12. Twelve
Walking up behind Rowan, I suspect I might be in trouble—I really like this woman. Her speech about trusting my abilities instead of a mystical force impresses me, but, of course, a confident, independent woman like her believes that. So do I, despite what our neighbors think and my writer’s block suggests.
It’s the small things about her, though. Sharing her mom’s call with the neighborhood. The stern way she says my name. The lavender and vanilla smell when the breeze catches her just right. Her tight calves and long legs—always those legs.
But most of all, it’s the look on her face when she whips around and finds me there. Her cheeks flush pink, and her full lips part in a quiet inhale. Her always-pretty blue eyes widen and sparkle like diamonds at sea. She wants to see me.
That’s enough to change us from cordially volatile to something else entirely.
She searches for words that don’t come. I don’t know what to say either. I’m gobsmacked—a word I never use.
“Jack, meet Rowan’s mum, Christine.” Rose points to the flushed but lovely woman on the propped screen.
I pick the phone up, flashing my best smile. “Hi, Christine. I’m Jack. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh, my. You’re even more handsome than on your book jackets.”
“Mom, geez,” Rowan mutters, eyes rolling and cheeks reddening, just like her mother’s. This could be fun.
“I’ve read all your books,” Christine says. “They’re wonderful, Jack. Truly. They make me… believe in love again.”
Rowan’s brow knits, hearing her say that. What’s with these women and love?
“Wow, Christine. That’s a beautiful compliment. Thank you.”
“I can’t believe you’re Rowan’s next-door neighbor!” Christine giggles while her daughter scoffs beside me.
“Me, neither. So, when do we get to meet you in person?” I ask.
“End of August.”
“Really, Mom?” Touching my hand, Rowan moves the screen toward her. “Before Thanksgiving? That’s awesome!”
“For two weeks… I’ll help with the start of school and Sara. I can’t wait to meet her. Rowan’s going to be a foster mom. Did she tell you?”
The conversation veers into fostering and how they all want to help. I hold the phone, taking Christine around to each speaker and not minding the job.
Before long, Christine sighs. “Oh, this has been absolutely lovely, but I must get to work. It’s been a pleasure meeting all of you… And Jack?”
I turn the screen. “Yes, Christine.”
“Rowan despises romance. You know all about jaded hearts. Get her to believe in love again, and I’ll buy you dinner while I’m there. Hell, I’ll buy you dinner anyway!”
“It’s a date. I’ve already pushed my newest on her. We’ll see if she reads it, though.”
“I’m not jaded. I read it,” Rowan chimes in defensively.
I nearly drop the phone, turning toward her. “What? All of it? I just gave it to you this morning.”
“I’m an English teacher. Speed-reading is a required skill.”
“You’ve always been a quick reader. She’d go through four or five books a week as a teenager,” Christine adds.
“I had little else to do. You’re going to be late, Mom.”
Everyone says their goodbyes, and the phone flashes to the home screen. The table chatter returns in a wave as if nothing interrupted them. They discuss dinner plans for Christine’s visit, which kicks off a discussion about local restaurants, good and bad.
Rowan doesn’t return to her seat but stays beside me, watching the others with amusement like they’re a life-sized diorama of a pleasant evening or a Norman Rockwell painting.
A soft touch along her upper arm brings her attention back to me. My hand stays there, gently holding her in place as if she might run off rather than end my agony.
Taking me in, she asks, “What’s wrong?”
I try sounding cool. Relaxed. But the words come out hurried and flustered. “You finished my book? What’d you think?”
Her breath catches. “Jack, I loved it. I can’t stop thinking about Caulder and Jasmine—their passion, their fragility. I’ve been holding them in my heart since the beach like they’re wounded birds I’ve scooped up and want to protect, though I know they’ll never be the same again. I won’t be the same again.”
Tears threaten her eyes. Has she been crying? Her free hand grabs my other forearm, right between the tattooed conch shell from The Lord of the Flies and the rebel alliance symbol from Star Wars. Her fingers tighten to my skin like she’s bracing herself against her uncharacteristic emotion now spilling into our odd circle.
And for once, she holds nothing back—I really fucking like this woman. Really like her touch, too.
“That scene…”
I know exactly what she means before she explains—the one I wrote thanks to her.
