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“In that case, solid choice. Harry is the sweetest.”
“Ever date him?” Frankie asked, casually tilting a paper-lined basket to roll a few remnants of fried breading around.
“God, no.”
Frankie shot a triumphant grin at Rowan while Temperance looked down at her glass.
“Why’s he so broody?” Frankie propped her elbow on the table and nestled her chin in her hand.
Temperance was inscrutable. She sipped her drink and frowned.
“He has the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen,” Rowan added.
Frankie nodded. “I noticed, too. Even before I noticed that ridiculously adorable divot in his chin.”
“Alexander Skarsgård, right?” Rowan said.
“Yes! Oh, god, I’ve been trying to figure out who he reminded me of. NotTrue BloodAlexander, though. TarzanAlexander, but without the bulk. Dr. Brady needs someone to feed him some cheese.”
“Terrible movie, though,” Rowan said.
“Agreed, but did we watch it for the plot? I’d watch a movie with him clipping his toenails for two hours, as long as he was shirtless.” Frankie sipped her wine.
Rowan nibbled her thumbnail. “He always looks so forlorn. Is that why I think he’s hot? Am I only attracted to the sad ones?”
“Who, Harrison Brady or Alexander Skarsgård?”
Rowan pushed out her bottom lip, considering. She shrugged. “Both?”
They both dissolved into laughter.
Temperance scowled. “Are you two finished?” With herstraw, she stabbed at the lime in her drink. The ice rattled in the glass. “Harry lost a patient.”
The three of them sat silent for a while, staring at the table. Rowan felt like an asshole.
She twisted her beer bottle and thought about sharing wine with Harrison. She trusted men about as far as she could toss them into moonlit ponds. So, she’d been prepared to dislike him after the entitled way he’d yanked her around during that ridiculous game. But later, on the dock, when she’d quipped about metaphorical baggage fitting into metaphorical overhead bins, she’d seen the raw chaos of grief flash across his face before he’d restored his tranquil mask. That hint of vulnerability had both fascinated and terrified her.
Rowan wasn’t built for forging new relationships. Chronic loneliness in childhood had embedded self-consciousness into her entire self-concept—she not only lacked the social skills for reaching out to new people, she lacked the initiative to bother improving them. Really, it was only plain luck she even had Temperance and Frankie in her life—it certainly wasn’t because of anything she’d done right. Their love for her was more about their innate goodness than any redemptive qualities of her own.
Last night, the shirt she’d worn at the Brady party had smelled of campfire and Harrison—traces of whatever cologne or soap or aftershave gave him that vaguely sweet juniper scent. She’d first caught the hint of it when she’d undressed once she got back to T.J.’s place.
It made her feel homesick for a home she never actually had.
Then, this morning, she’d sniffed the shirt until she felt dizzy, before rolling her eyes at herself and throwing it into the laundry bin.
Temperance knocked a piece of ice into her mouth. She crunched and talked at the same time. “Speaking of the Bradys,I sent them your résumé.” The words were delivered with such practiced nonchalance, Rowan almost missed what she’d said.
“You—what?”
“Your résumé. I sent it to the Bradys.”
“Still not following,” Rowan said, frowning.
“Your computer is always on and always open, and there’s a folder there called ‘résumés’—”
“I understand the fundamentals of how it happened, Temperance. You know that’s not what I mean.”
“They need help getting a bunch of vineyards back into shape. You’re a plant person.”
