6. Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Dayton
As I approach my destination, I take in the sight of my surroundings. Jackson Hill. I kind of suspected he would live here. It’s not the crème de la crème of luxurious properties—that would be the Lorenza Planes to the east, overlooking the city —but this neighborhood certainly is up there. Close to the city center, which is probably great for his work, but also in a good proximity to the country park and the Monson lake. All in all, I’m jealous. And impressed.
Ahead, I see the house with the number eight, second to the last on the street, so I slow the car. The way my stomach clenches is starting to hurt. Joane managed to distract me from stressing over this date for most of the week, and when we went shopping for shirts today, I felt pretty confident, but now it’s a completely different story.
I park in the driveway, behind what I presume is Rowland’s black Mercedes-Benz. Of course he’s got a car like that. To appease my paranoid fear of scratching it, I stop far away enough from it and turn off the engine.
Nervously tapping my hands over the wheel of my 2012 Ford, I watch the entrance in the side mirror. For some stupid reason, I almost expected to see Rowland waiting by the open door. What am I even thinking? This isn’t some nuclear family domestic daydream, so I do my best to quickly temper my expectations.
Sighing, I fiddle with the mandarin collar of my shirt. It’s light blue, with a nice contrasting pattern on the inside of the cuffs and the placket. I was trying to not over-dress, since we’re not going out, but balancing that with not looking like I’m expecting to lounge on the couch with him and order takeout—especially since I half expect Rowland to still wear a suit—proved pretty difficult.
There’s no point in regretting my choices now , I tell myself firmly, and open the car door. Feels like I’ve been sitting here for ages. I hope he didn’t notice.
The grass outside the house is bright and neatly cut. So are the hedges in front of the tall windows with closed wooden blinds. The main door feels like it’s getting smaller and further away as I approach, forcing me to take a deep, shaky breath and blink to get myself together. Clearing my throat, I adjust my collar again and ring the bell.
Oh shit! Should I have brought something?
No. No, this is casual, not some courtship. He said he had wine, and we were just going to hang out so—
The door opens, cutting my train of thought. Quickly, I meet his gaze, and hope that my unapproachable resting face hides my inner chaos. Straight away, Rowland is smiling. I’m surprised to see him wear more casual attire—a dark gray polo neck shirt and checkered dress pants of a color a bit darker than his eyes. He still presents that respectable, professional front.
“Evening,” I finally speak after we stare at each other for what genuinely feels like more than a minute.
“Welcome,” Rowland says and jerkily steps aside to let me through the door. When I think about it, he opened pretty fast. Was he waiting for me? “Did you have any trouble finding your way here?” he asks while I pass him, trying to suppress a simper over the idea of him being as anxious about this as me. “The signs for the estate are ridiculous, really. Some idiot must have designed them. But the navigation’s usually fine taking you—”
“I got here no problem,” I interrupt him with a faint smirk. He really is nervous. Seeing a businessman mumbling like this? It’s kind of hot.
Rowland finally seems to take a breath. He chuckles, hanging his head down for a moment, and nods. “Right…” Without looking at me, he walks into the kitchen, but gestures for me to follow.
His house really is as nice as I expected. Either Rowland is one of those perfectionistic minimalists, or he had a cleaner come in, because there is no clutter nor distraction in sight. Everything seems to have its place, sparkling like new—the large key bowl on the table below the long mirror in the hallway, meticulously lined shoes and folded jackets at the dresser by the door, even dried flower arrangement in a vase on a little round table ahead. The plan is open, with the kitchen to the left, somewhat defined by the large island, living room ahead and stairs to the right, with another smaller room I presume to be a sunroom or a toilet further down right.
The colors are natural, tame, and mostly beige. I don’t hate it, but it doesn’t exactly scream personality, either, only status.
There are some pictures at least—one looks like a child’s attempt at surrealism, another is plain and simple kid’s drawing, stick figures and all, but they are framed and displayed with such reverence, I suspect they’re some incredibly expensive modern art wonders.
I realize I’ve been peeping around for a little too long, and quickly find Rowland waiting in the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” I say with a chuckle.
He’s smiling, in a way that says he probably expected it or is at least okay. Once I come close, he steps away from a long, built-in cabinet in the wall by the kitchen counter, and dramatically pointing at it opens its door to reveal a hidden wine fridge. “I promised good wine,” he announces in a charming tone. Looks like he’s getting his footing a little, and I like that.
