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I chuckle a little, relaxing into the warm tone of his voice. “I guess I am easily spooked.”
“You’re like a horse that’s seen some shit. Don’t look like one, though, unless it’s an exceptionally pretty horse.” I arch an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. “What? You’ve got the big eyes and the long lashes, and if I’m not careful, you’ll probably end up with a long face.”
I shake my head. “That was terrible.”
“I know, and I wish I could assure you that there wasn’t more where that came from. I might not be a dad, but I’ve got a real knack for dad jokes.” He offers his arm. “What would you say to a drink? No pressure. If you can’t face an evening of awful jokes and me likely saying the wrong thing more than once, I can hail us both a cab right now. Separate ones, I mean. I promise; I won’t be offended.”
I hesitate. A drink sounds nice, especially on a rainy, humid night like tonight. Everyone around me is having fun, laughing with friends, planning out the night ahead, and I’m not ready to bail on my own evening. What’s waiting for me at home? A bath, half a movie I can’t be bothered to finish, microwave popcorn, and a few chapters of the latest book that Ms. T mailed before I cocoon myself in bed, struggling to drift off. It’d be fun if it wasn’t already my nightly routine. Maybe, something different would be good for me.
“Honestly, I won’t be—” Rowan starts, but I cut him off.
“A drink sounds great.” I force a smile, weaving my arm through his so he can’t see my hands shaking. Anxiety shivers across my skin, pricking the fine hairs, but it doesn’t stem from fear, exactly. Not unless it’s fear of the unknown.
What if he thinks this is a date? Is it a date? Going for a drink on a Friday night with a guy is generally considered date territory, but he won’t think that, will he?I cast him a sideways glance and catch him staring right back.
“There’s a wine shop not far from here. It’s got a little bar area out back—you’ve got to know people to get in, and,” Rowan lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, wiggling his eyebrows, “I know people.” He grins. “How does that sound? Again, no pressure.”
I meet his gaze with a half-smile. “Where’s this wine shop?”
He leads the way, walking me through the rain with one futile hand held over my head to try and shelter me from the droplets. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye as we walk, and what’s left of my nerves drain away, streaming along the dancing lights of the street, sucked from sight by the gutters. Maybe, together, we can turn this night around.
10
ROWAN
“Jesus, is there no escape?” I didn’t mean to press record; I just wanted to check there’s nothing in my teeth, but the little timer is ticking regardless, and the red light is flashing. “If you’re after juicy details, forget it. I know what you really want, Madame Therapist. You just want to get me to spill my guts for your own amusement, so you can watch these back with a glass of wine inyourhand.”
I must look insane, talking to myself in the men’s bathroom. It’s one of these places that doesn’t believe in mirrors, hence me checking my reflection by recording my own face. Accidentally. I blame my shaky hands for pressing record. It has been a long time since I’ve been on a hot date—any kind of date, really—and though this isn’t one, I still feel kind of… nervy. I call it the “Summer Effect.” Whenever I see her, I start to bumble—not quite the design aficionado that speaks to high-flying clientele across the globe without so much as breaking a sweat.
“Shouldn’t keep her waiting. She’ll think I’m in here doing something I’m not.” I flash an awkward smile at the phone, like I’m on a mockumentary.
I end the recording, and not a moment too soon, as a guy barrels in. He halts sharply, like he wasn’t expecting to find anyone else in the restroom.
“Just washing my hands,” I tell him brightly, feeling like an idiot.
His eyes narrow, looking me up and down like I’m something he’s trying to scrape off the bottom of his super-shiny Oxfords. I can tell by his suit and the reek of his aftershave that he’s a businessman, probably accustomed to being at the top of the pecking order.
“You got a problem?” he asks, smoothing a hand over crispy, gelled hair. There’s something familiar about him, but I don’t know what. Then again, he resembles a thousand businessmen that I’ve had to endure ego-puffed meetings with. Just one of those faces, one of those suits, one of those people. “I said, do you have a problem?” he repeats, his thick eyebrows knitting together in a scowl.
“Not the last time I checked,” I reply coolly. I know this kind of guy very well—he’s the wannabe alpha, who definitely isn’t. They don’t scare me. Dealt with enough assholes in my life to just let it roll off me.
The man sniffs and stalks off to one of the stalls, slamming the door behind him. I turn on the faucet, but underneath the steady hiss of water, I hear something else: the telltale rustle of a baggie being opened. It’s followed a minute or so later by a sharp huff. I roll my eyes and grab a paper towel, drying my hands. Typical.
“I suggest you get the fuck out of here, and if you say a word to the owner, I know what you look like,” a voice growls from the stall, jolting me into action.
Shooting a three-pointer into the waste basket, I head out of the restroom and leave the asshole to his business, while I tend to mine. After all, there’s a woman waiting for me to come back, for once, and she’ll make me forget that unpleasantness in two seconds flat.
Heading around an exposed-brick wall that separates the main part of the shop from the VIP terrace, I stop short on the threshold that’ll lead me back out to her. Summer is in profile, her head angled toward the rear of the small garden, bathed in the bronze glow of the firepit. She brings a glass of something I can’t pronounce to her lips and sips it, and it’s like the fluid is trickling down into my lungs, stopping me from breathing.
She looks incredible. Sheisincredible. And she’s not for me. Lyndsey made it clear as crystal when I came out tonight, leaving her behind with a green-faced Grace.
“She’s been through enough, Ro. I don’t want her thinking this is some set-up from me. It’s not, in case you were thinking it, too. Just be… friendly, be nice, and don’t say or do anything stupid,”she’d warned.“Cook some stuff, make sure she gets home safe, and apologize profusely on my behalf, if she hasn’t already picked up my million texts.”
But as I’m looking at Summer, so beautiful in the New Orleans evening, my heart won’t listen. It’s convinced that this is a date, and nothing I say or force myself to think can change that.
Maybe, because I want it to be a date. Maybe, because I wish that’s what this had been from the start.
As for me not saying or doing anything stupid—why, it’s like my sister doesn’t know me at all.
