But it slowed enough to make the grilled cheese.
Rowan Derrick was in my house.
It was insane.
But what was even more insane was how natural it felt.
How right.
Chapter
Seven
Recipe: French Hot Chocolate
We didn’t speak for a while as I arranged our sandwiches then got my cast iron pan from where it hung on a hook over the gas range.
My kitchen was an adorable mix between modern and rustic, leaning toward a farmhouse look with the mixture of pots and pans hanging above the stove, merging with my more eccentric style—the pink barstools, the brushed brass fixtures and the large vases of flowers on each surface.
“What will Maggie have?” I asked, breaking the silence. “I don’t have dog food.”
I mentally told myself to pick up some dog food. Then I mentally chastised myself for thinking about picking up dog food. Picking up dog food was working under the assumption that there would be a dog here to eat it. I was not planning on getting a dog—though Maggie’s presence seemed to complete the house and was making me seriously consider it—and there was no reason for me to get dog food unless I was going to get a dog.
Maggie would not be having another sleepover here.
Because her master would not be having another sleepover here.
“I could whip her up some scrambled eggs,” I offered, forcing away those thoughts. “Or I’ve got tuna in the pantry. I’m sure that will be good for her. Choline and omega three.”
“She’s got food,” Rowan said quietly, an indescribable look on his face. His features had softened, but his eyes flared with something I couldn’t decipher. “It’s in the truck. Came prepared.”
I tugged on my lip. He’d come prepared. Ready to stay the night here. After he ran Nathan out of town.
I didn’t think about the Nathan part. I couldn’t. It was too huge and confusing.
“Why didn’t you bring it in?” I asked him.
He tilted his head. The gesture was overwhelming in and of itself. That coupled with his nearness and general presence in my home was more than I could take.
“Didn’t want to seem presumptuous,” he said with a straight face.
I stared at him then let out a giggle. Then another.
He watched me with that same tilt to his head.
“You didn’t want to seem presumptuous,” I repeated amongst my giggles.
He nodded.
“But walking into my house and announcing you were staying here was… subtle?” I asked, putting a hand on my hip.
Rowan was smiling now.
I didn’t like it.
Or actually, I did. Which was the problem.
“Are you going to get your dog’s food and let me finish our dinner?” I asked him with faux impatience.
What I needed was space to take a breath that didn’t smell like him.
For one heart-stopping second, I didn’t think he was going to give me that respite since he just kept staring at me. And for the second time tonight, I was sure he was going to kiss me.
But he didn’t.
He put his wine down on the counter and walked around me to retrieve the dog food.
He was going to stay.
As was Maggie.
The rest of the night passed in something resembling harmony.
Not complete harmony.
Because I was still freaking out on the inside, my foundation cracked. I was hyper-aware of my every movement, my every breath, the way that I was eating, walking, sipping my wine. The wine buzz helped me a little with that self-consciousness. Enough so I could get through our meal of grilled cheese without choking.
Maggie had happily chomped away at her own food. Especially after I topped it with a can of tuna.
Rowan had regarded that with a raised brow before I’d gone on what could only be called a rant about the chemicals they put in food—even dog food—and that we needed to adjust Maggie’s diet so she could live a long and happy life.
At the end of my rant, I realized I’d overstepped my bounds by judging the food he fed his dog and insinuating that it was any of my business.
Rowan did not seem bothered at all, though. He had a soft, intense, vaguely amused and incredibly handsome expression on his face.
At that point, I focused on my wine and my sandwich, which turned out to be an incredible combination.
Rowan had sat directly beside me at the breakfast bar with his own two sandwiches. We were close. So close that his thigh actually brushed against mine a couple of times. I’d stiffened, the sandwich pausing on its journey to my mouth before I forced myself to act chill. Or as chill as someone like me could manage.
Once I was done, I shot up to do the dishes. Or tried to. Rowan took them from me, standing much too close once more. “Cook doesn’t do the dishes,” he said, voice low and thick.
“I don’t mind doing the dishes,” I whispered.