Chapter Seven
Rowan
Iwalk the produce aisle of Fort Myers’ local grocery store, ignoring the side-eyes I’m receiving from the employees and occasional shoppers. I only have to come once a week—other than that, I get to steer clear of this rumor-infested cesspool. Judgmental fucks and their cruel eyes.
Not that I’ve ever given them anything else to work with.
But I shouldn’t have to. Why should I have to prove myself to these people? I’ve lived here my whole life; they know I’m not crazy. I just don’t fit their mold—Sunday services and festivals in the town square.
Whatever.
Instead of dwelling, I sort through the stacked watermelons, trying to find the sweetest one. Whichever has the palest patch is the one I want, so I’ll sort for a while. And as I do, I’ll think of Benjamin cutting watermelon for our trip to the river.
He stands in front of me, peeking up at me from under those thick lashes. His knife glides easily, his cheeks flushed so sweetly. I’m not sure what he’s so embarrassed about—I haven’t made that up yet—but he’s smiling so gently at me, and my heart hurts.
Only now that I’ve met Elijah, it feels weird to think of Benjamin. It feels awkward to sit around and imagine the sweet, citrus smell of him that I crave so desperately when there is a man in town who looks exactly like him.
Which is cruel and unfair, as I’ve had Benjamin for so long now. And now it feels as if he’s being taken from me.
Benjamin is staring at me so sweetly in my mind, and I’m holding onto that image so desperately.
“Rowan?”
My head snaps up, meeting Elijah’s gaze from where I lean over the stacks of watermelon. Great fucking timing.
My heart speeds up, palms sweating as the desire to reach for him crawls up my throat.
Touch him, just for a second. You miss him, you want him. Grab him before it’s too late—before he’s gone again.
What the fuck?
The onslaught of emotion boiling out of me is sickening, making me feel dizzy beneath the weight. And I love it. I love the way these horrible feelings warm and rise at the sight of him, as if they’re finally making sense.
And that is the worst part. Because even if he felt this too, I wouldn’t know how to hold him anyway.
“Eli,” I breathe, watching those sweet little dimples cave into his cheeks.
“Grocery shopping?” Elijah begins to tap his knuckles against the melons, as if sound will tell him their worth.
“Yes. You?” I ask.
He nods, peeking up at me as he rounds the stand slowly. Closer to me.
Then, he says, “I never see you around town.”
My eyes dart around our immediate vicinity, and I see an elderly woman eyeing us curiously. My skin crawls.
“I don’t like coming into town.”
“Why?” he presses, now standing next to me.
When did he get so close? I take a step back, creating much-needed distance. The closer he gets, the more I’m tempted to reach out.
“I prefer to be alone,” I say, surprising myself with honesty. It’s incredibly easy, I find, to talk to him.
Elijah hums, trailing a long, slender finger over the closest watermelon. “And how could I convince you to prefer to be alone with me?”
“... What?” I’m just staring at him. There is no way I’ve heard him correctly. Not only were his words incredibly suggestive, but they were also far too bold.
Surely, I misheard him. But Elijah just grins at my wide eyes and stiff shoulders.
“Rowan, get a drink with me after you shop.” He makes it sound less like a recommendation and more like a gentle command.
“No, I—”
“Rowan.” His voice is stern as he cuts me off, and when I meet his eyes, he’s giving me an assessing, no-bullshit kind of expression. “Have a drink with me. Answer some questions, then I’ll leave you alone. Unless, of course, you beg me not to.” He grins, leaning in slightly.
I take another generous step backward, swallowing harshly. Would it… would it be so bad to get a drink? I mean, if he leaves me alone after, it’s worth it, right? I can suffer through one night, surely.
“One drink,” I tell him, watching his eyes light up. That grin spreads from a cocky antagonization to a genuine, full-blown smile.
And yeah, it lights up the whole fucking room, as if he’s single-handedly brought the sun from the sky just to show it to me here in this dingy supermarket.
I remember how his happiness tastes, don’t I? I want to taste it again. I want to swallow it greedily, to hold it inside of myself for use on those days when things get too hard for him.
Only, Elijah is not Benjamin. So I don’t know what his happiness tastes like, and I have no right to hold it against my tongue.
With new plans to consider, I get nothing that requires refrigeration and follow Elijah out of the market. He directs me to meet him at the only bar in Fort Myers, and I take my time driving there. It only takes five minutes to cross this small section of town, but I’m nervous. So fucking nervous.
