Page 7 of Rowan's Renewal
While he’s gone, a waitress appears to take our drink order. I glance at the wine list and choose each of us a glass of white wine from what the menu says is a local vineyard, hoping that I’m not overstepping by choosing for my companion.
He slides back into his seat only moments before the waitress returns with the drinks.
“I hope you don’t mind,” I say softly. “I have this thing where I like to try local stuff when I travel.”
Rowan shakes his head, locks of brown hair falling into his eyes before he brushes them back with his hand. “Not at all. I try to do that, too.” He lifts his glass. “To…new experiences?”
I grin. “I’ll drink to that.”
***
Dinner with Rowan feels like a date, but in the best possible way. We discover that we live in the same city back home, which is a wild coincidence given how far from home we both are, and we share similar tastes in fiction, TV, and even food. When ourmeals are delivered to our table, Rowan catches me eyeing his salmon dish and he smiles shyly, nudging his plate forward.
“We could share both?” he suggests, his eyes greedily taking in the swordfish sashimi on my plate.
There’s something so sweet and wholesome in the way he offers to share that my stomach gives a funny little flip-flop. “Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods, pushing his meal even further into the middle of the table. “Please. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this with anyone.”
“Me too,” I lift my cutlery and cut into the salmon, being sure to swish my piece through the miso glace, “Jerry wasn’t a sharer.”
“Not everyone is,” he says, watching as I pop the forkful of food into my mouth. My tastebuds dance at the explosion of flavor and I moan, making him chuckle. “But I like seeing other people happy. I like sharing in that, too, I guess.”
I chew thoughtfully, mulling over the quiet confession. Swallowing, I dip my chin, “Well, Jerry was a spoiled brat, and I enabled him.” I gesture to his plate. “But that issogood. You have to try it.”
Rowan cuts himself a corner from his end of the piece of fish, using the side of his fork to slice through the tender meat. I watch the utensil slip between his parted lips and my stomach flips again as his eyes flutter shut with his enjoyment of the food.
Yeah; I’ve definitely missed this.
In fact, if we weren’t complete strangers, I would get another forkful of the melt-in-your-mouth salmon and feed it to him myself, just to feel even more responsible for his sheer pleasure.
Getting a bit creepy, Park. Reel it in.
Lifting the set of chopsticks that came with my meal, I dive in to the sashimi to distract myself from those intrusive thoughts.
I can’t help the fact that there’s something about Rowan calling out to my Daddy instincts. It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but he just seems…Little. And lost. Lonely.
Alliteration. Well done.
The voice in my head is snarky tonight.
Rowan tries the sashimi after me, and we compare how fresh and light the dish is, compared to the comfort and warmth of the salmon meal. Neither of us can pick a favorite, but we do agree that we need to have dessert afterwards.
“Here, or from the gelato place down the street?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t mind, I—” His eyes widen and his body tenses up, his shoulders and spine going rigid. A pink flush dusts over his cheeks.
“Are you okay?” I ask, leaning forward. “Were you allergic to something in the food, or—”
“No. No. I just…Excuse me.”
He pushes back from the table and hurries towards the bathrooms again, and I frown at his retreating back. I wonder if the meal didn’t agree with him, or whether jetlag has messed with his constitution. My concern grows the longer he’s away from the table.
Should I follow him?
Both the doctor in me and the Daddy seem to think I should.
When the waitress swings by to collect our empty dishes, I assure her that everything was amazing, and I ask for the check. Rowan still hasn’t resurfaced by the time I’ve paid for the meal, and that is enough to allow my concern to override my fears of crossing a line.
