Chapter 11 – Rowan
Chapter Eleven
Rowan
The dog launches off my bed, not just hopping down but leaping, toenails skittering across the hardwood as he careens toward the sound of the front door opening, and half a second later, Tessa’s voice filters through the apartment.
“Waffles, no—hi! Yes, hi. I missed you, too. Oh my gosh, are you in his bed? I told you to wait! You’re going to get me murdered in my sleep!”
Too late.
I stare at the indentation left beside me, the pillow carrying that familiar mix of peanut butter and oatmeal shampoo—and her.
I sit up slowly, taking in the wrinkled sheets, the faint wet spots, the single paw print pressed into the throw blanket, and the wiry hair lodged deep enough that extraction feels futile.
I try to convince myself I’m not irritated, but I fail, because irritation is inevitable when it comes to Tessa Whitmore.
I never said the dog couldn’t get on my bed, mostly because I assumed I didn’t have to. Some things should be obvious, but assumptions don’t survive contact with Tessa. She doesn’t just cross boundaries; she violates them with precision. And apparently, the dog takes after her.
I swing my legs out of bed and set my feet on the cold floor, already irritated that this is how the day is starting, and I dress quickly—black shirt, wool slacks, belt, shoes—because nothing about this is casual.
Not for her, not for the dog, and not for me.
If I lower the standard once, it becomes an expectation, and I don’t have the patience to manage that.
By the time I step into the hall, I’ve already reset, my expression even, my movements deliberate, my voice steady if I choose to use it.
She’s crouched by the door with the leash in her hand, carefully fixing the dog’s bowtie while Waffles pants happily, tail knocking against the floor with no sense of restraint. She talks to him in a quiet, coaxing voice, laying out rules he’ll ignore the second she opens the door.
“No jumping. No barking. No chasing squirrels into traffic unless it’s metaphorical, got it? And absolutely no sniffing mailboxes. I don’t care what energy they give off.”
I lean against the doorframe and wait. She doesn’t notice me, which isn’t surprising. She tends to pour all of her attention into the task right in front of her and forgets that the rest of the room exists, and it makes her look more focused than she probably feels.
She smooths the bowtie again, adjusting it even though it’s already straight. The dog couldn’t care less, but she does, because she always has. She wastes energy on details no one else would bother with, and even if the effort is unnecessary, it’s still… her.
And I watch, which irritates me more than anything she’s doing, because I should stop and tell her this doesn’t work, that she needs to take the dog and go, and yet, I don’t.
Instead, I stand here, cataloging every small movement and every unnecessary word, frustrated that she doesn’t realize she’s already crossed into territory I should never have let her near.
“Are you giving him a speech,” I say finally, “or just trying to bore him into obedience?”
She startles, spinning around with the leash clutched in both hands, eyes wide. “I was—” she stops, defensive already. “I was setting expectations.”
“He’s a dog,” I remind her, pushing off the doorframe and walking past to grab my coat. “The only expectation he has is that someone feeds him before noon.”
“He understands more than you think,” she shoots back, voice quick, sharp.
“Doubtful,” I mutter, slipping into the coat. “If he understood, he wouldn’t have been in my bed.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. Waffles barks once, as if on cue, which earns him a pointed look from me.
“That doesn’t count,” she says quickly, tugging the leash tighter. “That was enthusiasm. Not disobedience.”
“Call it what you want,” I reply, reaching for the keys on the counter. “Just don’t call it my problem when he ignores your TED Talk about squirrels.”
I pull the door open and step into the hall, and it takes her a second to move. She blinks at me.
“You’re… coming with us?” she asks, her voice pitched high.
“Apparently.” I lock the door behind us and slide the key into my pocket. “Unless you think I trust you not to get arrested before breakfast.”
Her jaw drops, caught between offense and confusion. “I’ve walked a dog before.”
“In your apartment’s hallway. Not on my block.” I start down the corridor, not waiting for her to catch up. “There’s a difference.”
She scrambles after me, leash tugging as Waffles barrels forward with zero coordination. “You can’t possibly think I need a chaperone.”
“I don’t think it,” I say flatly, pressing the elevator button. “I know it.”
Her mouth falls open again, and I can feel her glare boring into the side of my head. She mutters something under her breath, too quiet for me to catch, but loud enough that she wants me to ask. I don’t.
When the elevator doors slide open, Waffles lunges forward, nearly dragging her with him. She stumbles, catching herself on the rail—except it isn’t the rail she grabs first. It’s me.
I catch her elbow before she can fall, steady her, then let go as soon as her balance returns.
“See?” I say as we step inside. “Exhibit A.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” she argues, cheeks flushed, fingers tightening on the leash. “He just gets excited.”
“And you just nearly face-planted in front of my neighbors.” I hit the ground floor button. “Try again.”
She glares at me, then huffs, shifting Waffles closer to her side. “You know, for someone who acts like he doesn’t care, you sure seem invested.”
