Yet he still wanted me smaller, to fit in with all of his old fraternity brothers’ wives, starve myself like his mother did.
Such a fucking asshole.
Rowan did not frown at my second helping. No, he made it bigger than the first.
And he did the dishes.
“But the chef doesn’t do the dishes,” I argued.
Rowan considered me with an arched brow. “You do the dishes when you cook for people?”
I pursed my lips. “It’s my house, it doesn’t count.”
He snickered. “Uh-huh. I’m doing the dishes, cupcake, that’s all there is to it. Before I do that, gonna light a fire.”
He gestured toward the window, to where night had fallen, my solar lanterns illuminating my patio. All of my wicker furniture was centered around a large fire pit in the middle of the area. Fiona, Tina, Tiffany and I often sat out there as winter approached, cuddled up in blankets, drinking wine and talking through the night while the fire chased away the worst of the chill.
“You’re gonna sit out there with your wine, and I’m gonna come join you when I’m finished,” Rowan informed me.
“You like to give orders, don’t you?” I teased.
His gaze darkened. “Oh, cupcake, you have no fuckin’ idea.”
My throat tightened and my pussy hummed with need. Again.
I swallowed roughly and gripped my wine.
“Now get that sexy ass of yours outside,” Rowan ordered gruffly.
What was a woman to do? I got my sexy ass outside.
Though there were plans of a grand romantic night at one of the best restaurants in the state—if not the country, in my humble opinion—and though those plans were somewhat ruined by a violent asshole, I found myself almost glad.
Not glad that Lori had been traumatized yet again—if I could’ve wished that away, I would have—but glad that the conventional date plans had been derailed.
Not just because of what had happened upstairs.
But because of what the night turned into. Sure, we might’ve skipped a bunch of steps—the unwritten dating handbook had some kind of time limit before a man was supposed to be in your space cooking dinner, but I didn’t give a shit. That handbook had been thrown out the window. Not that Rowan was a man to stick by any rules in a handbook, written or unwritten.
And although, prior to this, I was a woman who stuck to rules, who believed in the stages of dating, boundaries—both physical and otherwise—in a relationship, I couldn’t help but admit that this was the best date I’d had in my entire life.
We were sitting outside, the fire going. I was curled up against him on the wicker sofa, the fire flickering in front of us, wine in my hand.
“You’ve done good on this house,” Rowan broke the comfortable silence. He was looking up at the exterior, the crisp white paint and the pink window shutters and detailing. If the man I bought it from knew I was planning on so much pink, I bet he would’ve burned it down rather than sold it to me.
“Fucking great,” he amended. “I’m so fucking impressed with you, Nora.”
My face, neck and ears heated at the compliment, still unused to how easily he gave them out, how sincere they were. “Well, I’m sure you could’ve done it a lot better and in a much shorter time frame. And there’re still a couple of things I need to work on.”
“Don’t do that.” His tone was no longer warm and easy. It was stormy, like his pinched gaze.
“Do what?” I asked, feeling nervous, on guard.
“Cut yourself down. Your work. Try to make it smaller. This is as good if not better than I could’ve done. You’re fucking amazing, Nora. A wonder.”
My blush deepened, and I shifted uncomfortably in my chair.
“Thank you,” I responded quietly.
I looked up at the house, at my work. Sure, I’d had help. And I’d cried plenty over the work, how hard it was. The mistakes I’d made and having to start all over. But it was pretty darn impressive.
“I’ve always wanted this area to be a greenhouse.” I gestured around the patio. “Like in Practical Magic.” It hit me then that I was talking to an Army vet turned construction worker and all-around alpha. “Practical Magic is a movie—”
“Know what Practical Magic is,” he interrupted gently. “Seen the movie. Coupla times.”
I jerked my head back in surprise.
He shrugged. “Got sisters. They love that fuckin’ shit.”
“You’ve got sisters?”
He nodded. “Two hellions. Well, one is a married hellion now, Kendra, which hasn’t changed her one bit. Keith, her husband, worships her. Which of course, is the only way he’s still breathing.” He smiled as he sipped his beer. “Calliope is off in New York working on Wall Street, makin’ far too much fuckin’ money.”
You could hear it. The pride in his voice. The love.
I hadn’t known he had two sisters because I hadn’t asked. It struck me I hadn’t asked barely anything about his life. His family. The things you normally asked when you were dating someone.