CHAPTER 30 Rowan
CHAPTER 30
Rowan
T he cool click of a gun near my head makes my body go rigid.
Shit. They got me.
What about Charlie?
I need to protect him. I can’t let them get him.
Bang!
Horror washes over me. I failed. I scream—only to wake up in bed next to Charlie, gasping for air. I claw at my cheeks, squeezing my eyes shut.
I’ve sweated through the sheets. My heart is racing.
You’re okay. It was just a dream. Or rather, a nightmare.
In the darkness, I can make out Charlie blinking next to me. “Hey,” he says, his voice raspy. “What’s the matter?”
I bite the inside of my cheek so that the pain distracts me and take a few deep breaths.
When my pulse is back to normal, I snuggle into him. I don’t answer his question.
But I should’ve known that Charlie wouldn’t let me get away with that. “Rowan. Baby. What’s wrong?” He moves us so he’s the big spoon. I lie in his arms and breathe for a while. I’ve never had anyone to just … hold on to. And I like being touched.
“Bad dream,” I say at last.
“Sorry, baby.” Charlie holds me tighter. It’s easier for me to talk when I don’t have to see him.
I glance at the bedside clock. It’s three in the morning. “Guess it was a flashback from the kidnapping.”
Charlie presses a kiss to the back of my neck. “Your fucking family. You must’ve been terrified.”
My default is to say no, but this is Charlie. “Maybe a little.” I snuggle closer into him.
“You’re safe now. With me.”
“Thanks.”
Charlie smells so good. It’s not just that he smells like hinoki. He smells like comfort. It’s a good smell, light and fresh, and I want to burrow into him.
So, of course, I do that as much as I can.
I like the way Charlie’s biceps feel around me. I like the way my waist feels against his. I like the way we just slot in next to each other.
“Are we going to get a happy ending?” I ask Charlie sleepily.
“Why wouldn’t we?”
Why wouldn’t we?
I fucking love Charlie, and that’s all there is to it.
I knew I was in love with him when he helped me look for Wilbur, but it might have happened earlier. Like when he gave the money to the unsheltered guy when we walked into the restaurant in Malibu. Or maybe when he called me baby boy the first time.
I don’t believe in insta-love, but he had my heart already.
Then he kept looking out for me. Watching over me when no one else would.
Now he’s stuck with me, even though I’m not who either of us thought I was .
I wish I could tell past Rowan that he was a secret billionaire and to hang in there.
But I suppose all that crap I went through made me stronger. Or some new age bullshit like that.
It made me who I am now.
Which is someone who’s desperately in love with his boyfriend. My grumpy, perfectionist boyfriend, who seems to have thrown out all his rules since he met me. Who seems like he’s alive now. I don’t know what he used to be like, but the way he is now is nothing short of amazing.
There’s no one else I trust like him.
I cuddle into him and eventually fall asleep again. This time with no nightmares.
In the morning, I wake up in Charlie’s arms. We shower and get in some vigorous blow jobs before heading into the kitchen for breakfast. When we walk into the living room, we realize how badly we parked last night and move both our cars into the garage.
“How are you feeling?” Charlie asks as he sets a stack of toast and a mug of coffee in front of me.
“I’m still … raw from yesterday. Raw isn’t quite the right word. But I’m both empty and full at the same time. I’m tender and hardened. I’m eager to go meet my father for lunch and kind of dreading it, too. I’m not sure why.”
“I get it.”
“Do you? How many people do you know who have had what happened to me happen to them?”
“Exactly one. You.” Charlie gives me one of his rare smiles, and it fills up the parts of me that were feeling empty and soothes the parts that prickle.
“Hmm.” I eat some toast and stare at my phone. “It’s Wednesday. Don’t you have to go to work? ”
“Yeah. But before I go, let’s repot Wilbur,” Charlie says, taking his coffee mug with him out to the backyard.
Charlie’s backyard isn’t the smallest, but it’s not huge, either. Like he says about his house, it has potential. I follow him out, carrying my own coffee, which is also in one of his homemade-looking mugs.
He’s got a large shed in the back corner where, I found when I was snooping, he stores his lawn mower and some tools. He rummages inside and emerges with a gorgeous blue-glazed pot just the right size for Wilbur, along with an open bag of potting soil. “Will this do?”
“Yes!” I chirp. “It’s perfect—so pretty! Thank you!” I set down my mug and race into the house to get Wilbur.
Together, we sit on the back stoop and settle Wilbur carefully into his new digs. Patting his leaves affectionately, I coo at him as Charlie waters him from the hose. I know it’s my imagination, but I think Wilbur perks up immediately.
“All better?” Charlie asks.
“Definitely.” I give him a wide smile. I help him clean up the potting soil that got loose, toss the plastic bag that served as a temporary pot, and then take Wilbur inside and set him in a place of honor in Charlie’s kitchen window. “Is it okay if he goes here?”
“Yep.” Charlie refills both of our coffees.
“That pot is cool,” I say, my voice bubbly and light. Things do seem better in the morning. Especially when I’m with my boyfriend. “It looks handmade.”
Charlie gives me a fond smile. “That’s because it is.”
“Do you know the artist?” I ask.
“Me.” He seems to be bracing himself for judgment.
I knew it. How perfect is it that Charlie not only gave me a home, he made one for Wilbur? “Did you make these mugs, too?”
Charlie nods. “Ceramics class in college.”
“You’re so artistic.”
“Yeah? I think they’re kind of amateurish. ”
“Nah, that’s what gives them their charm.”
Charlie’s cheeks glow. “Maybe.”
“Definitely. You made them, which makes them special anyway, but they’re super cool. I think you’ve got a real artistic side. I know you like editing videos, but do you enjoy other kinds of art?”
He stares at me for a long moment. “When I was a kid, I used to draw. I haven’t done it in a while.”
“Maybe you can start up again. Maybe you can let yourself do the things you want to do.”
“Yeah,” he says, getting up. He puts his coffee mug in the dishwasher. “Maybe.”