Chapter One – Rowan #3
“Alright.” I keep my elbows on my knees and my voice simple. “I have a guest cottage. Bed’s made. Kitchenette. It’s quiet. No one will bother you there.”
She turns so fast the swing stutters. “That’s—are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Her brows knit. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.”
“What if I’m a terrible houseguest?”
“Then you’ll fit right in,” I say dryly. “Crew crashes my fridge, Bailey steals my tools, and my sister Hadley leaves floral tape everywhere. I’m adaptable.”
Her laugh is a surprised little thing that punches air into my lungs. “What about your parents? Will they be okay with—”
“It’s my property. I decide who stays.”
“That is an unsettling amount of power.”
“Good news is I’m boring.”
She watches me for another beat, measuring. Not the calculation of a career girl looking for an angle. Just… a woman deciding whether her rib cage can unclench in a stranger’s orbit. “Okay,” she says finally. “I’ll take you up on it.”
“Alright.” I rise, the swing scritching under my thigh. “We can slip out the side.”
We thread the dark edge of the yard, where the light doesn’t press so hard.
She puts her hand on the porch post as we go down the steps.
I pretend I don’t want to take it. The night is cooler, with crickets sawing.
Somewhere down by the water, a kid lights a sparkler, and the tiny hiss zips through the grass.
At the truck, I open her door and step back—out of habit, promise—and she climbs in, tucking her feet like she’s learned how to take up as little space as possible. I hate that, but I don’t say it. I start the engine instead and let the low rumble do what my mouth can’t.
The road home is the same one we came in on, but it feels different now that the heat’s bled out of it. We pass stretches of ditch that catch star puddles. We pass the bend where the creek throws back moonlight and makes a silver seam.
“You always this… nice?” she asks into the dark, which is funny because the town would describe me two clicks left of nice and four clicks south of social.
“No,” I say. “But I’m not stupid.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you get.”
She huffs, but it’s affectionate around the edges. “Fair.”
At my drive, I flick the headlights to low and turn under the limbs.
The main house sleeps with the porch light on because my mother trained our switches and none of us ever unlearned it.
The guest cottage sits under the big oak, butter-yellow paint, new roof, lantern on the stoop already glowing.
I turned that light on before I left for the wedding without thinking about why.
I park beside the steps and kill the engine. For a second, we listen to the engine tick as it cools.
I point. “There.”
She looks, takes in the square of the soft window, the little railing I sanded myself, the planter box that insists on living no matter how badly I ignore it. “It’s sweet,” she says, like she didn’t expect that word to fit in her mouth.
“It’s functional,” I counter, because I don’t know what to do with sweet.
“Functional works, too.”
I hop out, come around, and offer a palm down—not a demand, not a requirement, just a place to put her hand if she needs it. She hesitates one heartbeat, then sets her fingers against mine and hops down onto the crushed shell like she trusts I won’t let her ankle roll. I don’t.
Inside the cottage, I flick the small lamp by the couch and stand in the doorway to make myself smaller. “Kitchenette’s empty. Sorry. Coffee’s at the main house. But the shower’s hot. Towels are in the basket by the bed. Lock clicks clean; windows take a little tug.”
She turns slowly in a circle. The place is simple—white shiplap and old wood and a quilt my mother swore she’d never let leave her house.
The salvaged record player in the corner only plays when the moon is in the right mood.
It smells like cedar and something lemony.
I use it once a week to feel like I’m domesticated.
“It’s perfect,” she says, and the word lands somewhere behind my ribs and sits there.
I set a key on the counter. “I start chores early. If you want coffee, the main house is unlocked. Or text and I’ll bring it by. I’ll write my number on the pad by the door. You don’t have to see anyone if you don’t want to.”
Her throat moves. “Thank you.”
“Don’t make it a habit.” I aim for light because anything heavier will crack.
It gets me a ghost of a smirk. She sets her bag by the couch like she’s testing the weight of being allowed to put something down.
“Get some sleep,” I say. “We’ll deal with the car in the morning.”
“Okay.”
I back toward the door. She doesn’t follow. She watches me go with those impossible eyes, and for one wrong second, I want to step back in and find out what vanilla and citrus smell like when the world isn’t watching.
