Page 44 of The Knotheads Next Door
"Nothing happened," I say, though I don't know that for certain. Something clearly occurred, given the way those two were avoiding each other's eyes all evening. "And this event is strictly professional. A distraction for her, a necessary appearance for me."
Jasper finally looks up, his expression skeptical. "Keep telling yourself that, Roman. Maybe eventually you'll believe it."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes with a text. It's from Billie, and it contains a photo of Rowan sitting in what appears to be Lala's living room, surrounded by dresses in various colors. She's laughing, a glass of wine in one hand, looking more relaxed than I've seen her in days.
Operation Glow-Up in progress!Billie's text reads.You're welcome.
Another text follows almost immediately, this time from Avianna:If you hurt her feelings we will end you. Respectfully.
And then, from Lala:She's going to look AMAZING. Try not to swallow your tongue when you see her. Also, if you make her cry, I will put salt in your donuts for the rest of your natural life.
I don't bother responding to any of them. The women of Vineyard Groves are a force of nature, and arguing would only encourage them.
Instead, I head upstairs to get ready, ignoring Jasper's knowing look as I pass. This is just a work function. A distraction. Nothing more.
I repeat this to myself as I shower, as I trim my beard with perhaps more care than usual, as I put on my best suit—charcoal gray, tailored, with a blue tie that Mayor Tillie once said "brings out my eyes" in a performance review that strayed into uncomfortably personal territory.
By 5:55 PM, I'm waiting in the living room, keys in hand, telling myself that my slight nervousness is simply concern about being late. The mayor hates tardiness almost as much as she hates inadequate festival decorations.
The front door opens, and I turn, expecting to see Rowan.
Instead, it's Theo, looking surprised to find me dressed up.
"You look nice," he says, eyebrows raised. "Hot date?"
"Mayor's Gala," I correct, adjusting my cuffs. "Rowan's accompanying me."
Something flickers across Theo's face—surprise, then a flash of what might be hurt before it's quickly masked. "You asked Rowan to the gala?"
"As a professional plus-one," I clarify. "She needed a distraction from... everything. And I needed a guest."
"Right," Theo says, his tone carefully neutral. "Well, have fun with that. I'm going to grab a shower and crash. Double shift today."
He heads upstairs, his shoulders slightly more tense than usual. I feel a twinge of something that might be guilt, but I push it aside. There's nothing wrong with taking Rowan to a work function. It's not as if I have any claim on her.
None of us do.
The sound of a car pulling up outside draws my attention. Through the window, I see Lala's pink Volkswagen beetle at the curb. The passenger door opens, and Rowan steps out.
And all my carefully constructed rationalizations crumble to dust. She's wearing a deep emerald dress that falls just below her ankles, fitted at the waist and through the hips. Her breasts are pushed up and framed by the heart shaped neckline. I can’t help but notice that she has a few freckles scattered there as well. Her usual halo of blond curls is swept up in some complicated arrangement that leaves her neck bare, accentuating its graceful curve. She's wearing makeup, subtle but effective, highlighting the angles of her cheekbones and the fullness of her lips.
She looks beautiful. Not in the polished, calculated way of the society women who usually attend these functions, but in a way that's completely, uniquely Rowan—slightly untamed, a little tentative, but with that core of steel always visible just beneath the surface.
I realize I've stopped breathing only when my lungs start to burn.
She says something to Lala through the car window, then turns toward the house. I quickly step back from the window, not wanting to be caught staring like some lovesick teenager.
The front door opens, and she steps inside, a little unsteady on heels that add several inches to her height. Her scent hits me immediately—the usual sweet notes are stronger now, mingled with something floral that must be perfume, an attempt to mask her natural fragrance.
It doesn't work. Nothing could hide the essential Rowan-ness of her scent, now as familiar to me as my own.
"Hi," she says, stopping just inside the door. "Is this... appropriate for a gala? Lala insisted it was perfect, but she also tried to convince me that feather earrings were 'totally formal wear,' so..."
I realize I'm staring. Worse, my jaw is actually clenched with the effort it's taking not to cross the room to her, to run my fingers along the bare skin of her shoulders, to bury my face in the crook of her neck and inhale the concentrated essence of her.
"It's perfect," I manage, my voice rougher than I intended. I clear my throat. "Very appropriate. You look... nice."
Nice. What an inadequate, ridiculous word for the vision she presents.