And as I walk into the low-lit, rundown bar, I realize I have every right to be. The bartender and the few stray after-work patrons glance up when I walk in, eyes widening in confusion. I don’t think I’ve ever walked in here before.
I spot Elijah at a two-person high-top toward the back, waving me over. Ignoring the insistent eyes, I make my way to him. He’s grinning at me again, as if it’s impossible to do anything but smile in my company.
He must have run into me right after leaving work, wearing grey slacks, a black sweater, and shiny loafers. In my blue jeans and white t-shirt, I feel tremendously out of place.
Two beers already sit on the table, the bottles sweating with perspiration. I may have taken longer than I thought to make the drive.
“I hope Corona is alright,” he says, leaning forward onto the table. I let my fingers tap against the glass, nodding.
“It’s fine. Thanks.” When Elijah says nothing, only staring at me without reservation in a way that makes me flush, I clear my throat. “So, what are these questions you need to ask me?”
“Not yet,” he says, taking a swig from his bottle before resting his chin in his open palm. “First I want to get to know you better. It’ll help when writing the article.”
I’m not sure how getting to know me is going to help him write an article about my competition win, and I’m not exactly comfortable with him knowing intimate details of my life.
Just because I find it scarily easy to talk to him doesn’t mean he should know the most intricate parts of me.
Then again, that part of me that is screaming, that is digging its blunt nails into the lining of my stomach, is reminding me that I’ve spent my entire life waiting for him.
Or—technically—for Benjamin. And Elijah looks just like him.
So instead of running, I say, “What is it you want to know?”
Elijah’s lips tilt up, a blond curl falling over his eye. "What’s your favorite color?”
I can’t stop the surprised laugh that falls from my lips.
“Really? That’s your question?” I ask, and Elijah just grins even harder now.
“Yep. Now answer.”
I sigh, debating for a moment before I say, “Probably green.”
“That makes sense. You’re a nature guy.”
And how does he know that?
“Yeah, I am,” I mutter, eyes narrowing before I can stop them. He just shrugs. “And you?”
“Me?” He seems surprised that I’ve asked. “Uh, I guess blue. Or pink.”
“Pink?” I raise a brow, and Elijah shrugs again.
“Yeah, I think it’s pretty. They make a lot of interesting clothing in various shades of pink, too.”
I take a moment to look at his very plain, dark clothes. “Right.”
He laughs, a loud and obnoxious laugh that has me smiling at him in return despite myself.
“These are my work clothes. On a day-to-day basis, I’m much more fashionable. Promise,” he says, raising his hand in defense.
The green flecks in his brown eyes seem to be dancing, and for a brief moment I swear I can smell the sweet scent of citrus.
“I need another drink,” I rush out, adjusting slightly to hide the fact that I am suddenly half-hard.
“Oh, give me a moment.” Elijah hops off his stool and makes his way to the bar.
My head falls into my hands, hot air moistening my skin as I take heavy inhales and release them. Fuck. I’m pent up.
Normally I can find someone to hook up with when I’m traveling, utilizing my hand while I’m home. But it’s been a few days, and now I have this Benjamin look-alike in front of me, and I fear I might explode at any moment.
“Here,” he interrupts my thoughts, dropping a shot in front of me.
My eyes widen. “W-what—”
“Just one,” he says, almost like a promise.
I’m back in that bathroom, his hands on my jaw, his hard dick pressed to my stomach. Just one?
I can feel him pressed against every inch of me, and I can hear the little whines.
Stop it, Rowan. This is not Benjamin. My mind is so fucked.
“Rowan?” I snap back to reality at the sound of his voice, and I realize I must be staring at him like I want to lick every inch of his skin. Those heated hazel eyes are staring back at me, a response to my own desire, and I find my shaking fingers wrapping around the shot of liquor.
He clinks his against mine, and together we toss the burning liquid back. Elijah grimaces, setting the small glass to the side.
“What cologne do you wear?” he suddenly asks, still choosing to stand next to his stool rather than sit again.
“Cologne?” I cock my head, trying to remember if I put any on before I left for the store. “None right now, I don’t think.”
Elijah’s brows furrow. “No? Hm, how weird. You just… you smell like flowers.”
Flowers? I have never been told that—not once in my life. I can see him try to lean in subtly, taking in a deep breath.
“Chrysanthemums,” he says. “Or maybe sunflowers. That’s what I think of.”
I say nothing. What am I to say?
But my body is heating up, and I fear it has nothing to do with alcohol. Does he feel it? Does he feel this zap of energy that is moving between the two of us?