I pull the door quietly and let the latch catch. On the stoop, the night hits cooler. I stand there a beat longer than necessary, listening to the cottage settle—floorboards sigh, lamp hums, and the small sounds of a place welcoming a person.
The walk back to the main house feels shorter. The porch bulb throws a circle on the steps, and a moth ping-pongs against the warm glass. Somewhere out in the back field, a horse stamps, and the sound carries.
I tell myself it’s just logistics—a roof, four walls, a lock. The simple math of decency. I let that be the truth I carry into the dark kitchen, where I leave the light above the sink on because that’s what you do when somebody new is finding their way by feel.
I shower quickly—cold enough to keep my head straight—then pull on sweats and a T-shirt that still smells faintly like cedar and summer soap.
The house is quiet in that old-bones way, boards settling like deep breaths.
I check the back lock, flip the porch light off and on out of habit, then stop with my hand on the switch and leave it burning.
If she wanders up for coffee or can’t sleep, I want the glow to be a promise and not a question.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Lila:
You disappeared. Rude . Lila:
Also, can’t believe you brought Ivy to my wedding after she was stuck in a ditch. I never got the story on why she was here anyway. Lila:
She was lovely. Bailey adopted her. Don’t be weird.
I thumb back.
Me :
All set. She’s fine. Go be married.
Then I drop the phone face down and lean my hips against the sink, listening to the cicadas rake the night open and stitch it shut again.
It’s a funny thing—how quickly a place adjusts around a new presence.
The cottage has hosted cousins and hands and the occasional tourist who wanted more “rustic charm” than they could stomach.
But tonight, with a pop star sleeping under my oak, the land feels…
steadier. It likes showing off when someone’s seeing it for the first time.
I make a circuit—small house rituals I could do blind—to set the coffee, rinse a pan, and leave a dish towel folded clean.
When I pass the hallway mirror, I catch my own reflection and snort—clean-shaven jaw I only bother with for weddings and funerals, hair tamed for a total of an hour, and white shirt now rolled to the forearms. Lila’s going to frame a picture of me looking civilized if I don’t burn the evidence first.
I kill the lamp and head for bed. The ceiling fan turns and turns. Sleep takes me in a blink.
I’m up before my alarm, same as most mornings.
My brain snaps to the list before light has time to decide what color it wants to be.
Boots. Barn. The horses nicker when I step into the dim area, all soft breath and patient eyes, and the routine slips over me like a shirt I’ve worn thin: hay tossed, grain scooped, water checked.
The chickens complain on schedule. I let them out anyway because nobody likes being penned too long.
By the time I’m back at the porch, dew makes the grass glitter.
The kind of damp that clings to your cuffs and your lungs.
I pour the smoldering dark liquid and fill two paper cups—one black, one with cream and sugar the way my sisters like it—and add a napkin over the lids because the walk down can slosh if you’re not careful.
The path to the cottage runs under the oak’s spread, crushed shell crunching just enough to announce me. I slow before the steps and knock my knuckles against the jamb instead of barging in. “Morning.”
Nothing for a beat. Then the lock turns and the door swings inward on a soft breath of lemon and cedar and something uniquely Ivy.
She’s there—barefoot on the old wood, hair down and mussed from sleep, an oversized T-shirt skimming her thighs like she borrowed it from a life that stayed in bed longer than she did.
Sunglasses are nowhere in sight, which means those eyes are.
They’re not the icy camera blue I’d braced for; they’re warmer, stormier.
The summer sky decides whether to rain or bless you.
“You weren’t kidding about the coffee,” she says, voice rough with sleep.
“I’m a man of my word.” I hold out the cup with the cream and sugar. “Didn’t know how you take it. Guessed right?”
She wraps both hands around the cardboard like it’s a heat source. The first sip softens something in her face I didn’t know was tight. “Perfect.”
I nod at the counter. “I can fetch you a second if you burn through that one.”
“You think highly of my caffeine tolerance.”
“I think highly of starting the day with more than air.” My gaze flicks past her—bed made clean, bag tucked near the couch, and flower crown abandoned on the little table like a surrendered weapon. “You sleep?”
“Shockingly well.” A corner smile. “No elevators dinging or footsteps in the hall. Just… quiet.” Her eyes lift to mine. “Is that weird to say? That quiet felt loud until it didn’t?”
“No.” I get it more than I want to explain. “Out here, quiet’s not empty. It’s just everything else doing its job.”