“Can’t say no to that,” I reply with the same playfulness and step closer. “The real question right now—one that will determine whether this date will even continue—is…red or white?” Cocking one of my brows, I make a serious expression, locking with his eyes.
Rowland’s sharp chuckle, and the way he leans against the glass of the fridge, makes my cheeks heat up. “Red,” he says; hesitant undertones slipping through his mask of confidence.
“That is correct!” I rejoice, showing my teeth in a smile. “Thank god you're one of the good ones. People who drink white wine deserve to be shot on the spot, if you ask me.”
The moment those words leave my mouth, I wonder if I’m not going overboard. We might seem unusually free to be honest around each other, but he might not yet be ready for the full throttle of my stupid humor. Thankfully, the sound that comes from somewhere deep within Rowland’s throat is positive, I think.
“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far… I can honestly do both, but definitely prefer red. It’s healthier too, you know?” He flashes me another knee-buckling glance before opening the fridge and running his fingers across the many, many neatly stacked bottles. “Tell me more,” he says, his back to me.
“Something dry and savory, please.”
Humming the sound of approval, Rowland bends down and searches on the lower shelves. Shamelessly, my eyes land on his ass, and I begin dreading what will happen with the alcohol level in my blood rising.
“I can only have two or three glasses—I’m driving. So don’t bother with anything special,” I add quickly, hoping he’s not picking some expensive bottle.
It takes about a minute of focus for Rowland to speak up again. “I think you’d love this Brunello di Montalcino Sangiovese or…I have this great South African Pinot Noir, but I’d really like it if you don’t drink too much if you’re driving, so this Rawson’s Retreat Cabernet Sauvignon will be perfect I think,” he says, sliding a bottle out with a swift motion and presenting it to me.
“Joyless wine, huh?” I say with a skeptic grimace, glancing at the label.
“Trust me, alright?” Rowland winks, but the second he does, he turns around to get the glasses and the bottle opener. I am glad he does, because my cheeks must be flush with blood that very moment. What is it about this man that turns me into a giddy teenager? “It might be de-alcoholised, but the flavor is still really full and smooth and… You'll like it. I hope,” he says softly. I can’t help but feel like his voice loses on firmness once again, and wonder if he’s also standing there with heat rising to the cheeks hidden by his beard.
As he removes the cork and starts pouring the wine into the glasses, I watch the muscles on his manly, hairy arms flex. They were hidden from me before by the sleeves of his suit, but now that they’re presented in their glory, I can add another pro to my mental checklist I made to convince myself Rowland was less desirable than he really is.
I have to watch myself so that I’m not ogling him with the bottom lip held between my teeth once he finally turns to me.
“This way,” he says, leading us to the living room. A long, L-shaped couch serves as a sort of wall to frame and define the area. There are a lot of neat boxes, cabinets and storage compartments, with everything that could tell me more about him hidden and tucked away.
I try not to judge or see it as a red flag. If he visited my apartment—assuming I wouldn’t have stress-cleaned the whole place—he would have seen a bunch of clutter, stuff I haven’t touched or used in months, unfinished paint jobs, and one too many plants.
God, I…I am my mother!
Having to work through that realization at a later date, I force myself to be present with a sharp blink just as we’re sitting down. It feels like I haven’t talked at all, and I don’t want Rowland to feel awkward, so I speak. “I was a little surprised when you texted me back after…how I ran away,” I admit, a lump forming in my throat from even remembering it. “Maybe you’re one of those crazy obsessive alphas who senses an omega they want and gets all territorial,” I joke.
Yet another mistake—as I meet eyes with Rowland, a look of stark diffidence washes over his face, but only for a moment. Like he realizes I was joking, he smirks awkwardly and shifts on the couch, resting against the low back.
“No, but…I guess that’s exactly what that sort of person would say, huh?”
I smile, relieved he finds the humor in it as well. Between the sporadic, gut-wrenching moments of insecurity and nerves I haven’t felt around another person since high school, there’s a sense of understanding; warmth spreading through my chest when he gets the joke, or smiles, or tilts his head while narrowing his eyes in that interested way.
“Sorry if it was too forward,” Rowland continues, a little more serious. “I just haven’t had that good of a time in a long while. And you said you were simply tired from work, so I figured I'd take you at your word and believe that.”
