Chapter 23 – Rowan
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rowan
“Hey, hey, just doing room checks!” Chad’s standing in the doorway, beaming with forced enthusiasm. “We missed you two at the canoes, but no worries, you’re right on time for the next event.”
Chad doesn’t seem to notice the tension boiling behind me.
“It’s time for the partner scavenger hunt! Legal themed. Romantically empowering.” He actually winks, and I resist the urge to slam the door in his face.
“What kind of scavenger hunt?” I manage, voice flat.
“Oh, nothing too complicated,” he says, rocking forward on his heels. “You’ll get a list of clues, some legal trivia, some teamwork prompts, and a few physical tasks. Think The Amazing Race with tort reform.”
Behind me, Tessa exhales slowly. I hear it. I feel it. She steps up beside me, close enough that the air changes.
“Do we get a prize?” she asks, arms crossed. Her tone is sharp, but there’s a flush on her neck.
She’s not as unaffected as she wants me to believe.
Good.
Chad lights up. “Oh, definitely! Bragging rights. And a very exclusive dinner with the senior partners tonight. Just the two of you and them. Fancy table. Private terrace.”
Of course.
A firm test disguised as a date. Perfect.
Chad gives a double thumbs-up and leaves, shouting at another couple down the hall. “Five minutes! Phones fully charged!”
I close the door.
Silence.
No breathing.
Just tension that doesn’t go anywhere.
* * *
By the time we reach the trail entrance, most of the other couples have already gathered, buzzing with fake energy and performance smiles that make my teeth hurt.
A clipboard station has been set up under a white canopy tent because, apparently, even our scavenger hunts need laminated instructions—this is Hale she’s just never said it out loud before.
“I take it you’re not planning to answer,” she says quietly, turning away. I grab her wrist before she gets too far—not hard, just enough to stop her and feel her pulse jump under my fingers.
“You’re not a mistake,” I say, voice low and controlled. It hurts to admit this, hurts to give her even this much truth when she walked away with all of them three years ago.
Her eyes flick to mine, and for a second, I see something raw there, something that looks like the girl who used to kiss me in empty classrooms between debates. The wind moves her hair across her face, and I don’t brush it back even though my hand twitches with the muscle memory.
I let go first because I have to. If I don’t, I’ll pull her closer instead of letting her move away.
She steps back just enough to regroup. I can’t feel her body heat anymore, and the loss of it is pathetic.
“Fine,” she says, licking her lips in that unconscious way. “Then let’s go find your bench.”
I nod once and start walking because movement is easier than standing still with her looking at me like she’s waiting for something I can’t give her.
We take the long trail around the east side of the house.
Tessa walks just ahead of me, with her boots crunching the gravel and her arms swinging with calculated annoyance.
I should let her cool off and give her space to process whatever just happened between us, but I don’t because I’m apparently incapable of good decisions where she’s concerned.
“The bench is this way,” I say, though she’s already heading in the right direction.
“Thanks, GPS. I’m really loving the back-seat navigation.” The sarcasm in her voice is so familiar it almost makes me smile.
“It’s not back seat if it’s accurate.”
She spins around, walking backwards just to glare at me while moving. “Gosh, do you ever not need to be right?”
“Yes, but unfortunately, I usually am,” I say, watching her roll her eyes.
“Arrogance suits you—must be custom-tailored for your emotional repression,” she adds.
The path curves away from the main lawn, winding between towering blue hydrangeas and wind-bent hedges until the estate falls quiet around us.
At the edge of the property, overlooking the dark sweep of the bay, sits the weathered stone bench.
Its surface is worn smooth by salt air and decades of storms, tucked beneath a canopy of blooms that nod in the ocean breeze.
Tessa slows when she sees it, glancing around, and her expression shifts from irritation to something softer.
“This is where the Hale family used to come when they wanted privacy,” I say, my voice low. “Long before this place hosted law students and networking retreats.”
She glances at me with surprise flickering across her features. “How do you know?”
“My dad used to share stories after his third scotch of the night.” I shrug.
She walks over to the bench and trails her fingers along the edge with a gentleness that makes me remember how those fingers felt in my hair twenty minutes ago. “I can see why they did. It’s quiet.”
I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “Peaceful.”
“Peaceful,” she agrees softly.
I sit beside the bench instead of on it and take the photo required for the challenge, then email it to the event address because, of course, there’s a submission protocol, even for a scavenger hunt.
Tessa doesn’t move, just keeps her hand on the stone, tracing the weathered etching of someone’s initials—V.H.
, 1983—with a focus that tells me she’s thinking about something she doesn’t want to say.
“You said something once,” she says finally, her voice careful and quiet. “You said the law wasn’t about justice; it was about timing.”
I remember.
It’s one of the only honest things I’ve ever said.
“And you hated that,” I murmur.
