Page 19 of Dirty Fighter

Which is stupid because, obviously, Dad told her.

“Rowan, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I’m sorry about locking you out of Dad’s room. I’m sorry you didn’t have your own bed to sleep in last night or your own bathroom this morning. I’m sorry that after all the years, the first chance we actually have to talk, I acted like the biggest dick on the planet. And most of all, I’m sorry that I didn’t even ask you how you were.”

Christ, I didn’t ask her anything.

My apology settles around us, the words sinking in.

I hope she’ll give me a chance to show her a better version of myself, but I don’t expect it.

Rowan gives me a thoughtful nod. Then, “Okay. I’ll forgive you. Under one condition.”

“Name it.”

“Breakfast. I’m starving.”

I can’t believe that’s it. But there’s a lightness between us that wasn’t there five minutes ago. So I take her at her word.

“Deal.”

I open the fridge to check out what all we’ve got.

The guys weren’t interested in taking a bunch of coolers with them, so with the exception of Lattner’s suckers and Huska’s jerky, the rest is here. “What are you thinking? Bacon and eggs? Pancakes? Omelet?”

“That’s what you eat?” Her voice is every kind of disbelief.

“Sure, sometimes.” Off-season. When I’m here. Once in a while. “But I’m asking what you want to eat.”

And then she’s beside me, leaning into the fridge with an all too familiar “Hmm.”

Cutting a sidelong glance her way, I confirm the tiny furrow at her brow and bit of bottom lip suffering through this epic decision-making while caught between the grasp of her teeth.

I’ve been here before.

Not here, here.

But witness to Rowan, ten years younger, facing down a fridge full of choices and weighing every one.

Now, like then, I step aside, leaning against the counter to watch her quiet debate.

“Can’t believe you still wrestle with your fridge choices like this.”

She frowns. “I can pick. Howwwww aboouuuuut…”

I rub a hand over my jaw and mouth, covering the grin fighting to get free.

“Take your time.”

“Sorry, I know this is annoying.”

It’s not. “It’s kind of fun to see you’ve got the same habit all these years later.” Cute.

“Ron would seriously disagree with you.”

Right.

The fiancé I keep forgetting about. Who sounds like an impatient dick.

“Got it!” She grabs the cottage cheese and tub of cut fruit, handing them off to me before riffling through the drawers and freezer and coming up with some nuts and seeds too.