She leans her shoulder to the jamb, the T-shirt slipping off one bare shoulder with a kind of stubborn elegance she couldn’t fake if she tried. “Is it always like that? The mornings?”
“Mostly.” I jerk my chin toward the back pasture. “Fog settles where the creek bends. The sun burns it off slowly. You should see it when the geese come through—they lift like someone pulled a sheet.”
“Say that again,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“That thing about the sheet.”
I shake my head like I’m not going to repeat myself, then do it anyway. “They lift like someone pulled a sheet.”
She closes her eyes for half a second, like the picture lands exactly where she needed it. “Okay,” she whispers. “Yeah.”
The silence that follows is easy. Birds tune up in the oak. A bee bangs itself stupid against the window screen and remembers the door five seconds later. I take a pull off my cup and try not to watch the way her mouth finds the lip and lingers there like coffee is mercy.
“I’m heading over to help with some chores,” I say finally. “You’re welcome to come by the farm if you don’t want to be alone. There is a walking path, but it’s quite a trek. Or sleep. Or whatever.”
Her nod is grateful and proud all at once. “I might… I’ll figure out a plan.”
“You’ve got time.” I look at her, really look, in that quiet minutes-before-the-day way that tells the truth better than night does. This is who she is when nobody’s taking: curious and tired, yes, but also something steadier I haven’t named yet.
“Okay,” she says, like we negotiated a treaty. “Thank you.”
“Lock clicks clean,” I remind, tapping the knob. “Windows take a tug.”
A ghost of a grin creeps across her face. “You said that last night.”
“I’m consistent.”
She lets me go with a little wave. “See you later, Rowan.”
It shouldn’t land like it does—my name in her mouth, soft around the edges. I back off the porch and force my feet to find their own rhythm instead of hers.
Halfway up the path, I look back. She’s still in the doorway with one hand braced on the frame, coffee lifted, hair bright as old straw where the sun catches it.
For a second, I picture that same shape in October, sweater sleeves swallowing her hands, breath ghosting out in pale threads.
The oak gone bronze, the pasture cut low, the creek a ribbon.
I turn before I do something I’ll regret—like go back and say more—and let the morning take me.
There’s a fence line to walk, a tractor complaining about a chain I should’ve replaced last month, and a sister who will absolutely stage a coup if I don’t bring her the leftover tartlets she asked for. Routine is mercy if you use it right.
At the house, I set my empty cup in the sink and catch sight of a hoodie slung over the back of a chair—a soft navy with a decade of wash.
On reflex, I pluck it up and carry it out.
The day will burn hot by noon, but the first hours sit cool and creek-damp.
City bones shiver in country mornings. I hang the hoodie on the cottage’s porch hook and don’t knock or leave a note.
She’ll find it if she needs it. She’ll ignore it if she doesn’t.
By the time I hit the barn, the sun has made up its mind.
Light comes in at an angle that makes dust look holy.
I shoulder into work, gratefully. The rhythm eats thought: measure, cut, mend; lead rope, halter, tie; grease, tighten, test. I’m three bolts into a hinge repair when my phone buzzes again.
Crew:
Jacket?
I stare at the screen until the letters blur, then respond.
Me :
Ask Ivy yourself .
It’s petty and efficient. He’ll survive both.
I pocket the phone and step out of the shade. Out across the back field, the line of trees looks like a held breath. Something in my chest mirrors it—and then lets go.
Because here’s the inconvenient truth I don’t feel like analyzing while holding a power drill: a woman I had no business bringing to my sister’s wedding is in my guest cottage sipping coffee, bare feet on my wood floor, and the sky didn’t fall.
The farm didn’t wither. The world didn’t tilt except for inside me, and even there, it’s not a slide so much as a shift.
A click of alignment I didn’t ask for and don’t quite trust.
I wipe my hands on a rag and get back to work.
I can do this. Be decent without being stupid. Be neighborly without being Crew. Be helpful without making a habit of it. Keep the lines where they need to live.
And if, when the wind changes, a note floats down the lane that smells like citrus and warm sugar, I can pretend I didn’t notice.
For now, the list is simple: finish the gate, show up where I’m needed, and—before the sun gets mean—drop off a paper sack on a cottage porch with two breakfast burritos and a Post-it that says Eat .