We’re staring at the same bench but not seeing the same thing. I see leverage. She sees the man I used to pretend to be.
She pulls the clue list from her back pocket, the paper crumpling between fingers that are still unsteady. “Next one.”
Her voice sounds too calm. That’s how I know it’s not.
“Seek the place where silence is kept,
Where countless laws and secrets slept.
Find the scales not carved, but worn,
Among the books where kings are born.”
I already know the answer. “The Hale library.”
“Of course it is,” she says, folding her arms. “Let me guess. You already know exactly where in the library we’re supposed to look.”
“Second floor,” I say. “North reading room. Beneath the portrait of Hale wearing the scales lapel pin she never stopped using after graduation.”
She turns toward me slowly, lips parting in disbelief before the faintest smile curves. “You’re terrifying.”
“You dated me.”
“Exactly.”
Her mouth twitches like she wants to smile and scowl at the same time.
She steps forward and stops dead. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I follow her gaze. Camden and his partner are at the antiquated stone memorial, taking selfies.
“They make me sick,” she says.
I check my phone. “Fuck them.”
She blinks. “Peopling is so simple for you, isn’t it?”
I shrug. “I try not to put effort in things that don’t return the investment.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I know.”
She tries to step over a branch, but it catches her foot, and she stumbles. I move before I think, catching her elbow before she can fall to the ground.
“Shit,” she mutters, testing her ankle.
I’m already kneeling beside her. “Let me see.”
“No.”
“Tessa.”
“I said no.”
“You’re limping.”
“I’m fine.”
I ignore her and reach for her foot. She jerks, nearly hitting me. “Stop touching me.”
I look up. Her chin trembles. There’s panic in her eyes, but not the kind pain causes. It’s the kind that remembers.
Her breath catches, uneven, and she lowers herself to the grass, wincing as she moves. Her hands shake when she pushes her hair out of her face. A single curl sticks to her lip, and I have to clench my fists to stop myself from brushing it away.
She keeps her eyes down. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Swoop in. Take control. Like I’m just another problem to solve.”
Her voice cracks at the end.
“When I didn’t swoop,” I say quietly, “you disappeared.”
The air between us shifts. Neither of us speaks. Her throat moves as she swallows, and when her eyes finally lift, I stand and hold out my hand.
She hesitates, then takes it. Her fingers are cold, her pulse fast against my palm.
I steady her, one hand at her waist. She exhales shakily, the sound too close to a surrender.
We start walking again.
Slower this time.
Together.
But not really.
* * *
We don’t get far.
She tries; I’ll give her that. Puts weight on her ankle, grits her teeth, and forces out three determined steps before faltering.
“Tessa,” I warn, my voice dropping low.
“I’m good,” she replies, too bright. “Just walk ahead. I’ll limp my way back to the room.”
“Stop.”
She doesn’t.
So, I move. One step forward. Both hands out. She realizes too late what’s coming.
“Don’t you—Rowan. Rowan!”
Too late.
I scoop her up, put my arms under her thighs and back. She’s light, but she fights against me.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
“This is not romantic.”
“I wasn’t trying to be.”
“Seriously. You can’t just carry people around.”
I adjust her higher when she squirms, her palm pressing into my shoulder to shove me away. “Would you prefer to limp until you actually fracture it? I hear negligence builds trust.”
“I’d rather crawl.”
“You’d break a nail.”
“I’d survive.”
“You’d complain.”
She folds her arms, still half-pinned against me, and glares. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright, her breath uneven. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Only a little.”
“Ugh. Peak patriarchal nonsense.”
“And yet, here we are.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’re smug.”
“Correct.”
“You think this makes you noble?”
“I think it makes us on time for the next clue.”
She exhales hard, the sound half laugh, half surrender. “You know, this is how Victorian women died. Carried into the forest by emotionally unavailable men with God complexes.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “If you faint, I’m leaving you under a tree.”
“You wish.”
She quiets after that. Not completely, her fingers fidget with her sleeve, but she stops fighting me. The silence between us shifts, threaded with something I don’t name.
Her weight settles slowly, her body relaxing by degrees. Her hand ends up near my collar, fingertips brushing the fabric when the path dips. The memory hits before I can stop it—her half-asleep against my shoulder years ago with ink stains on her fingers.
We reach the back trail near the old gardening shed, and I finally stop, lowering her onto a flat boulder. Her hands stay on my shoulders a moment longer than necessary before she lets go.
She doesn’t speak right away. Just presses her palm to her ankle, jaw clenched.
I crouch to check the swelling—minor, manageable, but she won’t admit that.
“I’ll find the next clue,” I say, scanning the trail. “You stay here.”
She blinks up at me, eyes searching. “Why are you doing this?”
The answer lodges in my throat. Because you’re hurt. Because you won’t let anyone see you weak. Because I can’t stand to watch you pretend.
I meet her eyes. “Because I want to win.”