Chapter Seven – Rowan
The road home curves under the moonlight, the truck tires crunching softly over gravel as I keep both hands on the wheel and both eyes decidedly on the windshield.
Not the woman next to me.
Not the goddamn song still ringing in my head.
And definitely not the way my chest squeezes when she sings about wildflowers like she’s lived that lyric.
Because Ivy Quinn isn’t a song.
She isn’t a moment.
She’s a headline waiting to happen—and I have no business feeling like I want to hear her voice on my porch every damn night for the rest of my life.
My mother always said when I found the one, I would fall fast and hard, just like my father.
I didn’t believe her then, and I am trying my damnedest not to believe her now.
“You’re quiet,” she says finally, her voice softer than the leather seat beneath her.
I don’t look over. I can’t. “Tired.”
She hums in response, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt. “You’re not a very good liar.”
I crack a wry smile, still staring straight ahead. “Never claimed to be.”
Silence falls again, but it’s not the comfortable kind we’ve managed a few times before. This one thrums with something I don’t want to name—heat, maybe. Possibility. The kind of thing that sneaks in when your defenses are too tired to hold it off.
I clear my throat, reaching to turn the AC knob. “You didn’t have to sing tonight.”
“I wanted to.”
“It showed.”
She glances over at me. I can feel it even though I don’t return the look.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not.”
But it could be for me. That’s the problem. Everything about her feels like more. More heat. More pull. More mess. And I’ve built my whole adult life around avoiding mess.
“You were good,” I say, finally giving in to the truth. “The whole town will be talking about it for weeks.”
“Good.” She leans her head against the window. “Then they won’t be talking about how I borrowed your hoodie or how Butterscotch blesses me with a sneeze as a greeting.”
I huff. “That’s your thing now.”
A beat passes.
“I saw you talking to that little girl. The one who asked if you were really a singer. You were kind.”
She shrugs one shoulder. “Kids don’t expect me to be anyone else.”
I frown. “You don’t either.”
She looks at me again. “Don’t what?”
“Pretend. Not when it counts.”
Her lips part slightly like she’s about to argue, but then she closes them again and looks away.
I should leave it there. But the words are already tumbling out. “The camp. That’s why I first thought about it. For kids like that.”
She straightens a little, twisting in her seat. “You mean… the girl tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“I figured. You light up a little around them.”
“I don’t light up.”
“You kind of do. Like an unplugged Christmas tree with one string of working lights.”
I bark out a laugh despite myself at the visual, finally letting my gaze flicker to her for a split second. Her smile is small but real.
“I meant it, you know,” she says. “What I said before. About helping you with it.”
I sober instantly. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “Then tell me.”
“I don’t have the money, the time, or the right degree for any of it. It’s just an idea I get sentimental about when the house gets too quiet.”
“That doesn’t make it any less worthy.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel. “You don’t get it.”
“Try me.”
“I don’t have anything to offer, Ivy.” I shake my head. “Not to those kids. Not to you. Unfortunately, anything I can teach them is an art that’s falling to the wayside.”
The silence that follows is louder than anything she could say. And worse than any lecture.
But still, she replies, gently, “You have more than you realize.”
I don’t respond. Can’t. My throat’s too tight with the truth I don’t want to admit. When she looks at me like that—like I’m something—every wall I’ve ever built starts to crack.
We roll to a stop under the wash of starlight, both porch lights casting twin halos—one over the house, one over the cottage. I kill the engine. Neither of us moves. Then she reaches for the handle, and I follow.
We walk side by side until the path splits—gravel veering left toward my front steps, crushed seashells curving right toward hers. The air is warm and quiet, a cricket choir tucked in the fence line. She toes a pebble with her sandal, and it skitters ahead, choosing the cottage for her.
“Thanks for… all of it,” she says, voice low. “The food. The… buffer.” Her mouth tilts. “The dance.”
“Anytime,” I answer, which is more honest than I mean it to be.
The porch lights hum. Moths tap and wheel. For a heartbeat, we just stand there inside the overlap of the two pools of gold. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Far enough that I can’t blame the night if I step closer.
“Tomorrow,” I say, because I need a safe word, “I’m checking fence lines at first light. Coffee’s on at six. If you want to walk the south pasture or head into town later, just knock.”