I watch the coppery red liquid in the glass I’m swirling. I’m glad you did…
“I made a cheese platter, by the way.” Rowland says swiftly, like he just remembered, and points to the low coffee table next to us I’ve completely ignored.
It does, in fact, have a huge plate in the middle, adorned with several types of cheese, a few pieces of vegetables, olives, and crackers, all displayed meticulously.
My eyes go wide, so much so I see Rowland stiffen again, and I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. “Umm, I think that right now would be a great time for me to come out and say that I’m lactose intolerant. Tadaaa !” I exclaim with a faint celebratory gesture and give Rowland an apologetic grin.
He blinks, seeming somewhat relieved. Drawing in a deep breath, he shakes his head and makes a crooked frown that creates cute, faint lines on his forehead and around his eyes. “Well, crap. I— That is pretty unfortunate. I also feel like that’s something your mother definitely should advertise when setting your dates,” he adds, and I can’t help but snort.
“I guess you’re right! But it’s fine, relax,” I say in a melodic way, and lean closer to him on the couch, resting back as well and resting one of my feet up over my thigh. Our knees nearly touch, and we both notice the same moment. Worried I am getting too carried away and possibly letting any of my pheromones slip, I sip on the wine. It comes to me seconds later that there is in fact nothing in it that would make me less nervous, but Rowland was right—it’s rich and tastes great. “Unless you knew,” I suggest, my brows raised in feigned horror. “And you planned it all as a covert way to trap me inside your house. Can’t run away if I’m stuck on your toilet for eight hours, can I?”
The hearty laugh that comes out of Rowland rings throughout the room, and it makes me feel all tingly.
“Sorry, that was…kind of gross,” I say, trying to save it, and take another sip, hoping that somehow, I will get placebo-drunk if I believe it hard enough.
“No, that— Well, we have the wine at least,” Rowland says, lifting his glass. Weak chuckle still vibrates through his words, and I think some tears burst into his eyes from it as well. “And the crackers. Though, I must admit I lied. I didn’t really make the platter. I mean, I bought the ingredients, but my mother made it. And I know, I know!” he speaks in an intentionally exaggerated, confident tone. “No need to throw yourself at me. I’m sure a man of my age having things done for him by his mother is unimaginably attractive, so please do try to restrain yourself.” The playful glance he gives me—half ruthless, sexy confidence, and half sweet self-deprecation—only exacerbates the delight that’s tucking at the corners of my mouth.
There is no shame in being close to his mother, especially since he clearly is a functioning adult. I learned a while ago that having a good relationship with one’s parents is usually a green flag. More often than not, when the men I dated hated their parents, the problem was in them, or the whole family. I might have been willing to provide emotional support even though they needed family counseling back then, but now I’m only looking for a comfortable ride. For someone settled and poised and stable. Someone like Rowland.
Snorting, I rest my head against my palm, leaning against the backrest of the couch while keeping eye contact with him.
“It’s okay, really. Though, at a risk of being a conspiracy theorist again, maybe she knew exactly what she was doing! My options radically reduced, faced with only some dry crackers, I’d have no choice but to sit here all evening marinating in nothing but the delicious scent of the wine and your pheromones. You know, like those breatharians.”
Good god, what am I even mumbling about?!
Curling into myself, I stare at the floor, sipping wine, screaming at myself inside my head. I’m severely regretting the lack of the alcohol content—at least then I would have an excuse for my weirdness.
When I can handle meeting his eyes again, Rowland stares at me with a strange intensity. It almost scares me, the way his gaze makes my insides rattle and my heart pause.
“I should’ve probably waited for you to be through half a bottle of proper Sangiovese to ask a question like this, but…what do they smell like? My pheromones.”
Oh , I wasn’t ready for this. The way his voice dips and grows tender; the way his eyes watch for my reaction in a restrained, yet nearly predatory way, shifts something inside me in a way I barely suppress the shudder passing through my entire body. I swallow, holding the wineglass against my lips, but Rowland thankfully speaks again.
“I’m sorry! It’s just— My wife was a beta, like I told you before. So she couldn’t really sense or read pheromones. Not in the same way you could.”
