Either way, I’m too aware of it. Of him. Of everything we’re pretending to be and everything we still are underneath it.
And for the rest of dinner, I can’t decide what’s worse: how convincing he is… or how much I want it to be real.
Chapter Eighteen
Tessa
Waffles perks up from his pillow fort the second we walk into the suite.
I kick off my heels. “I don’t know how people do that every weekend,” I mutter. “My smile’s permanently damaged.”
Rowan doesn’t answer. He just watches me from near the door.
I push a hand through my hair. “You know—smiling? That thing normal people do when they’re pretending to enjoy themselves?”
He shrugs off his blazer. “Smiling is for the insecure and the underpaid. I’m neither.”
“Fascinating,” I say, dropping onto the chaise and letting my head fall back.
He moves across the room, slower than usual. His shoulders are tight, his jaw set. There are faint shadows under his eyes. I shouldn’t notice that, but I do.
“You’ve got that edge again,” I say quietly. “The one that shows up when you’re exhausted.”
He doesn’t look at me. Just goes to the minibar, grabs two glasses, and fills them.
“I’m fine,” he says.
“You talked to more people than I did,” I tell him. “That’s practically a medical event for you.”
He hands me one of the glasses without looking up. “I’m always tired.”
Our fingers brush when I take it. Neither of us moves. Neither of us acknowledges it.
Waffles circles once at my feet and settles with a sigh. I glance toward the single king bed.
“Still planning to take the floor?” Rowan asks, setting his glass on the nightstand.
I look up at him. “Still planning to take the bed?”
“I’m not taking anything,” he says. “You can have the left side.”
My mouth opens, then closes. “The left side?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts a brow.
I stare at him for another second, trying to figure out what game he’s playing—or if this is the part where we stop pretending nothing’s shifted between us.
“You do realize the problem, right?” I ask, gesturing between us. “Two exes. One bed. One very confused dog.”
“You used to sleep beside me all the time,” he says flatly. “I don’t remember you objecting then.”
“Yeah, well, back then, I wasn’t trying to avoid accidentally elbowing you in the ribs every time I rolled over.”
“I’m not that fragile.”
I narrow my eyes. “And I’m not that nostalgic.”
Rowan’s look is dry. Unreadable. “You’re the one making it weird.”
