They hadn’t seen each other since their awkward goodbye last night and, thanks to having to jump on the super-early flight to Durban this morning, he hadn’t had a moment to touch base with her.
He’d thought that the meeting in Durban would be a morning affair, but he’d run into some serious challenges—his clients had been more paranoid than normal and had required a lot of reassurance that their precious information was safe in his hands—and the entire day had been a nightmare, with suits peering over his shoulder, checking and rechecking his progress.
Blerch.
And Rowan hadn’t reached out to make contact. Then again, neither had he... Should he have? He didn’t have the faintest clue—mostly because women always chased him. It was what they did. They normally followed up with a BBM, an SMS, a hello-how-are-you-doing e-mail. But Rowan? Nothing.
He was equally intrigued and annoyed...and didn’t that make him sound like an egotistical jerk? He’d thought about calling to check up on her but he hadn’t been sure what to say.
He hadn’t slept much and he rubbed his eyes with his thumbs. Why was he still so wigged out about the way the evening had panned out? Maybe it was because Rowan had blown every perception he’d had about women and sex out of the window.
He’d thought that most women needed some kind of emotional connection to have sex—that they needed to talk before and after. Rowan hadn’t required before-sex cajoling or after-sex reassurance and she’d approached the whole experience like a guy would. Like he did.
It was a blessing in disguise that she hadn’t needed him to talk, because thanks to that damned peach and the see-through wrap his tongue wouldn’t have been able to form the words.
She was keeping him at an emotional distance, they’d had sex and practically no conversation—which he normally considered the ideal relationship—and it bugged the crap out of him.
Could he say hypocritical and bastard and then put them together in a sentence?
Rowan jumped as he stepped into the hall. Dropping his laptop and briefcase onto the old yellow wood table, he pulled off his wire-rimmed glasses, tossed them down and raised his eyebrows at Rowan. ‘Going somewhere?’
To keep from tugging her shirt down, Rowan shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans and rocked on her heels. ‘Hi. You’re...back.’
‘It is Friday night,’ Seb pointed out. And it was his house.
‘I thought you might have plans—like a date,’ Rowan said to his back as he disappeared down the passage.
He was back in under a minute, a bottle of beer in his hand. A date? He’d slept with her last night and she had him already trawling for another woman?
He didn’t know whether to be ticked or flattered that she thought him to be such a player. Seb thought for a moment; nah, he was definitely POed.
‘My plans? Nothing more strenuous than a burger, a beer and an early night. It’s the Fish and Fern tomorrow.’
Rowan wrinkled her nose. ‘The what?’
Seb gave her a long look before emptying his pockets, placing his mobile, keys and a thin wallet on the table. ‘The triathlon race. The one on the fridge. Swimming, running, biking?’
‘Oh, right. What time do you think you’ll be home?’
Seb shrugged. ‘Eight-ish, I suppose. There’s a barbecue after the prize-giving and I’ll probably stay for that. Problem?’
‘No.’
Rowan tugged the shirt down but it sprang up her tummy with all the obstinacy of stretched cotton. He clocked her tousled but elaborate hairdo, the subtle make-up, the bangles at her wrist and the beaded earrings. She looked as if she was going on a date... Was that why she’d asked him whether he had plans? Because she did?
Hell, no. That wasn’t happening.
‘So, what are you up to tonight? That’s one heck of an outfit, by the way.’
Rowan responded to the thinly disguised annoyance in his tone by raising her chin. ‘What’s wrong with my outfit?’
‘Tight low-rise jeans, short top, fixed hair. Wherever you’re going, you are going to get hit on all night.’ The beer was not doing the trick of relaxing him; Rowan changing and staying at home would.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘I’m a guy and I know exactly what I’d read into your outfit.’
‘Guys would read sex into a nun’s habit.’
He noticed that she still hadn’t told him where she was going. What was the big deal? His temper, on a low simmer all day, started to heat. He shrugged out of his jacket and threw it over the newel post of the staircase. He yanked his pale green dress shirt out of his black pants and sat on the bottom stair to pull off his shoes.