I keep my eyes on the elevator doors, voice even. “Don’t confuse oversight with investment.”
The elevator dings, and when the doors slide open, Waffles bolts again, dragging her two steps forward before she digs her heels in. I follow at a normal pace, keys already in my hand, because one of us has to look like we belong here.
The lobby guard glances up, and his eyes immediately drop to the dog. I brace for a question, but I cut it off with a look sharp enough to make him think better of it. Tessa notices and straightens her shoulders.
Outside, the air is cool and sharp, and Waffles practically explodes onto the sidewalk. Tessa stumbles, recovers, and shoots me another glare.
“I had this under control,” she says, a little breathless.
“Sure,” I answer, stepping around them and heading down the block. “That’s why you’re half a second from being dragged into traffic.”
She pulls the leash tighter, cheeks flushed, her pace quickening to catch up with mine. “You didn’t have to come,” she insists, stubborn and defensive.
“Of course, I didn’t,” I say, keeping my eyes forward. “I also didn’t have to let the dog stay in my apartment, but apparently, I’m making a career out of bad decisions.”
She opens her mouth, shuts it, then tries again. “You don’t have to walk with us.”
“I know.” My tone stays flat, even. “That’s what makes it worse.”
Her lips part, caught somewhere between shock and frustration. She stares at me for a long beat before Waffles lunges toward a fire hydrant, jerking her sideways. She yelps, stumbling again.
I sigh and take the leash out of her hands before she can argue. The dog settles immediately, falling into step beside me as if he were trained for this.
Her jaw drops. “Seriously?”
I keep walking, not looking at her. “One of us understands authority.”
She sputters, tugging her jacket tighter around her. “You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” I say, giving the leash a light tug as Waffles stays in line, “here we are.”
She falls quiet, but I catch the way she folds her arms, the way her shoulders tense. She’s always been like that—resistant when anyone steps in, defensive when anything feels like she’s being taken care of.
We keep walking, Waffles tight at my side, Tessa hurrying to match my pace. For a block, the only sound is the dog’s nails clicking against the concrete until…
“Any fallout from your little performance?” My voice is even, but it makes her stiffen. “The broken window. Anyone at the clinic asking more questions?”
Her head jerks toward me. “No,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “They bought it. Everyone thinks I forgot my keys and panicked. I said I broke the glass to get in, and by the time I did, the dog was gone. Nobody questioned it.”
I glance at her briefly. “Nobody?”
She swallows. “No one.”
I nod once, not breaking stride. Of course, I already know that.
I checked the morning after. No report filed.
No request for follow-up from the precinct.
I’ve got a contact who owes me, and if anything had shifted, I’d have known before she did.
I didn’t need to ask; I just wanted to see if she’d lie.
“Good,” I say finally. “Because if you slip, it doesn’t just hit you. It hits me. And I don’t take hits for free.”
She bristles, hugging her arms tighter across her chest. “I’m not slipping. I’ve been careful.”
“Careful,” I echo, dryly. “You’ve been hiding a dog in my apartment while your roommate thinks you gave him to a classmate. That’s your definition of careful?”
Her mouth opens, defensive, but no sound comes out. She glares instead.
I tug lightly on the leash, Waffles falling back in line without resistance. “Keep it that way,” I add, quieter this time. “No cracks. No second-guesses. If anyone starts digging, you tell me first. Not after.”
She exhales hard, muttering something I don’t catch, and when I glance at her, she pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“You know,” she says, voice pitched higher, “most people would just say thank you when someone keeps their story straight. Maybe even buy them coffee. But no, not you.”
“You think I should reward you for not screwing up?” I reply, a brow arching in disbelief.
Her smile falters. “You think I can’t handle this?”
“I think you have a track record,” I answer evenly. “And it’s not good.”
Her shoulders tense, her pace quickening. “I made one mistake.”
“You leaked confidential notes,” I remind her, flat and unflinching.
“That’s not small. That’s not a parking ticket or a late assignment.
That’s the kind of mistake that follows you into every interview, every courtroom, every time someone types your name into a search bar.
And then you added breaking and entering to the list, along with theft. ”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes blazing. “I didn’t steal him.”
I look down at Waffles, then back at her. “He’s here. That’s all that matters.”
She swallows hard, gripping her jacket tighter. “You don’t get it.”
“I get it,” I cut in, my tone sharp but calm. “You wanted him, so you took him. And I covered for you. Which means your problem is now my problem, and that’s why I ask questions you don’t want to answer.”
She falls silent, eyes fixed on the sidewalk. For a few beats, the only sound is the leash jingling as Waffles trots along.
Then, quieter, almost defensive, “You make it sound like I’m some liability you’re stuck with.”
I glance at her, my voice flat. “That’s exactly what you are.”
Her head jerks, wounded, but before she can fire back, I add, “The only difference is I’ve already factored that in.”