Chapter 9 #2
The windows are wide open, letting in the warm evening air that smells like the ocean and Rowan’s herbs from the plants in the yard.
My tools are scattered across the counter, flooring samples fanned out like a deck of cards.
I’m working longer hours to clear my schedule for that week away.
I may be the boss, but I still have a schedule to keep.
I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm and grab two glasses of cold water.
Through the window, she’s out there, barefoot in the grass, black crop top, little cut-off jeans that should be illegal.
She’s bent over her herbs, murmuring to them like they’re her little green babies.
She swears talking to them makes them grow faster.
Honestly? At this point, I believe her. Everything she touches thrives.
“Hey, plant whisperer,” I call as I step outside. The planks creak under my bare feet, reminding me that they’re getting a fresh reset eventually, too. By the time I’m done with this house it’s going to feel like the kind of home that stays in families for generations to come.
She looks up, a soft strand of hair stuck to her cheek, sunlight long gone but the porch light catching the curve of her smile.
“Hey, Carpenter Ken” she teases.
“Whatever, Garden Barbie.” I hand her the glass.
She laughs, a soft belly laugh that hits me square in the chest. I take a long drink of water because it’s either that or stare at her legs a second too long.
And of course, I stare anyway. Those legs are tan, toned, smooth. I picture them around my hips, and my throat goes dry, so I drain the rest of my water like it’s going to save me.
She drinks her water, herbs fanned out in her harvest basket like a little bouquet. “You’re quiet,” she says.
“Just thinking,” I reply. Then, before my common sense can stop me, I smirk. “About how I’ll probably show up in your dreams tonight.”
Her eyes go wide. She freezes mid-sip, choking on her water.
Holy shit. Did she really have a dream about me? I was just giving her shit, but I definitely hit a nerve.
I try not to laugh as she sputters. “What?” I ask, all fake innocence.
She guzzles her water too fast and then says, “Nothing.”
My grin grows slow and wicked. “Rowan Maren.”
“No.”
“You had a dream about me.”
“No, I didn’t,” she blurts way too quickly.
I’m enjoying every second of this. “You 100% did.”
Her face goes pink. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah?” I step closer. “So what was it? Something romantic? Something steamy? Was I wearing a toolbelt or—”
She slaps my chest, laughing despite herself. “Shut up!”
“Oooh, you’re blushing,” I tease, leaning down until I can see the way her pupils dilate just a little. “Was it a good dream at least with a happy ending?”
“I hate you,” she mutters, but she’s smiling.
I chuckle and brush a bit of basil off her shoulder. “No, baby,” I say, voice low enough that it makes her breath hitch. “You definitely don’t.”
And for a heartbeat, the night air goes still. Just her, me, and the crickets.
Then she rolls her eyes, pushes off the railing, and says way too brightly, “Come on. Show me your updates before I go home to get ready before your ego gets any bigger.”
I watch her walk inside with those damn legs and laugh into my empty glass.
Allen sees Rowan and immediately leaves his windowsill to go greet her with his mean ass looking mug.
The summer air clings to us like warm syrup, and the second she crosses the threshold, I watch her take it all in the way she always does with excitement and encouragement to every little update that I do.
“Okay, hotshot,” she says as she sets her glass down onto a table just inside the door. “Show me.”
I gesture toward the kitchen as I place my empty cup next to hers. “Prepare to be impressed.”
She follows me in, brushing past close enough that my entire body notices. I flip the switch, and the new light over the counter flickers to life warm, golden, and perfect. It makes the kitchen feel like home.
Her mouth curves into this soft little grin that just knocks the wind out of me. “Finn,” she says, low and happy. “This looks amazing. I love how you picked out the light I liked.”
I pretend to look casual, leaning a hip against the counter, but I can feel my chest swelling like a damn idiot. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She steps closer, tilts her head up, and squints like she’s appraising it for some HGTV show. “It’s perfect and I love it.”
I love it. Those three stupid words echo in my chest a little too hard. I clear my throat and wave toward the spread of flooring samples on the table. “Okay, next decision.”
Her eyes light up. She loves this part. I swear she gets more joy out of this than I do and I love watching her face light up when she lands on the choice that she likes.
I fan the flooring samples out for her. “So,” I say, “what’s the verdict, Basil Barbie?”
She drops into one of the chairs, tapping her fingers against the samples. “This one’s too orange. That one’s too dark. This one feels like a dentist office.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re very decisive.”
“You asked for my opinion.” She looks up at me, one brow raised. “And I take your flooring very seriously. You’re going to be stuck with this decision for a long time.”
