Chapter 20 – Rowan
Chapter Twenty
Rowan
Idon’t like crowds I can’t control.
The ma?tre d’ greets us the moment we step onto the patio. One nod from me, and we’re moving—past the buffet, past the low hum of conversation, past every pair of eyes already measuring who belongs here.
The space is open, bright, and staged for success. White linens, gold menus, silver trays balanced too perfectly on waiting hands. Everyone looks alert and well-rested, which means they’re pretending.
Tessa walks a step ahead of me. Waffles trots between us, sniffing everything, tail flicking against my leg. He’s more composed than half the associates in this place.
The ma?tre d’ pulls out her chair first. She thanks him, polite but distant, and sits. I take the seat beside her, facing the main walkway out of habit. I don’t like people behind me.
“Coffee?” the waiter asks, after the ma?tre d’ returns to the host stand.
“Black,” I say. Tessa orders orange juice and something that sounds too cheerful for this hour.
Across the patio, Camden’s voice carries over the low chatter. I don’t have to look to know where he is. He makes sure of it. He’s at the far end, coffee in hand, posture relaxed in the way of a man who’s never been told no. When I finally meet his gaze, he’s already smiling at Tessa.
His eyes drop once. Then again.
And this time, it stays there—then travels down, slow, deliberate, until it lands where it shouldn’t.
My hand tightens around the stem of my glass.
He stands and walks over, a smile already in place. “Good morning, Whitmore. That color is criminal on you.”
I’m up before I register the movement. “Careful, Camden. That almost sounded like you had taste.”
His grin falters, eyes flicking to me, then to the people watching. Tessa’s shoulders tense beside me as the table goes quiet around us. A few heads turn. I can feel the shift in attention—partners, associates, everyone watching to see who slips first.
He smirks. “At least I didn’t buy my seat with Daddy’s last name.”
He knows what he’s doing.
For a second, I can hear my heartbeat. Then Tessa’s fingers brush my sleeve, a small reminder to think before I end my career.
I smile. “No. You just rent yours by the hour.”
The color drains from his face. I sit back down, calm again. Waffles sighs under the table, unimpressed.
Tessa exhales through her nose. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“He crossed a line.”
“You didn’t have to set it on fire.” She leans in slightly. “If you want them to take you seriously, stop proving you can be baited.”
She’s right. Again. I don’t like that she’s right, but I like that she said it. It means she’s still on my side, at least for now.
“Smile,” I say quietly.
“Why?”
I glance toward the far end of the patio. “Because Hale and Brooks just arrived.”
Her posture shifts. Shoulders back, chin high, expression bright enough to disarm anyone. She does it effortlessly.
Three partners break off from the main group and start toward us—Hale with her measured stride, Brooks already assessing, and Harris trailing too close behind.
I roll my shoulders once, force a neutral breath, and set my hand on the table.
Time to perform.
Lauren Hale reaches us first. Her hair is silver, her eyes are sharp, and her movements are controlled. Every gesture is deliberate, every glance calculated. She built her reputation one measured word at a time and expects everyone around her to respect it.
Langford Brooks follows her, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t need to demand respect—he assumes it with his tightly coiled body language.
Michael Harris trails behind them, younger and eager to be noticed. He laughs before anyone says anything funny.
“Miss Whitmore,” Hale says, extending her hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”
Tessa stands and shakes her hand without hesitation. “All lies, I’m sure. Unless they were flattering—then they’re absolutely true.”
Hale laughs once, and Brooks lifts a brow. Harris stares too long, already taken by her confidence.
Tessa doesn’t falter. She doesn’t hide behind manners or deference. She’s composed, open, and completely at ease in a space where everyone else is performing.
The change in the room is subtle, but I feel it. Conversations nearby dip in volume, and more than one set of eyes shifts toward our table when the partners pull up a chair and sit.
Someone asks where I found her.
“Under a law textbook,” she says, voice light. “Or possibly crying in a supply closet. Either way, he’s stuck with me now.”
Their laughter is immediate and real. Hale leans forward, entertained. Brooks’s mouth curves into something close to approval. Harris grins wider, relieved.
Tessa glances at me, just enough to check if she’s gone too far. She hasn’t.
She fits in without forcing it, and every second of it pulls the attention I’m used to owning away from me and toward her.
She’s not pretending to belong here. She already does.