“I want,” she says quickly, then tempers it with a breath. “If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
She nods. Her fingers worry the edge of her sleeve. Mine hook into my back pockets to keep from doing anything dumb.
“I liked tonight,” she admits, eyes on the seam where gravel meets shell. “More than I expected to.”
“Me, too.”
That pulls her gaze up. The look we trade is a held match—bright, dangerous, gone if either of us exhales too hard. She shifts a half step, and the light paints her hair in pale honey, her eyes gone dark and thoughtful.
She looks up at me, wide-eyed and unsure, and it feels like we’re standing on the edge of something that’s been building since the moment she crashed her damn spaceship into a ditch.
I don’t mean to step closer. I don’t mean to tilt her chin with my fingers. I definitely don’t mean to let my lips brush hers, but I do, and she doesn’t pull away. She leans in with just the barest pressure —warmth, promise, chaos. And I break it. Pull back like I’ve been burned.
Her eyes flutter open. Hurt flickers there, followed by confusion, then anger.
“I should go to bed,” she says quickly.
“Ivy—”
“Good night, Rowan,” she says, barely above a whisper.
“Night.”
She turns down the shell path. I stay where I am, listening to the soft crunch of her steps and the small click of her latch. Her porch light stays on. Mine does too. I don’t move until I see her shadow cross the cottage curtain—one sweep, then still.
Only then do I take the left fork, gravel grinding under my boots, the night full of the thing we almost said and didn’t.
I run a hand through my hair, fingers digging into my scalp, hoping the sting will knock some damn sense into me. Ivy Quinn is across the way, probably confused as hell. And I don’t blame her.
I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for in my head—dancing with her or not kissing her fully. Both, maybe. Because either option means I’m a coward.
I stare at the counter, at the empty spot where her cup sat earlier.
The space feels bigger without her in it even though she’s technically still here.
It shouldn’t matter. She’s only staying another night, maybe two, until she figures out her career situation.
Until the press finds a new angle. Until she remembers that men like me aren’t part of her world and will never be.
I want to believe I have a grip on this, and I can keep things clean. Distant. She’s not a mistake I can forget. And I don’t even want to.
I turn off the kitchen light and stalk down the hall, the air heavy with everything I haven’t said, every pull I’ve tried to ignore. The stairs groan under my weight, and I barely resist glancing toward the guesthouse. I don’t deserve another look. Not after the way I left her hanging.
In my room, I peel off my shirt, toss it across the back of the chair, and drop into bed. My muscles ache from the long day, but sleep is nowhere in sight. Not with the ghost of her mouth still on mine.
I roll over, then roll again, growling under my breath like that’ll make a difference.
I’ve kissed women before—hell, I’ve dated. But nothing has ever felt like this. Like kissing someone you don’t just want. You need . Like everything in your body, soul, and bones recognizes theirs before you even figure out what the hell is happening.
That terrifies me.
I punch the pillow and stare at the ceiling. The fan whirs overhead. A crack in the drywall catches the moonlight.
And I keep thinking about the way she looked tonight—barefoot in the grass, firelight in her hair, and her voice strong and soft all at once. Like a prayer set to music.
And then… that look in her eyes right before I pulled away. As if I’ve confirmed every doubt she carries.
I swear under my breath, sit up, and pace the room like I can outwalk my own damn guilt.
What the hell am I even doing? She’s Crew’s ex. Even if it was fake, the lines are still blurry. She’s famous. She’s been on tour buses and red carpets while I’ve spent the past decade in dirt and sweat and routine. And she’s only here because her car died and fate has a cruel sense of humor.
There’s no version of this where I come out clean. And still…. Still, I want to go outside, knock on that door, and ask her what would’ve happened if I hadn’t stepped away.
Would she have kissed me back?
Would she have let me keep going?
Would I have finally stopped pretending I don’t feel this thing crackling between us like lightning across a dry field?
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, forehead resting on my fists. “Shit,” I mutter.
I’m not good at talking about feelings and never have been. But with Ivy, the feelings come too fast to sort through. It’s like stepping into a riptide—sudden, wild, dragging you under whether you fight or not.
And the worst part? I don’t want to fight. I want to let go. Just once. Let myself want something—want her.