Chapter Seven – Rowan #2
But then the doubts come roaring back. Crew. The gossip. Her leaving again. Me falling harder than I’ll ever admit.
I slam the heel of my hand against my thigh and blow out a breath, forcing myself to stand. I’ve screwed up enough for one night.
Yet I cross to the window, peel back the curtain, and look across the property anyway. The cottage light is off. She’s gone to bed or wants me to think she has. Either way, I don’t blame her.
I let the curtain fall and step back, every inch of me heavy with the weight of what almost was. Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll fix it. But tonight, I carry it, just as I always do. Alone.
The house is quiet. Too much so.
I’ve walked every inch of this place over the years—tightened hinges, fixed pipes, rewired outlets—but tonight, it feels like a stranger. Like it’s not mine anymore, and I’m not supposed to be here. Not with this tight, aching pull in my chest that won’t let up.
I try to sleep. God knows I try. But my thoughts won’t shut off, and my body is wired, every nerve standing at attention like it expects her to walk back in and call me out for being a damn coward.
I want her to.
So I get up. Again. Bare feet on the hardwood. My boxers and a cotton tee do nothing to block the cool of the air coming through the screen door. I move down the hall like a man chasing a ghost—quiet, aimless, hurting.
When I reach the back window, I stop. The cottage is dark, and I expect that, but then, just as I turn away, a light flickers on inside. Small. Soft. The reading lamp near the window.
And there she is.
Ivy Quinn, sitting on the edge of the bed in that oversized sweatshirt I gave her, hair pulled back, knees drawn up, staring at the same empty night I am.
Something about it hits me so hard I have to brace a hand on the doorframe.
She looks like she doesn’t belong anywhere else but here.
Wishing she wasn’t made of headlines or record deals or glossy magazine shoots.
Just a girl who needs rest. Who maybe needs something more than fame and fast lanes and forced smiles. Someone who needs real.
She rubs her hands over her knees, then glances toward the window like she feels me watching her. I don’t move; she doesn’t either. And for a long, aching minute, we just… look. Two silhouettes in the quiet. Two people carrying more than we ever say out loud.
She tilts her head slightly, like she wants to ask a question. I press my palm flat against the windowpane. She doesn’t wave, but she doesn’t look away either. And that says more than either of us can handle tonight.
When she finally reaches up and clicks off the lamp, the space swallows her whole. The window goes dark, but the heat in my chest stays lit.
I stand there for a long time, eyes trained on the dark shape of the cottage, every beat of my heart echoing with a word I don’t say.
Stay.
I want it more than my next breath. Or more than the sleep that never comes.
The sun is just starting to rise when I slip my boots on and head outside. I haven’t slept more than a couple of minutes. Can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—those wide, tired eyes in the lamplight. That curve of her lips when I barely kissed her. The way she doesn’t pull back.
Hell, I can’t even be angry with her for staying in the guesthouse. I offered. I wanted her to say yes. And now that she has, I’m unraveling like barbed wire in a thunderstorm.
The morning air is sharp and dewy, the gravel cool underfoot as I cross the yard. I avoid looking at the cottage. I don’t trust myself not to knock on the door.
Instead, I head for the barn. Feed first. Then stalls. Keep moving. Keep my mind out of dangerous places.
I’m tossing hay when I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s her. The air changes when Ivy walks into a room. Subtle but real. Like the quiet before lightning cracks.
“You’re up early,” she says softly.
I keep working, jaw tight. “Farm doesn’t care if you sleep like shit.”
A pause.
“You’re mad at me,” she says.
That makes me turn. She stands in the doorway in that damn sweatshirt again, her hair pulled into a messy braid, eyes soft but unreadable.
“I’m not mad,” I say.
She lifts a brow.
I sigh. “I’m mad at me. There’s a difference.”
She takes a few slow steps into the barn. “Rowan, nothing happened really.”
“Something happened.”
“A peck doesn’t count.”
I stare at her, tired and exposed and about five seconds from giving in to everything I’ve sworn I wouldn’t.
She looks away first. “Look, I don’t regret it. I just… I didn’t mean to make things messy.”
I toss a forkful of hay into the stall. “Too late.”
Silence stretches between us like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Then she clears her throat. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About the camp.”
I flinch. “It’s not happening.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have the time. Or the help. Or the funds. Or—”
“Or maybe you’re scared it won’t be perfect.” She crosses her arms.