The partners relax faster than I expect. Their posture shifts, their smiles last longer, and every comment from her lands exactly where it should.
They’re listening to her now. Watching her. I can see it—the moment she wins them.
Brooks leans forward, interest replacing skepticism. “You were in the clinic program, weren’t you?”
Tessa nods, her tone easy. “I was. Until they benched me for what they called excessive enthusiasm.”
I shut my eyes for half a second. Of all the ways to phrase it.
Hale laughs. “That’s one way to describe it.”
Tessa shrugs lightly. “I believe in clients over comfort. Sometimes that means stepping outside the lines. And sometimes it means stepping on a few toes.”
Harris chokes back a laugh. Brooks hums, considering her. Hale looks entirely entertained.
She should be losing them. She isn’t.
Brooks studies her more closely. “You’re not what I expected.”
“Me neither,” Tessa says. “Turns out, I’m a lot more talkative after French toast.”
That pulls another round of quiet laughter. Hale lifts her espresso cup. “We value honesty here, Ms. Whitmore, as long as it’s efficient.”
“Then I’m a good fit,” she says. “I lie poorly, but I edit well.”
She’s off-script, and every word should make me tense, but it doesn’t. It works. The table is focused on her, the partners leaning in, their eyes sharp but their expressions open.
Harris clears his throat, trying to keep things professional. “And how are you finding the retreat so far?”
Tessa glances around the patio. “Very beige,” she says. “But the food’s good, and no one’s accused me of plagiarism yet, so I’ll take that as a success.”
Laughter spreads through the table, not forced, not cautious—just real.
I watch her steady herself with a sip of water, completely unaware of how easily she’s taken control of the room.
I don’t know if this is my plan working or if she’s rewriting it right in front of me, but it doesn’t matter.
They’re looking at her the way I used to.
I press my fingers against the stem of my glass, holding still while I regain my control.
They like her for all the reasons I shouldn’t. And I hate that it’s working. Because this is my territory—my reputation, my future—and for the first time, I’m not the one steering it. She is. And she doesn’t even know it.
Brooks folds his napkin but keeps his eyes on Tessa. “You’d make a damn good litigator.”
Tessa blinks, surprised. “Thank you. That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me that didn’t come from my mother or my dog.”
I let out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Her dog’s an excellent judge of character.”
“That’s because I feed him chicken nuggets,” she says under her breath.
The table laughs again, relaxed and easy. Even Brooks allows it.
Hale checks her watch and stands. “We’ll see you both at the panel this afternoon. Bring the dog.”
Tessa looks up, caught between shock and amusement. “You’re serious?”
Brooks straightens his jacket. “We never joke about branding.”
They leave with the same measured calm they arrived with. Their goodbyes are polite, their approval clear, and the weight of expectation lingers long after they’re gone.
Tessa exhales and leans back. “Okay. How bad was that?”
I look at her. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, her hair falling loose from the clip she twisted it into this morning. There’s a bit of gloss smudged near her thumb that she doesn’t notice, and I can’t seem to stop staring.
“You didn’t screw anything up,” I say. “You nailed it.”
She doesn’t believe me right away. I can tell by the way her fingers tap against the edge of her plate. But she’s wrong.
They weren’t just impressed. They were hooked. And somehow, she did it without even trying.
“You sure?” she asks, half-smiling.
“You could’ve flipped the table and Hale would’ve offered you a job,” I tell her. “You’re a novelty.”
She wrinkles her nose. “That sounds like a backhanded compliment.”
“It is,” I say. “They’re the only kind I give.”
Her eyes flick toward me. “You were nervous.”
“I don’t get nervous.”
She raises a brow. “You wiped your glass four times in thirty seconds.”
“I was polishing it.”
“You were spiraling.”
I look at her, saying nothing. Because she’s right. I was. And the worst part is, I still am. The control I’m used to having feels thinner around her.
She leans in slightly, her voice low. “You know they really liked you, right?”
I blink once. “Me?”
“Yes, you. The guy with the permanent scowl and the tragic family story. You’re surprisingly compelling when you shut up.”
I let out a short breath that’s close to a laugh. “So silence is my best quality?”
“No.” Her lips curve.
“What is, then?”
She doesn’t answer, and I don’t ask again. Because whatever the answer is, it already has me unsteady.