Page 7 of Rowan: His Exception

I stare into my cup, trying to imagine the kind of man who'd make a whole town warn strangers about him. I picture some big, burly guy with a beard, mean eyes, and built like a bear, with hands that could snap me in two.

I almost laughed.

What's the worst that can happen? I cook out there, and the vultures pick my bones? Hell, that's better than going back to Daniel and the life I used to have.

The bell over the door rings again, and I immediately feel the air in the room shift. Lou emerges from the back, carrying a plate loaded with bacon, eggs, and toast. She slides it in front of me. "Eat up, city girl. You're gonna need your strength." I grab a piece of bacon and shove it in my mouth like an animal, not giving a fuck who sees. Then Lou's smile turns to more of a knowing look. "Speak of the devil."

I turn.

Big mistake.

He's tall, broad in a way that isn't just muscle, but presence. Doesn't just take up space; he fucking commands it. Dark red flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbows, inked forearms corded with scars and veins. Worn cargo pants, scuffed boots, and a jawline that looks like it's been hit plenty and kept going. Hair dark, disheveled, falling into eyes that are the exact color of dirty ice.

He doesn't look at me. Doesn't look at anyone. Some guy in the corner booth calls out "Rowan" and gets nothing. A woman three stools down tilts her chin up as he passes, doing that thing women do when they want to be noticed. He doesn't entertain it. Rather, pulls a mug from the rack, sets it down, and waits.

"You know where the fresh pot is," Lou says.

"I was hoping you'd pour it."

"I've spoiled you."

"You have."

His voice is low, rough like gravel under tires. It vibrates in my chest, and lower places I don't want to think about. Places that haven't woken up in years.

Holy shit. It’s all I can process while continuing to shove my face with a heaping amount of eggs. Rowan is definitely not the kind of mountain man I was expecting.

I’m finishing off the last piece of bacon on my plate when I feel someone watching me, choosing that exact moment to glance up, finding a pair of expressionless, assessing eyes looking back at me. They’re not unkind, but not warm either.

I’m frozen.

It’s only for a second, maybe two, the weight of it pressing against me. Against my chest, my thighs, between my legs, where I’m suddenly, stupidly wet. Mentally cursing my body for responding to a stranger like I'm some desperate housewife in a porno.

Daniel used to have this effect on me, before he learned how to make me feel small without even touching me. Before his eyes turned cold, and his hands turned mean. After I signed the divorce papers, I pretty much swore off men and relationships. Telling myself I'd never want this again. But here I am, clenching my thighs under the counter like a fucking liar.

"Claire," Lou says, "meet Rowan Cross."

He nods. "Ma'am."

I blink. “Ma'am?”

Lou smirks. "Don't pay him any attention. He only has manners when he wants to."

Rowan doesn't bother reacting. Just goes back to his coffee like I’m another pain in the ass he has to tolerate. My gaze moves down, noticing the way his Adam's apple moves when he swallows, and I imagine the rough scrape of stubble against my lips, the taste of salt on my tongue. I wonder if he’d let me, or if he’d grip my hair and take control. Push me to my knees right here in this diner…

Jesus Christ, Claire. Get it together. You're in a diner in bum-fuck Montana, not some smutty romance book. And that man would probably rather eat glass than let you near his dick.

I shift on my stool, suddenly aware of how damp my underwear is, and clear my throat. "So, do all your students get the silent treatment, or am I special?"

His gaze flicks back to me. Slow. Deliberate.

"The quiet makes people nervous," he finally says.

"Does it?"

"Yes. Tells me who can't handle it."

I raise an eyebrow. "And what does it tell you about me?"