Chapter Twenty-three – Rowan #2
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“I do. I owe you everything.”
And then she kisses me.
It’s soft at first—like a promise. The kind of thing you say without words. Her lips part, and I taste the sweetness of wine and cobbler, the ache of everything we’ve held back spilling between us.
My hands slide up her back, under her dress, finding bare skin that’s soft and warm and real.
She rocks against me—slow, rhythmic—and I groan into her mouth, gripping the edge of the swing with one hand just to keep from lifting her off the seat and carrying her straight into the house.
“You drive me insane,” I whisper against her lips.
“Good,” she murmurs. “I want you desperate.”
She drags her mouth down my neck, her breath hot against my skin, and I curse under my breath, bucking against her without meaning to. Her hips roll in answer, and the pressure is exquisite—denim rough, cotton damp between us.
“Ivy,” I grit, my voice ragged. “You keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last.”
“I don’t want you to,” she says, lips brushing my ear. “I want you ruined. Right here. Just like me.”
And she keeps going. Keeps moving.
My grip tightens on her thighs as the pressure builds, sharp and dizzying. Her breath catches. Her eyes flutter closed. Her mouth falls open on a gasp as her nails dig into my shoulders.
Then we’re both falling. She trembles against me while I groan her name through clenched teeth as I come hard in my jeans, her hips grinding slowly through the aftershocks.
It’s messy. It’s primal. It’s perfect.
We stay like that—hearts thudding in sync, foreheads pressed together, air thick with heat and honeysuckle.
Eventually, she exhales a breathless laugh.
“Well,” she says. “That was…”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “That was.”
She cups my face in both hands and kisses me again—slow and lingering, like she’s sealing something between us.
When she pulls back, there’s no hesitation in her eyes. No fear. Just Ivy, choosing me.
I run my hands up her sides, memorizing the feel of her.
The swing sways gently beneath us. The stars shine brighter above. And at this moment, I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks Ivy Quinn should be.
We’re both breathless and laughing on the swing when reality catches up to my ruined jeans and her wicked little grin.
I scoop her up anyway. Inside, I hand her a warm washcloth and grab another for myself.
We do a quick triage. I mutter, “Hell of a way to christen a porch,” as she kisses the apology off my mouth.
In the bathroom, we bump hips at the sink, share the mirror, and brush our teeth like we’ve done it a hundred times—her in my T-shirt, me in clean boxer briefs.
Then we kill the lights and slide under the covers, her back tucked to my chest, my palm spread over her stomach while the house goes quiet around us.
Because I know exactly who she is. Mine.
The morning creeps in slow, warm light spilling across the hardwood floors of the kitchen. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t weigh on your chest—it settles around you like a favorite blanket. Soft. Familiar. Home.
I pad barefoot through the house, still tasting sleep on my tongue, and there she is—barefoot in the kitchen again, in one of my old hoodies. The same one she wore that first morning after everything changed. Only now, she looks even more like she belongs in it.
The opening hangs off one shoulder, hem brushing her thighs, and her blond hair’s still tangled from sleep, but she’s moving like she owns the place. Pouring coffee. Humming something soft under her breath.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, just watching her.
This—this is what I never let myself want. The easy mornings. The stolen glances. The girl in the kitchen who knows where everything is and doesn’t need to ask.
She glances up and catches me.
“Morning,” she says, voice still raspy, one side of her mouth lifting in a sleepy smile.
“Morning,” I echo, stepping toward her, one hand dragging through my hair. “You always hum a new song in the morning?”
“Only when I’m not worried someone’s gonna sneak up on me.”
I slide an arm around her waist, tugging her closer. “You didn’t seem all that surprised.”
She lifts a brow and presses her free hand to my chest. “You walk like a damn cowboy. All stompy.”
I chuckle and duck my head to kiss her forehead. “That so?”
“Mm-hmm.” She leans in and rests her cheek against me. “You sleep okay?”