“—when they try to end things, though it rips them apart. You captured their inner pain despite their outward appearances—that resonated. I feel that way often. Anyway, I did what you said. I lived in that story. I’m still there. And tonight, I’ll read it again.”
I think to tell her—you’re the reason that scene is so good—but it’s too weird. The woman who doesn’t believe in muses and has more shields than an army might find the news that I’ve “bled” her for ideas disconcerting.
It’s sure as hell disconcerting for me.
Instead, I release a trapped breath, relieved. She hates the genre, so maybe that’s why it feels like a tremendous win, turning the un-romance-able into a fan. But that she loved my book feels like a walk-off home run; her sparkly, tearful eyes and tender smile match the ecstasy of the home team crowd, cheering as I round the bases.
I’m in serious trouble here.
“Let me write about you—not you, but shades of you, whichever sides you’ll let me see.”
Her hand falls from my arm. “I don’t know. I’m really not that interesting.”
“Course you are. More interesting every second. Let me talk to you and ask you questions. I’ll give you veto power over anything I write, and you can read it first.”
She looks distressed, but her eyes stay on mine as she deliberates, probably running through every conceivable pro and con in her head. I think of her yes, no, maybe proposal debacle and wonder if I’ll get a similar non-answer.
My hand drifts down her arm before letting go. “Give the answer you want, Rowan. Don’t overthink it.”
“Yes.” The word falls out with surprising ease, and she seems happy to let it go. “But I need something, too.”
“Tell me.”
“I have a confession to make. It stuck with me when you explained your hatred for English classes this morning. So when I met with the Ice Queen—um, she’s my boss, err, one of them anyway—I panicked over not having a solid idea for my Inspiration Project and used yours.”
“My what?”
“Your idea about tossing the usual curriculum aside and letting students read for pleasure.” She pauses for air, her arms flailing in an awkward shrug. “I want to see if I can foster a true love of reading in my students. It’ll be up to them—what they read and what we do in class. A guided learning adventure... or a disaster. Not sure yet.”
“A teacher relinquishing control to her students? That’s not a disaster. That’s a fucking miracle. How can I help?”
“I don’t know yet. How do I have a plan when there’s no plan? I’ll have to be prepared for anything in case it comes up. I may want feedback on my ideas… once I have them. Gosh, I can’t believe you talked me into this. You saw my notebooks, Jack. How can I teach without them?”
“Eh, you don’t need them.” With a smile, I tap her left temple. “It’s all up here, anyway, right?”
She smirks lightly while her shoulders bounce in a shrug.
“Don’t think about it like teaching,” I say. “You get to talk books with a bunch of cool kids every day. What could be better than that?”
Her unease shifts into a slow smile. “You’re right. It’ll be refreshing. Perhaps I’m a little tired of explaining why we must decipher Shakespeare and why finding a husband topped every heroine’s priority list back then.” A breath escapes her. “I can do this… and it might be amazing.”
My grin widens watching her—I inspired this? “Looks like we might be mutual muses. No harm in that, right?”
Her head tilts, considering it. “I’m not sure yet, but perhaps it’s better than being cordially volatile.”
I feign disappointment. “Aw, I like cordially volatile.”
Her soft giggle is downright addictive.
“Jack, you should visit her class.” Tom draws our attention back to the group to find them all staring at us—I’d forgotten they were there. “If Rowan’s students will be reading contemporary novels, then wouldn’t they want to meet a contemporary author?”
“A best-selling one at that!” Marcy says. “They’d love you!”
Rowan’s eyes light up again as her gaze lands on me.
Shit.
“Oh, do it, Jack. It’s not really a public appearance. More like community service,” Rose argues.
“It would mean a lot to the kids… and me,” she says.
“Fine.”
The table erupts with cheers. Rowan practically beams. There’s no getting out of it.
Rowan looks puzzled. “Why do you hate public appearances?”
“I’m lucky enough not to have to sell myself in the media. People appreciate the mystery. Besides, I cuss too much for TV interviews, and book signings are overwhelming.”
“Too many women hitting on him at once,” Marcy laughs.
“Well, he won’t have that problem at school… I hope. I’ll make sure it’s low-key.”
“Then, I’m in your hands,” I say, flashing a coy grin.
Her cheeks turn pink, and it feels like another win.
Damn.