Page 107 of Pack Frenzy
And I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to let her walk away. Don’t know if any of us do.
Then I shake it off, roll my shoulders, and follow them in.
CHAPTER 25
JESS
Three even taps knock on my door, then silence.
Gotta be Rowan. Nobody else would knock like they’re measuring the damn doorframe.
I drag a hand through my hair, still half-asleep. “Yeah?”
The handle turns, and he steps in, tray balanced in one hand. “I made breakfast.”
Not words I expected from him. I sit up fast, blanket pulled to my chest. “You cooked?”
“Technically, yes.” He moves closer, the scent of coffee and warm batter following him. “Result may vary.”
He sets the tray down on my lap. Pancakes are stacked crooked, one a little charred at the edge, a mug of coffee that smells like heaven, and a folded napkin because, of course, he’d think of that.
“They’re not as round as Eli’s,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “but they’re edible.”
“They look perfect.” They don’t, but that’s not the point. It’s him standing here in sweats and a faded T-shirt, hair damp from a shower, trying.
He catches me watching. “Eat before it gets cold.”
“Yes, sir.” I cut a bite, still smiling when he snorts and mutters something that sounds suspiciously likesmartass.
The first bite’s too buttery, a little dense, but I swear it tastes better than anything in my life. “Okay, architect. You can design pancakes.”
“Don’t start,” he warns, but the corner of his mouth lifts. “They’re structurally unstable.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to stay and supervise.”
He sits on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the tray. When he reaches for one of the pancakes, his fingers brush mine—barely—and heat shoots straight up my arm. I know he feels it too because his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t move away.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I say quietly.
“I wanted to.”
That hits somewhere low. I take another bite just to have something to do. “You trying to spoil me?”
He leans in a fraction, voice dropping. “Trying to make sure you eat before I get distracted.”
I almost choke on coffee. “Rowan.”
“What?” he asks, but there’s amusement through it now.
I shove at his shoulder, making the tray wobble between us—too much air, too much heat.
He’s close enough that I can see the crescent scar tucked along his jaw, a pale mark that doesn’t fit the rest of him. Precise man, imperfect line.
My pulse stumbles. For a second, neither of us breathes.
Then I hear my own voice break the spell?—
“Thanks for the breakfast,” I blurt, before I say something stupid likeclaim me, fuck me, bite me.
