Chapter 34
thirty-four
For some fucked up reason, I’ve let myself fall down an endless, online, Rowan Cole rabbit hole. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from my laptop. What started as a quick Google search has turned into a three-hour deep dive into Rowan’s hook up history as I click through image after image.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, scrolling through yet another set of photos of Rowan with a stunning blonde on his arm at some red carpet event. “Carrie freaking Southern.”
The supermodel’s perfect face smiles back at me from dozens of photos—her arm linked through Rowan’s, her body pressed against his side, her lips occasionally brushing his cheek. In every single one, they look... comfortable. Intimate, even.
“Just friends, my ass,” I growl, clicking to the next photo.
It’s one from last year’s Golden Globes afterparty. Rowan is wearing a perfectly tailored tux, arm wrapped around Carrie’s waist, her red gown plunging indecently low. And the caption?
ROWAN COLE AND HIS ALLEGED EX-GIRLFRIEND CARRIE SOUTHERN SHARE A LAUGH AT THE GOLDEN GLOBES
I narrow my eyes at the screen. Logan specifically told me Rowan and Carrie are just friends.
But the evidence staring back at me tells a much different story. There are dozens of photos spanning the last few years—premieres, charity galas, casual outings. In one particularly infuriating photo, they’re leaving a restaurant together, his hand resting possessively at the small of her back.
I scroll to another set of images. Rowan is with an actress I vaguely recognize from some popular Netflix show. They’re walking on a beach, holding hands. The next photo shows them kissing.
I look at the date. Even though it’s from five years ago, my stomach still twists.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, babes?” I mutter, clicking through to yet another gallery of photos.
The evidence of Rowan’s playboy ways is overwhelming. There are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of photos of him with different women—actresses, models, singers. Each one just as, if not more beautiful than the last. All of them looking up at him like he hung the motherfucking moon.
Then there’s all the photos of us from our outings here in Lakeside.
Draining the last of my wine, I let out an exasperated sigh.
Over the last few days, we’ve made appearances around town.
Holding hands, Rowan leaning in to whisper in my ear, hug me or kiss my cheek whenever he’d spot paparazzi.
He even took me to the movie set to meet everyone.
But the more we “fake it”, the more real it’s starting to feel.
I’m finding it hard to separate past from present. Finding myself wishing: What if?
As I quickly squash that thought way the fuck down into the abyss of my past, the sound of the buildings outer door closing echoes through the hallway outside.
Why the hell do I feel like I’ve been caught doing something illegal? My fingers hover over the keys as I listen to the heavy footsteps make their way down the hall before I quickly slam my laptop shut.
What the hell am I doing? I’ve just spent the last few hours cyberstalking my famous childhood bestie online, cataloging his romantic history like some obsessed teenager. And for what? To torture myself?
Pretty sure I’ve invented a new meaning to the saying, “a glutton for punishment.”
Before I can fully process my own ridiculousness, there’s a soft knock at my door.
I freeze, wondering if I can get away with pretending I’m not home. But then I remember Rowan literally lives across the hall. He probably saw my Jeep parked outside. He knows my schedule by now.
With a resigned sigh, I uncurl my legs, push myself up from the couch, and rub my now sweaty palms over my jeans in a feeble attempt to get them dry before running them through my tousled hair.
When I pull open the door, Rowan is standing there looking unfairly handsome in dark jeans and a simple gray Henley, his hair slightly mussed from a long day on set.
“Hi.” He gives me a soft smile, making my traitorous heart flutter. “Wanna go for a walk? Maybe get something to eat?”
I blink up at him, momentarily thrown by how normal this all feels with him showing up at my door, asking me if I want to hang out like we used to when we were kids.
“Um. Sure. Let me just grab a jacket.”
Snatching my favorite leather jacket from the hook by the door, I quickly shrug it on and grab my keys. The September nights have started to get a little chilly and the last thing I want is to be tempted to use Rowan as my own personal space heater.
When I step out into the hallway, he’s leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed.
“Everything’s set for our trip this weekend,” he says as we head down the stairs. “Flights booked, car service arranged, guest room ready for you at my house.”
“Great,” I reply, trying to sound casual even as my stomach does a little flip at the reality of what I’ve agreed to. “What time do we leave?”
“Early. Flight’s at seven a.m., so we’ll need to leave for the airport by four.” He holds the door open for me as we step outside into the cool evening air. “I know it’s early, but it’s less crowded that time of day.”
“Why don’t you just take a private jet? It’s not like you can’t afford it.”
“True. But it’s a little over the top for my taste. Unless I have to get somewhere fast, I typically just travel first class.”
The night is clear, stars just beginning to emerge in the darkening sky above the light of dusk. We fall into step, and I’m struck by how familiar walking in comfortable silence is with him.
“So,” I start, desperate to keep my thoughts away from those images of him with all those beautiful women. “How was filming today?”
“Good. Exhausting,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “We filmed a pretty intense scene. It’s the big fight between Jake and Eliza. The one where all the past secrets and trauma come out.”
