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Hell no.
His breath stirred the curls around her face. “Not much to say tonight?”
She shook her head. “You know I don’t do small talk.”
The people around them were engaged in conversation, smiling and laughing. One couple was caught up in a kiss so hot it made Rowan’s mouth go dry.
“Let’s talk about something meaningful, then,” he said.
Rowan didn’t answer.
“Tell me your favorite ice cream.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Seriously. That’s not small talk, Rowan. I can’t think of anything much more important than ice cream.”
“What if I’m lactose intolerant?”
“God, I’m sorry.”
The unvarnished intensity in his voice made her laugh and shake her head. “I’m not actually lactose intolerant, Harrison.”
“Then why not tell me?”
“What is this, the half-Spanish inquisition?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Cute.”
“Tell me.” His hand pressed lightly against her spine.
A tiny shrug. “Ice cream is overrated.”
He shrank away in mock horror. “Monster.”
She laughed again. “Why do we need to talk about ice cream?”
A shadow passed over his expression, then a fleeting muscle pulsed in his jaw. “I need the—ah, distraction.”
Rowan felt a conspicuous ridge of heat beneath the fly of his jeans that hadn’t been there when she’d first moved into his arms.
Oh, boy.
Rowan cleared her throat, brightened her tone. “I don’t like ice cream. Don’t have much of a sweet tooth at all, really. My real weakness is breakfast food.”
“Really?”
She chattered on, fast. “My kingdom for a steaming stack of pancakes. Soaked in butter, tiny swirl of syrup. Slightly burned bacon on the side. If it’s an act of true love, there’s fresh-squeezed orange juice.” Edie had always made homemade OJ. She’d called them her “I love you” breakfasts.
The song finished, and they swayed together a few times after the final note. Rowan leaned out of his arms, but he kept hold. When the band began the opening notes of a new song, Harrison drew her back against him.
“One more,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rowan