She finally taps a warm, honey-toned plank. “This one. It’s clean, cozy, not too dark. It’ll make this place feel like a home.”
She scoops up Allen and says, “What do you think, Allen wrench?”
I nod like I’m considering it. Truth is, I already know I’ll pick whatever she chooses. I’ve done it with every paint swatch, light fixture, and tile sample since she started giving her two cents. It’s not just because I trust her taste. It’s because I want her fingerprints all over this place.
“I like that one, too,” I say, letting a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. “Good choice.”
“Come on,” she says. “It’s Thursday. Go shower. I’ll meet you at the Rusty Anchor.”
“Bossy,” I tease.
She smirks as she gives Allen one last scratch behind the ears and heads out the door, her hips swaying, “Someone’s gotta keep you in line.”
I shower, clean up fast, and throw on a clean T-shirt and jeans before running a hand through my hair, and try not to look like I care too much.
When I get to the Rusty Anchor, she’s already there.
And damn. Her hair’s pulled up, a few soft pieces falling around her face, and she’s in a dark gray tank top that hugs every inch of her chest in ways that should be criminal.
Ripped jeans. Black Converse. No effort at all.
Just Rowan. Casual and stunning and entirely too good at wrecking me just by existing.
Mack waves us toward our high-top table like he’s been expecting us. “Thursday lovebirds,” he calls, smirking. “I heard you moved the honeymoon to Coconut Beach.”
Rowan rolls her eyes. “Mack, seriously.”
I slide into a stool across from her, grin stretching wider. “He’s not wrong.”
She kicks me under the table, but there’s a spark in her eyes. “Don’t encourage him,” she mouths.
“You look good,” I murmur.
She arches a brow. “You don’t clean up too bad yourself, Carpenter Ken.”
“Yeah.” I lean forward on my elbows. “Did you set up a second date with Sugar Grandpa?”
She laughs, and it’s the one that always gets me. “Actually, yes. I’m meeting with him tomorrow. He’s giving me a tour of his garden. Speaking of, he mentioned a few handyman things that he needs to have done. Would you want to go with me and help out a charming fella?”
Mack drops off our usual order of two beers without even asking. We’ve been doing this every Thursday for so long. I give him two fingers and he nods, heading toward the kitchen window.
“Let me get this straight. You want me to join you for a threesome with your fossil?”
She snorts. “Gross, Finn. He’s a sweet old man.”
I laugh. “Sure, I’ll help. But for the record, you’re into some freaky shit, Maren.”
“I am not!” She shakes her head and takes a sip of her beer, leaning in, making her cleavage pop even more and causing my dick to strain even harder against my jeans.
“So,” I say, picking at a coaster, “how’s the Sammy drama this week?”
Her lips curve into the mischievous grin she gets when she’s about to drop town gossip. “You’re gonna love this. Things have actually calmed down.”
I look at her with disbelief. “Calmed down?”
“Yeah.” She leans closer. “Vanessa and Marilyn are apparently neck-deep in their grand opening. They’ve been too busy for their usual petty nonsense. Mayor Sammy’s been on his best behavior. Apparently, someone put the fear in him that he could be fired, so he’s been freaking out.”
“Shocking,” I say. “I was counting on a Thursday night rant.”
She smirks, trying to make it playful. “Do not put that out there. I want vacay vibes from here on out. I need this vacation, Finn. I need peace.”
She sounds light. Joking. The same Rowan everyone else sees.
But the second she says “peace,” something in her eyes flickers, quick and raw, like a spark dying before it catches.
She hides it well, but I know that look.
I know the tightness in her voice. I know the forced smile.
She has been knocked around from every direction lately, and she is holding herself together with sheer willpower and a little bit of spite.
Most people would miss it entirely. I don’t.
I chuckle, shaking my head for show. “Yes, you do.”
But inside, my chest tightens. Because she is tired. Worn thin by the mayor’s bullshit, by Marilyn’s smugness, by Vanessa’s cruelty, by Jessica’s betrayal.
And I want to take all of it from her and give her the peace she is begging for.
I smile back at her, but underneath it is something else. Something that hurts in the best and worst ways.
Because I see her.
And I will burn the whole damn town down before I let her break.
There’s a warmth in the way she looks at me, like this thing between us is quietly growing roots, even if we haven’t said the words out loud yet.
When we finally step out into the night, the warm air wraps around us like a blanket. She walks a little ahead, swinging her purse, the soft light from the streetlights catching her hair.
I look at her and think about the light she loved in my kitchen. The floors she picked. The way my house already feels less like mine and more like ours, even if she doesn’t know it yet.