Instead of an answer, a mindless question spills out of my lips instead. “Have you only ever dated betas?” I ask, brows drawn together. Hearing how that might have come off, I quickly clarify, “I’m not judging at all. I’ve been with quite a few. Never made much of a difference to me, honestly. It’s just that alphas like you are usually very…aware of their flavor . Flaunt it and all that, the whole ‘ I smell like this and that! Oh, I smell like chocolate, baby. Do you want a taste? ’ sort of thing,” I mumble, absolutely unable to believe I just did that stupid voice.
Even though all I’m doing is embarrassing myself, Rowland laughs again. I don’t understand how he can seamlessly switch from charming to confident and gentle in moments.
“No, I’ve dated omegas before. One alpha too, actually. I’ve just mostly stuck to betas because… you know .”
I purse my lips slightly, narrowing my eyes at him. It doesn’t even register what he means until a few seconds later— his condition. Right. So he’s protecting people, us venus folk, by rather picking those who might not experience any adverse reaction.
I’ve only experienced it once when my then-boyfriend—who was far too old for the na?ve, barely legal ‘ol me—got angry at me after I didn’t want to do it his way in bed. I have never felt someone release pheromones in such intensity. It was overwhelming, disorienting, even. Uncomfortable for sure.
But that dick did it on purpose, and it was fueled by anger. It was to control me, to punish me, to show me who was the boss. He was violent in other ways and full of hate, so I can’t imagine Rowland ever unleashing anything near that ferocity, even accidentally .
No, the man next to me is everything but that. The way he escapes my gaze, visibly troubled by it, says all.
“It…smells like figs,” I say. His gaze snaps to me, eyes wide and sparking with interest. “Figs with grass, but not like the strong, chemically smell of that over-cultured, perfectly trimmed grass, you know? More like wild, tall grasses, with lots of weeds and herbs growing in it. The smell you’d get sitting under a tree on the edge of a field. Only the tree would be a fig tree, I guess?” I mumble to myself awkwardly.
I go to swallow, but my entire body freezes as the very scent I just described meets my senses. My cheeks tingle uncontrollably as I look at Rowland. Judging by the rawness of him, I don’t believe he’s doing it on purpose. Instead, his feelings are slipping out and translating out into the most basic way we can comprehend. And that only makes my panicked heart beat that much faster.
“My…” He finally lets out a deep breath, almost a huff. “That’s certainly the most detail anyone has ever described it to me in. I can’t sense pheromones as clearly when I’m on my suppressants, so I haven’t really sensed yours. That, plus you’re always wearing perfume. I suppose you like them?” he asks, sounding a little hoarse. Without knowing when or how it happened, I notice the glass in his hand is empty.
The talk of my pheromones is a chilling wake-up call. A painful reminder pulling me right from the dreamy clouds to have my face meet with the rough, cold ground.
“Y-Yeah, I do,” I murmur, playing with my clammy hands. “I have a pretty extensive collection at home. Perfumes, colognes, and all that.” I’m telling the truth, but don’t go as far as explaining why I’ve grown so fond of, and sometimes even dependent on, those artificial fragrances.
I don’t know if Rowland can sense something is wrong, or just reacts to my sudden shift in the mood when he speaks. “Not that it’s really important to me. I mean, I’ve been with someone I couldn’t get that sort of thing with for the better part of my life and I didn’t care, so…”
There he is again . Tender. Understanding. And in all honesty, he's the first person I’ve met I nearly believe would look past my little problem. I wish he had flaws. Any flaws that would make it easier to hate him. To not latch onto him like I so desperately, pathetically want to.
But there are none. There’s only him.
Without thinking, I place the glass on the table and lunge toward Rowland, seizing his lips. Almost immediately, he parts them for me, leans in, and glides his tongue over mine. As I welcome the taste of him, pleasure zaps through my spine with a scary intensity. Once his hand drifts to my waist and squeezes it, I let out a low groan.
So much for this being more than a hookup. There’s no helping this now. As much as I want to talk and get to know him and laugh at his jokes while he looks at me with that charming smirk, something powerful is drawing us together. Something I don’t want to fight.
“Day,” he whispers, making my name resonate in my ears. Rowland’s voice is husky, almost desperate. Suddenly, the short hairs of his beard tickle my neck, followed by hungry kisses he places right against my pulse. Rolling my head back and closing my eyes, I moan, wrapping my hands tightly around his neck. He smells so good. So rich.
