Page 33 of Dirty Fighter

I’m stronger than that.

Smarter.

I mow neat lines, one after another, reminding myself that for the first time in my life, I’m truly, totally free.

No vulnerabilities. No accountability. No other shoe waiting to drop.

And even if there are a few residual sparks between us, it’s not like either of us is going to act on them.

Talk about messy.

Inconvenient.

Flat-out stupid.

And not even close to why I’m here.

Reaching the end of the final row, I turn to survey my work. It’s the smallest mark, impermanent to the island, but lasting to me. I ought to be pleased, but instead, all I can think of is how much I wish Ed could see it.

Jason

I’m laid out on the utility room floor about to start on the drain when a pair of grass-and-dirt-covered sneakers topped by some painfully pretty ankles comes into view.

“Hey, if you’re good here, I’m going to take a walk for a bit.” Her weight shifts as she tucks one foot behind the other.

It’s not some sexy move. Nothing flirtatious about it. But the way my throat goes dry and my grip tightens on the wrench, you’d think she was giving me the OnlyFans treatment.

Which is bad.

Get it together, man.

“No, I’m set. Enjoy the fresh air.”

That casually tucked foot lets go, and then she’s leaving, her quiet, “Back in a while,” pulling at me in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.

Sliding out from beneath the sink, I wipe my brow and call after her, “Hey, everything okay?”

She’s already past my line of sight when she answers. “Oh, yeah. Fine.”

I don’t know what it is, not the tone, not the words, not any one thing other than my gut urging me to get up off the floor and follow her when she leaves.

Thing is, the instinct that’s served me so well on the ice and off through most of my life has a singular blind spot. Rowan. And when it was wrong with her, it was really wrong.

I watch her feet as she leaves. And after a minute of prolonged, angsty deliberation over whether I should ask if she wants me to go along with her, I remind myself I’m not a fourteen-year-old girl and to knock that shit off.

The fix doesn’t take long to finish, and when it’s done, I grab my phone from the counter to check with Bruce if we’ve got an ETA on the lock guy.

A few minutes later, I’m heading out through the utility room door into an afternoon that’s beyond perfect. The wind is playing through the treetops and pushing big cotton-ball clouds across a vast and vividly blue sky as sunshine dances over the water.

I follow the wooded path along the bluffs at the far side of the island, above the remains of the old boathouse and past the boulder bed where the sound of the waves crashing below rises in a deafening roar.

The trees thin out ahead, and I see her.

She’s sitting with her back partially to me, cross-legged on the lookout rock, a few loose curls playing around the sliver of her profile.

Lesson learned on sneaking up on this woman, I give her a warning call. “Rowan?”

She turns, brushing her hair from her face, and then smiling as I walk over.