Chapter 13 – Tessa
Chapter Thirteen
Tessa
Pack your shit. Flight’s at noon. I’m picking you up at nine.
No greeting. No context. Just Rowan King at his most charming.
Now it’s 8:58 a.m., and I’m crouched on my apartment floor, shoving random clothes into a duffel bag that’s seen better days. My hands are shaking from caffeine—or panic, it’s hard to say—and I can’t remember if I packed underwear.
If I screw this up and embarrass Rowan in front of partners who could blacklist him from every major firm on the East Coast, he won’t just call in my other IOUs. He’ll make sure I never practice law anywhere. Period.
The ethics violation that got me suspended? It’s sealed, but seals can be broken. Records can be leaked. One strategically placed phone call from Rowan King, and every Bar committee in the country will know exactly why Tessa Whitmore shouldn’t be allowed within fifty feet of a legal brief.
I need this to work. I need him to get what he wants so I can disappear back into my mediocre life and pretend none of this happened.
“The black dress or the jumpsuit?” I hold both up to Tiffany, who’s applying mascara with the steadiest hand I’ve ever seen.
“You think I care what you wear to your boyfriend’s work thing?”
“He’s not—”
“Save it.” She caps the mascara with a sharp click. “I don’t care.”
A firm knock at the door cuts off my reply. My stomach drops. He’s early. Of course, he’s early.
Tiffany’s already moving, yanking the door open before I can stop her.
And there he is.
Rowan, in a navy coat that looks far too good on him, while holding Waffles under one arm. The dog’s wearing a tiny travel harness in rhinestones—my doing, obviously—and his tail is wagging so fast it’s practically a blur.
Rowan looks expensive. Every line of him pressed and perfect.
Tiffany leans against the doorframe, all curves and confidence. “You know, if you ever get tired of charity cases...”
Rowan’s eyes don’t even flick to her. They simply slide past her.
“If I wanted dead weight,” he says, voice flat as a blade, “I’d bring textbooks.”
Tiffany’s smile freezes.
I bite my lip so hard I taste copper.
Rowan turns to me, and his expression softens just enough that I catch it. “Ready?”
“Yes.” I grab my bags, slinging one over each shoulder and nearly toppling backward. “Definitely. Super ready. Let’s go kick some ass.”
We’re halfway down the hallway when he speaks again.
“Your roommate seems charming.”
“She has her moments. Usually when she’s unconscious.”
I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s barely there, but I see it.
Outside, his car is exactly what I expected: black, sleek, and incredibly sexy. He opens the back door with one hand, still holding Waffles, who’s panting in excitement.
He takes the duffel from me without comment and sets it in the seat, aligning it with the carrier.
“Airport, right?” I ask, even though I already know.
“Where else?”
“I don’t know. You could have booked a helicopter or a car service or something else ridiculous. I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“It’s a two-hour flight,” he says, securing Waffles into the carrier. The latch clicks, and the dog starts whining immediately.
“Private?” I ask.
“Commercial. First class.” He shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side.
I slide into the passenger seat. The leather is smooth, the air carries the same clean scent I’ve come to associate with him. He starts the engine, and music plays low through the speakers.
“You okay?” I ask, because he’s gripping the steering wheel tightly.
“Fine.”
“You look like you’re about to strangle someone.”
“Not yet.”
I study his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the tiny scar on his temple he got from a freak coffee table incident freshman year. Details I shouldn’t remember but do.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
His hands tighten on the wheel. “No.”
“Because you seem—”
“I’m not nervous, Tessa.”
The way he says my name, all sharp and final, makes me shut up.
But I can feel the nerves radiating off him in waves. Whatever this weekend means to him, it’s bigger than just impressing some partners. It’s something that matters enough to make Rowan King’s composure crack.
* * *
We drive in silence until my stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead.
Rowan glances over. “When did you last eat?”
“I had coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t food.”
“It is if you put enough cream in it.”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just flicks on his turn signal, already decided, and takes the next exit like this conversation was never up for debate.
Five minutes later, we’re parked outside an airport café that is aggressively… fine. Fluorescent lighting, plastic chairs, and a menu board missing half its letters. It’s so painfully normal it throws me. Not exactly what I expected from someone whose coffee maker probably has a PhD.
“You sure this meets your standards?” I ask as we find a table near the window.
He pulls out my chair. “My standards are flexible.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Then I sit, because apparently, chivalry isn’t dead, just confusing.
The server—a college student with purple hair and tired eyes—hands us menus. I flip through mine, but Rowan doesn’t even look at his. He just sits there, watching me with crazy intensity.
“What?” I ask, touching my face. “Do I have something—”
“You’re wearing glitter.”
I glance down. Right. My Brunch Is My Love Language T-shirt. With sparkles. Because I’m nothing if not consistent in my ability to dress for every occasion incorrectly.
“Well, I didn’t exactly dress thinking I’d be abducted at nine a.m.”
“You weren’t abducted. You were collected.”
“Like evidence?”
Something flickers in his eyes. “Something like that.”
The server returns. I order pancakes and orange juice because I’m apparently five years old. Rowan gets a black coffee and eggs Benedict, because of course, he eats like a seventy-year-old.
While we wait, I fidget with my napkin, tearing tiny pieces off the edge.
“Nervous?” Rowan asks.
“No.” I tear another piece, which is ridiculous because I am absolutely spiraling and we both know it. “Maybe. I don’t know. Are you going to coach me? Like, do I need to memorize your favorite color or your childhood pet’s name?”
“My favorite color is navy. I didn’t have pets.”
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I had other priorities.”
“Like what? Baby briefcases? Toddler tax law?”
His mouth twitches. “You’re nervous.”
“I’m making conversation.”
“You’re spiraling.”
The food arrives before I can argue. My pancakes are enormous, dripping with syrup and dusted with powdered sugar. Rowan’s eggs look like they were arranged by a food stylist.
I cut a piece of pancake, take a bite, and—oh, my gosh. Actual flavor. Real maple syrup. I may have moaned slightly.
When I open my eyes, Rowan’s staring.
“What?” I ask around another bite.
“You always eat like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like it’s...” He pauses, searching for words. “A religious experience.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Some of us appreciate good food.”
“I can see that.”
There’s something in his voice that makes my skin feel too tight.
I set my fork down. “Sorry. I know it’s probably not very sophisticated—”
“I didn’t say I minded.”
The words hang between us, heavy with implication.
I pick up my fork again, but now I’m hyperaware of every movement. Every sound.
“So,” I say, desperate to fill the silence. “What’s my backstory? How did we meet? How long have we been together?”
“We’ll keep it simple. College sweethearts. Recently reunited.”
“That’s... actually true.”
“The best lies usually are.”
I take another bite, smaller this time. “What if someone asks about the gap? Why we broke up?”
His jaw tightens. “We won’t let them.”
“But what if—”
“Tessa.” His voice is quiet but firm. “We control the narrative. That’s how this works.”
I nod, even though my stomach is twisting. Because controlling the narrative means burying the real one. The one where I walked away without explanation because I was convinced that loving him would ruin us both.
Rowan pays the bill without asking, sliding his card across the table before I can even reach for my wallet. Just like he used to.
But everything has changed since then.
We’re different people now. We’re better at hiding the soft spots.