When is he going to sense my pheromones? I feel so good it’s probably all spilling out. When will he recoil and push me away?
Somewhere in the corner of my mind, I hear his glass cling on the table. He doesn’t pull from me as I’d expect. Instead, with both his hands free, he moves in closer and trails his fingers across the opening of my collar.
“I…didn’t invite you here for this,” he whispers shakily, voice marked with guilt.
I know, I think to myself with a smile, and reach down to meet his lips.
“Why did you then?” I ask playfully, even though I know the answer. Daring, I run my fingers up his nape and into the neatly faded short hair at the back of his head. He huffs his hot breath into my face, shuddering.
“To get to know you. Get close…” As if he’s losing his own constraints, and realizing that is exactly what we’re doing, his hand grips at my thigh harder, and slides to the inner side of it, drawing out a moan out of me. There is no way I can stop this now. No amount of perfume is going to hide my reaction to what he’s doing to me.
I’m just about ready to let loose, to beg him to touch me more, when the sound of the main door clicking stops both of us cold.
Jerking, we jump away from each other, sharing a wide-eyed look. “Wh—”
“Oh, shit,” Rowland murmurs, panic washing over him, and before I can orient myself, the door opens, letting the sounds of the street spill in.
“For god's sake, Mina, I said stop! I told you that your dad—”
Like I’m in some dreamy blur, I stare at the young girl standing in the middle of the hallway. She is maybe in her early teens and has this strangely vacant but intense glare. I judge those blue eyes, deep-chestnut hair, and her clean, sharp features, seeing clearly what is in front of me. Seconds later, an older woman whose voice I just heard catches up to her.
She too sees us and has an expression of pure dread on her face. “I-I am so sorry, Rowe, she j-just ran in even though I told her to—”
“I wasn’t feeling well, Daddy. I wanted to come home,” the girl says, staring right at Rowland. An icy wave of sweat passes over me, stiffening my spine.
Daddy? He really is— Ah, fuck.
The woman blinks. “What? You said you just needed me to pick up one of your—”
“I’m going to my room now,” she cuts her off and turns on her heel, marching up the stairs with a playful spring to her step.
Rowland and I still stare at each other, speechless. Dazed. He opens his mouth, eyes bulging from his head, before glancing to who I assume is his mother and then back at me. The intimate, playful energy we’ve been building up is gone, washed away like a sandcastle. Crushed into nothingness by a rogue wave.
“You have kids?” I finally manage to push something out, though I barely heard my own words over the overwhelming pounding of my heart.
“I’m sorry, I…I wasn’t trying to hide it from you.” Rowland darts his eyes over me. His voice trembles.
It’s not the fact he has kids that rattles me so much. I don’t even know what exactly I feel, but what I know is that I need to get out. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, standing sharply. Rowland shadows me, lifting his hands in a calming gesture, wanting to touch me, but I step back.
Why couldn't this have been perfect? He was so honest. We got along so well—why couldn’t he have told me about it instead of blindsiding me like this?
“It didn’t come up, so I just—” he blurts, and the desperate way he draws his brows together tugs on my heart, even though I know I can’t let myself get reeled back in. “I was going to tell you. I swear to you, I was going to tell you tonight, but there wasn’t the right opportunity, and…” The moment his gaze slips toward his mother behind his back, I feel another wave of nausea.
I need to get out of this situation. I need air.
“I have to go,” I murmur and nearly run out. The woman moves out of my way, looking mortified, but I do my best to avoid her eyes. Dashing across the driveway, I jump into my car. The warning for my seatbelt dings over and over as I start it and drive out of the driveway. I don’t care—I just need to get out.
As I’m opening the windows to get some cold air into my face, I notice a car parked by the sidewalk right next to the entrance. Passing it, I meet eyes with a boy sitting in the back, waiting. It must be Rowland’s mother’s car. And the boy…must be his son, because his features also bear an uncanny resemblance to him, though his hair is lighter, almost dirty blond. The kid, who can’t be older than six, raises his brows and stares back as I pass. He is cute, with a curious, lively expression on his face.
Squeezing the wheel, I try to ease my breathing. The wind slashes my cheeks the faster I drive, and Rowland’s distressed expression stays in my mind when I close my eyes.
I ran away again.
Dammit.