“With you here?” I breathe into her hair. “Better than I have in years.”
We stand like that for a beat. Two cups of coffee on the counter. Her body warm against mine. Her scent—vanilla and something wild—twists through my chest.
“Want breakfast?” I murmur.
“Only if you’re making it.”
I raise a brow. “You’re not gonna serenade me with eggs and bacon?”
“Absolutely not. I’m the talent, remember? You’re the camp director-slash-handsome cowboy who’s good with spatulas.”
I shake my head but can’t fight the grin. “You’re gonna be trouble today, aren’t you?”
She slides her hands under the hem of the flannel pajama pants, cold fingers grazing my hips. “Maybe.”
I catch her wrists gently. “Careful. I can only take so much before I forget all about that breakfast.”
She leans up and presses a kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Save it for later, cowboy. You owe me bacon.”
“Damn right I do.”
As she hops up to sit on the counter, swinging her legs, I reach for the skillet. The whole room glows with the kind of light that makes memories. I swear I could do this every morning for the rest of my life and never get tired of it.
I slide eggs and bacon onto two plates and set them in front of Ivy. She grins like I just handed her a Grammy.
“Forks, please,” I say, easing the last of the soft eggs onto two plates. “Bacon’s crisp, yolks just shy of runny—the way you like them.”
She smiles over the rim of her mug. “Smug. But accurate. Even if the bacon flopped, you’ve got other talents.”
I lift a brow. “Name three.”
“Rescuing me. Remembering my coffee order. Kissing like you mean it.”
“Eat first,” I murmur, setting her plate down. “Then we can practice the third.”
My body reacts before my brain does, flashing back to last night. To the way she fit against me. To the sound she made when she whispered my name.
I clear my throat and sit down across from her. “You really are trouble.”
“Only for you.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind that makes me forget every doubt I’ve ever had about letting someone in again. Ivy hums between bites, swaying a little in her seat like the melody in her head is too strong to sit still.
“You’ve been humming that tune all morning,” I say.
She blinks, caught. “Yeah… it’s stuck in my head.”
“Yours?”
She nods slowly. “A new one. I started it in Nashville, then had the seizure. It’s not finished.”
I lean my elbows on the table. “Is it about me?”
Her steady gaze meets mine, unflinching. “Recently, they all are.”
That hits me somewhere deep. Somewhere old and scarred.
“You know… your notebook,” I hedge. “Didn’t read the whole thing. Just… a page or two. That song.”
She sets her fork down gently. Her lips press together in something like a smile. “Did it scare you?”
I shake my head. “It wrecked me.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy and intimate.
“I didn’t want to fall for anyone when I came here,” she says quietly. “I wanted quiet. Space. Somewhere to remember who I was before everything got so… loud. Hell, I still need to give Crew his jacket.”
My chest tightens. “Then what now? The label, your mom… your life. All of it’s back in Nashville.”
Ivy takes a breath and exhales slowly. “I don’t want to go back to that life. Not the way it was. I’m thinking about changing the deal.”
“What kind of change?”
“I want to record what I want. Write what matters to me. Maybe start something smaller, on my own terms.” She looks down at her plate. “And I want to help with the camp.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
“Rowan, I saw those kids’ faces. I saw what you built.” She tilts her head, her voice soft. “You used my sketch as the flyer.”
I nod. “It was better than anything I could come up with.”
“It was perfect.” She swallows. “I want to be part of this. Not just as the pop star who showed up once and waved to a crowd. I want to stay. Help. Teach. Sing. Be yours.”
My throat gets tight. “That sounds a hell of a lot like a dream I stopped letting myself have.”
“Maybe it’s time to believe in it again.”
I rise slowly and move around the table. She doesn’t hesitate—just slides off the stool and into my arms like she was made to be there.
I bury my face in her hair and whisper, “I want all of it. Music. Camp. Mornings like this. You.”
She pulls back just enough to look up at me. “Then let’s start planning. Together.”