I swallow hard. “Is the scene... is it based on what happened with us?”
His eyes flick over to mine, then quickly away. “Parts of it. But I took some creative license. Had to use a lot of it actually.”
“Why is that?”
He’s quiet for a beat. I can tell he’s struggling with what he’s going to say next.
My heart thunders in my ears when his next words come. “Because, at the time, I didn’t know how our story would end. Or if there would still be a story for that matter.”
We walk in silence, passing the storefronts along Main Street. Most are closed for the evening, but a few blocks down, The Brew is lit up, laughter and music spilling out onto the sidewalk as we pass.
“You hungry?” Rowan finally asks, nodding toward Sal’s Pizza across the street. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
Before I can answer my stomach does it for me, making him chuckle.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
The familiar sound of the bell above us jingles as we push through the door. Sal’s has been a Lakeside institution since before we were born. The scent of garlic, tomato sauce, and freshly baked dough instantly makes my mouth water.
“Lizzy!” Sal calls from behind the counter, his weathered face lighting up. His eyes widen when they land on Rowan. “And Rowan! Look at you two, all grown up and back together.”
Heat creeps up my spine and along the back of my neck when Rowan’s hand settles at the small of my back.
“Hey, Sal,” he says warmly. “Place hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Why mess with perfection?” The older man winks, gesturing toward an empty booth in the corner. “Sit, sit! I’ll bring you something special.”
As we slide into opposite sides of the booth, it hits me that it’s been a little over two weeks since our first sighting at the lakeside restaurant, and the photo that’s now splashed across TMZ. Among others.
“Hey. You okay?” Rowan asks quietly, tuning in to the expression on my face.
“It’s just Sal’s,” I shrug. “Not exactly paparazzi central.”
“True,” he says with a wry smile. “But you should know by know they tend to have a way of showing up out of nowhere.”
As if on cue, I notice a couple at a nearby table sneaking photos with their phones.
“Great,” I mutter. “Just what I need—my pizza face immortalized online.”
Rowan laughs, the sound warming something inside me. “Trust me, you look perfect.”
I roll my eyes to hide how his compliment affects me. “Save it for the real cameras, Hollywood.”
Sal appears with a large cheese pizza and two sodas. “On the house!”
“Thanks, Sal,” we say together, then look at each other and laugh.
After we’ve finished eating, we resume our walk. After a few minutes, Rowan murmurs, “Don’t look now, but I think we’re being followed.”
“Fuck off. You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.” Leaning in close to my ear, he grabs my hand and whispers, “There’s a guy with a camera about twenty feet back. Been following us ever since we left Sal’s.”
“Are you kidding me?” My heart kicks into high gear. This was the last thing I expected to happen. Being followed is a lot different than having them taking pictures from across the street.
“Come on. Let’s pick up the pace,” he orders, squeezing my hand tighter as he gently urges me forward.
As we quicken our steps, heading toward the park that borders the edge of town, the footsteps behind us pick up, too.
“Rowan! Rowan Cole!” a man’s voice calls out. “Can we get a statement about you and your childhood sweetheart?”
“Shit.” Rowan’s grip on my hand tightens even further.
Suddenly, there’s not just one voice but the sound of multiple voices and footsteps slapping against the pavement behind us.
“Lizzy! How long have you two been back together?”
“Rowan! Is she the reason you came back to Lakeside?”
My blood runs cold. They know my name. These strangers know who I am.
“Run,” Rowan growls, tugging my hand.
Without hesitation, I bolt alongside him, our fingers interlocked as we sprint across the park toward the tree line that leads into the woods.
My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline coursing through my veins as the voices behind us grow more insistent. “Did you see how many?”
“Three. I think.”
“You think!?”
“Well,” he pants. “Kinda hard to count when I’m trying to run and watch where the hell I’m going, Sunshine.”
“Good point. This way,” I wheeze, tugging him toward a narrow trail I know well. It’s the same path Logan, Rowan and I used to take as kids when we’d sneak out to mess around in the woods, playing hide and seek.
The flash of cameras illuminates the darkening woods behind us as we plunge deeper into the trees. Branches whip at my face, and I stumble over an exposed root, but Rowan’s firm grip keeps me upright.
“Jesus. Do they ever give up?” I gasp, ducking under a low-hanging branch.
“Not usually,” he replies, voice tight. “Sorry about this. I didn’t think they’d follow us in here.”
We emerge into a small clearing where a dilapidated shed—remnants of an old groundskeeper’s station from decades ago—sits all alone. I haven’t been here in years, but the structure is still standing, albeit barely.
“In here,” I hiss, pulling him toward the weathered door.
The hinges creak ominously as I yank it open, and we tumble inside. Rowan quickly shuts the door behind us, plunging us into near darkness.
Moonlight filters through tiny cracks in the wooden slats, casting eerie patterns across the dusty floor and a lone wooden table shoved into a corner up against the far wall.
We stand frozen in place, listening with bated breath to the sounds of our pursuers crashing through the bushes, getting closer by the second.