Chapter 17
Maggie
March - Palm Beach
It’s been over a week since we came back from the Bahamas and all I’ve done is clean the house and pace, wondering if I’d be making a huge mistake in breaking off the agreement. I don’t want to lose him.
And yet, I’m a coward, because I haven’t found the courage to do it yet.
This week, I’ve told Rowan that I got my period, and he knows to stay away from my angry moods every month.
He and I have gone weeks, even months without seeing each other, especially once we graduated and we ended up on different sides of the country.
But one week apart, and I already feel like I’m off kilter.
It’s plain and simple: I’ve been avoiding him. Even his texts and calls. I lied and said I was moody and wanted to sleep in the past couple of days, but I think being alone in this house is driving me crazy.
I’ve called Isla and Blair a billion times this week and caught them up on my sister’s wedding and pregnancy announcement. They both tried to coax information out of me about Rowan, but as always, I deflected. Maybe once the agreement is over, I can tell them all about it.
I want to tell them how the other day, he Doordashed me a pint of ice cream and I cried actual big, fat tears. How I love him so much.
Just when I think I’m slowly going crazy from lack of contact with Rowan, I get a text from him.
Come outside. Bring your gear.
I peek around the sheer curtain of my window and crack my knuckles, expelling my nervous energy as I notice his white Porsche in the driveaway.
I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder and walk the short path to his car.
I don’t know what I expect—for him to call me out for avoiding him, for him to pop the trunk open like usual, but instead, he gets out of the car and steps in my path, his hand outstretched.
I take a second to really look at him. He’s wearing his signature pink shoes, but instead of his more athletic look—gym shorts and stretchy T-shirt—he’s wearing a pair of white, almost compression-looking shorts that make the muscles of his thighs stand out and a green baggy tank top that shows off his arms and the sides of his torso.
After ogling him for longer than I should, considering I’m supposed to let the man move on from me, I silently hand him my duffle bag.
He smiles wide and takes it from me, moving to place it in the trunk.
This gives me a delicious view of his ass in those shorts. Did the sun get hotter all of a sudden?
I fan myself and round the car to the passenger door, but Rowan beats me to it, opening it up for me. He’s wearing a black pair of RayBan sunglasses and I can’t get a good read on why he’s being so cordial. I stare dumbfounded at his face and realize he’s gotten a haircut.
Fuck me, he looks good. Great, even. The dark blond hair looks a little lighter and longer on top than on the sides and all I want is to run my fingers through it, see if it’s just as soft as before. As last week. Jesus, it’s only been a week?
“I like the haircut,” I mumble as I get into his car and he shuts the door.
“Thank you.” He grins once he hops in the driver seat and puts us in reverse.
I contemplate what to say to keep the conversation going, but after a few moments of silence and just enjoying the warm breeze, Rowan says, “So, how are you feeling?”
My body immediately reacts and I sit up straighter, turning so I can better face him. “Fine, much better,” I lie.
Rowan nods. “I thought about coming by this week but I know you like your space.”
“I’m sorry, I just don’t like snapping at you for no reason,” I say.
“I could give you reasons to snap at me.” He grins, dimples popping and my insides melt a little. “Archie misses you by the way. He thought you abandoned him.”
“I miss him too and I would never abandon the two of you,” I say, meaning it.
Rowan is silent for the rest of the drive and once we park at the club, he says, “Are you sure everything is okay?”
“Of course.” I smile, wanting to grab his hand and squeeze it. Instead, I keep my hands firmly at my sides. I need to keep my distance from him from now on. Less physical intimacy. I need to gather the courage to break things off and remain friends. If that’s even possible.
Rowan is making me work hard on the court. We have the longest back and forth, neither one of us missing a beat, but he’s starting to wear me down. Sweat rolls down my face, the back of my dress is drenched, and I desperately need some water.
Rowan manages to hit a drop shot, barely clearing the net and I return it to the side he least expects. He twists at the last second to change directions but he barely misses the ball.
“I need a water break,” I say, catching my breath and walking over to the bench. I gulp more water than I should, but we’re nearing the end of practice and I’m thirsty as hell.
“I need to work on my overhead more,” he says, joining me at the bench. I sit down and peek up at him. He’s in perfect view, blocking the sun that would otherwise beat down on me.
I try not to stare again at his perfect thighs and how good they look in those white shorts, but it’s damn near impossible.
His hands distract me as they go from his water bottle to the hem of his loose tank top.
He pulls the bottom of it up to wipe at his face, even though there’s a perfectly good towel on the bench next to me.
My eyes travel the path from the waistband of his shorts, up his toned lower abdomen that’s lightly dusted with dark blond hairs, further up to his glistening abs and pronounced collarbone. I swallow another gulp of water and chide myself for getting into this situation.
Rowan sips on some water and squeezes some on his head and chest. Is it weird that I’m jealous of the drops of water that slide down his body? I want to lick the rivulets, I want to straddle him on this bench and—
“Mags?”
“Hmm? What?” I say, shaking my head.
He smiles, a dimple popping in one cheek. “I asked if you’re ready for a final set.”
“Sure, yeah. Let’s do it,” I say, standing up way too quickly and losing my balance. Rowan’s arm around my waist steadies me, but the movement brings me closer to him. My palms lay flat on his chest and I try to clear the fog around my brain. Apologize. I need to apologize.
“Sorry,” I mumble, pulling my hands back and instantly missing his skin, slightly cool from the water.
“No worries,” he says, smile still in place. He lets go of my waist, takes off his tank top and grabs his tennis racquet, jogging over to the court. In nothing but his shorts.
Fuck. Me.
This is going to be impossible.