I turn slowly. “Excuse me?”
“You’re afraid it’ll flop. Or that the town’ll talk. Or that people won’t think it’s good enough. So instead of trying, you shut it down.”
I blink at her. “You don’t know me.”
“No,” she says. “But I recognize fear when I see it. I’ve lived with it long enough.”
I don’t answer. I can’t.
She steps closer. “What if it works? What if those kids show up and fall in love with the land the way you did?” I swallow hard. “What if you gave them a place to breathe?” she whispers.
I stare at the pitchfork in my hand like it holds the answers. “I’m not a teacher. I’m not built for that.”
“You’re built for exactly that,” she says. “And if you can’t see it, that’s your problem. But don’t pretend it’s mine.”
Ivy turns and walks out, boots crunching on gravel as she disappears into the rising sun. And I stand in the barn, heart hammering, walls cracking, because she’s not wrong.
I’m terrified. Not of the camp but of hoping. Because hoping means caring. And caring means falling. And falling means losing everything. Again.
The day drags. I mend fences that don’t need mending. I clean out the feed bins—twice. I reorganize tools I could find blindfolded. Anything to keep me from pacing the damn yard like a restless fool.
But no matter how hard I work, her voice echoes in my head.
What if it works? What if you gave them a place to breathe?
I hate how much I want to believe her. How easy it is to picture it—kids running through the pasture, barefoot and wide-eyed. Ivy smiling as she watches them dig up carrots or bottle-feed a calf.
I’ve never told anyone I want to start the camp.
Not really. Maybe I mentioned it in passing to Lila once, years ago.
Doris, clearly. But that was before I realized how deep my roots had twisted into this solitary, quiet life.
Before the weight of responsibility convinced me I didn’t have time for dreams.
Now here Ivy is—bright eyes and stubborn hope—trying to shine a light into corners I boarded up a long time ago.
Damn her.
By evening, I’m bone-tired and no closer to peace. I catch sight of her a few times through the kitchen window. She stays near the cottage most of the day, a notebook balanced on her knee, lips moving silently like she’s working out lyrics or writing a letter she’ll never send.
She never looks toward the house. Never tries to talk to me again. But I feel her there, just the same.
By the time the sun dips behind the trees and the frogs start up their twilight song, I give in and make dinner. Something simple—pan-fried chicken and green beans, cornbread on the side. Enough for two.
Habit, maybe. Or hope.
I sit down at the table, staring at the empty seat across from me, the steam from the plate curling up like it’s mocking me. She doesn’t come. Of course, she doesn’t.
I’m not exactly rolling out the welcome mat.
I scrub the dishes in silence and pour a bourbon, stepping out onto the back deck with nothing but the night and a hundred bad ideas for company.
The sky is streaked with navy and silver, stars just starting to pop. The cottage window stays dark. I lean back in the chair and close my eyes.
She’s right. That’s the worst part. The thing under my skin, burning like a goddamn fever.
She sees right through me. Not because she’s famous or beautiful or used to getting what she wants.
But because she knows what it means to carry fear like armor.
To live behind glass. To pretend not to want more.
We’re not so different. That realization? It hits like a kick to the chest.
I open my eyes again and look toward the dark silhouette of the guest cottage. And I know something has to give. Because she’s not going to stay forever. And if I don’t figure out what the hell I want soon, I’ll lose the one thing I haven’t even dared to hope for.
The knock is soft. So soft that I almost think I imagine it. I sit up straighter in my chair, glass still in hand, and wait. It comes again. Three delicate taps against the back door, like a question she’s not sure she has the right to ask.
I stand, heart already kicking against my ribs. When I open it, she’s there—barefoot in the grass, with her arms wrapped around her middle like she’s holding herself together. That sweatshirt swallows her frame, and the porchlight casts her eyes in shadow.
“I didn’t know if you were still up,” she says quietly.
“I am.”
She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder toward the cottage. “I didn’t want to sleep yet.”
“Can’t?”
Her mouth tugs into a half smile. “That’s one way to put it.”
I step aside, and without a word, she moves past me into the house. The silence wraps around us immediately. Thick. Charged. Familiar, somehow.
She makes it as far as the kitchen table before she stops. Her hand brushes over the edge like she’s grounding herself.
“You made dinner,” she says softly.
“Wasn’t sure if you’d want any.”
“I ate soup,” she replies, voice brittle. “Burned it.”
Something inside me cracks at that.