flight,” he says, securing Waffles into the carrier. The latch clicks, and the dog starts whining immediately.
“Private?” I ask.
“Commercial. First class.” He shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.
I slide into the passenger seat. The leather is smooth, the air carries the same clean scent I’ve come to associate with him. He starts the engine, and music plays low through the speakers.
“You okay?” I ask, because he’s gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“Fine.”
“You look like you’re about to strangle someone.”
“Not yet.”
