His thumb traces a circle on my hip. “If you want me there, I’m in.”
“Really?” I search his face for any hint of reluctance.
“Really.”
Whitley makes a gagging sound. “You two are nauseating. I’m going to need insulin if I stay any longer.”
I throw a pillow at her, which she catches with a laugh.
“Seriously, though,” Whitley says, already halfway off the couch, “I’m happy for you. Even if you’re giving me cavities. But also, this means I don’t have to come as the buffer this time.”
She disappears down the hall, and I sink farther into Rowan’s chest, letting his warmth wrap around me.
“You sure you’re okay with dinner?” I ask again, my lips brushing against his jaw.
He looks down at me, eyes steady. “I’m in. If it means getting to be by your side, I’ll sit through a hundred awkward dinners.”
“Even if my dad gives you the death glare the entire time?”
He smirks. “Especially then. I like a challenge.”
I laugh, but my heart does that stupid fluttery thing it always does when he says stuff like that.
“Okay then,” I whisper. “Next Sunday it is.”
“There’s absolutely stilltime to fake food poisoning,” I mutter, pausing just before my parents’ front door.
Rowan squeezes my hand. “I don’t fake anything, Violet. Least of all when it comes to you.”
I glance up at him and am met with that calm, unreadable mask he wears when he’s bracing for something. I nod and knock twice before pushing the door open.
The scent of roasted chicken and rosemary hits me first, followed by the low murmur of voices from the kitchen.
“Violet!” Mom appears around the corner, wiping her hands on a towel. “You made it! And Rowan, hello!”
“Hi, Mrs. Larkin,” he says smoothly, offering her a warm smile.
“You know you can call me Marie. Come in, come in.”
Rowan slips his hand around my waist as we walk through the entryway. I catch my dad’s silhouette at the kitchen table, arms crossed.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
Rowan doesn’t flinch. “Nice to see you again, sir.”
“Hmm,” Dad grunts, like that’s the most polite thing he can manage.
Tension snags in the air between them, thick and sour. Rowan’s hand twitches at my waist, but he doesn’t say anything more.
“Why don’t we all sit down?” Mom suggests, clearly anxious to redirect.
We settle around the dining table, and I try to ignore my dad’s silence. Rowan sits beside me, hands resting on the edge of the table. The overhead light catches on the intricate designs covering his forearms and hands, and I watch my dad’s gaze linger on them.
“That’s quite the collection of ink you’ve got there,” Dad says after we’ve all served ourselves, breaking the silence.
Rowan glances down at his arms, then back up at my father. “Yes, sir.”
“Must have cost a pretty penny,” Dad continues, cutting into his chicken with more force than necessary. “All those… What are they? Dragons? Skulls?”
