Page 73 of Twisted Knight

When the insomnia comes—and it always comes—I can’t help but wander to the places I used to find comfort in. The places where the ghosts of my past speak the loudest.

All except for one. The cemetery.

I haven’t been able to bring myself there just yet.

So that’s why tonight’s scheduled “how long can you ignore me, Rowan” session isn’t a hardship.

The scotch is warm on my tongue, like a welcome friend, as I take in my surroundings. The bar is trendy with a cool atmosphere. The music is good but a bit dated.

And the man sitting across from Rowan is unexpectedly cosmopolitan.

If Chad is the quintessential yuppie, this fucker is the definition of New York with his slicked-back hair, knock-off Rolex, and laugh that’s a little too loud because he’s trying too hard.

In other words, he’s an asshole.

It doesn’t help that he keeps touching Rowan. Her arm. Her hand. Her shoulder. For fuck’s sake, we all know you’re here with her. You couldn’t make it more obvious if you held a sign up.

It shouldn’t irritate me, but it does.

What I can’t get a read on from my seat at the far end of the bar is Rowan herself. Is this the type of guy she likes, because if so, I’m having a hard time fucking picturing it.

I study her. Take in her polite smile and impassive expression as he drones on, gesticulating wildly as if to impress her. She’s gorgeous as usual. Her hair is up, her makeup a little more dramatic than at the office, and her heels hooked in the bottom rung of the barstool are high.

And I’m not going to lie. I’m more than fucking glad she’s not wearing one of those sweaters I like.

Those are reserved for me.

But the fire in her eyes when she banters with me? The passion with which she talks about the company? The spark in her glare when she tells me how much she hates me? They’re nonexistent.

The question is, who is Rowan Rothschild? I can’t quite get a read on her when I can fucking read everyone.

She’s loyal to a family who isn’t loyal to her.

She struggles with toeing the family line versus doing what’s in her best interest.

She’s not afraid to play hardball—or at least she says so. I’m waiting to see her do it.

She’s a part of this community—the elite of Westmore—and yet I can’t exactly gauge how she fits in.

And she plays the cello for fucking strangers to help them stop thinking and allow them to get lost for a bit.

Fucking Rowan.

I started this game of cat and mouse with her. The hard-to-get play I made. Her obstinance in ignoring me right back when I sure as hell know she’s curious about what I meant about giving her a seat at the table is cute, admirable even. A turn-on.

But it’s not helping me in the moment.

I need to focus on the enemy I know—Rhett, Chadwick, the others—without having to look over my shoulder for Rowan sticking the knife in my back.

So I’ve upped my game, or “turned on my charm,” as Audrey claims.

If she wants to ignore me, she’s going to have to try a lot fucking harder.

“You good, brother?” the bartender asks me as he wipes his hand on the dish towel tucked in his waistband.

“I’ll have another when you get a chance.”

“Sure. Not a problem.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “You’ve got the redhead at the far end trying to get your attention, the brunette two down on your right, and the blonde across. I’d ask if you need help facilitating this, but I have a feeling this is a normal night for you.” He laughs and shakes his head.