Chapter 6 Rowan
SIX
ROWAN
Sin Hawthorne is the kind of problem women write into books when they’re tired of dating men who think “communication” is sending a thumbs-up emoji after three days of silence. It’s unfair. It’s statistically offensive. It should be regulated.
He stands at the counter with a mug of coffee in his hand, shoulders broad under a fitted black T-shirt like the fabric is making a personal sacrifice.
His hair is still slightly messy from sleep, not in a cute romcom way, more in a “I woke up and chose competence” way.
His jaw has a faint shadow that makes him look like he never wastes time on anything that doesn’t matter.
Including feelings, probably.
And then there’s his eyes. They’re light, focused, constantly tracking. Like he’s cataloging the world in real time, sorting threats from non-threats, deciding what gets close and what doesn’t.
I know I should stop staring. But I can’t. He’s so good-looking. No, he’s more than that. So much more. He’s gorgeous. Like maybe in another life he could have been a movie star. An action star. He’s definitely got the body for it.
But it’s more than his face. It’s what he does with it. The restraint. The stillness. The way he carries himself like a weapon.
I stab a piece of bacon and pretend that’s the reason my pulse keeps doing stupid things.
He told me to finish eating like he’s my coach and my warden at the same time. Normally, I’d be offended, except he made me eggs, and my body has decided eggs are now intimate.
I swallow, set my fork down, and take another sip of coffee. The mug’s warm in my hands. The kitchen’s quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house settling.
Safe house quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think. I don’t want to think. Thinking leads to realizing that my life is currently a moving target, and my phone has been tattling on me like a snitch with a data plan. So instead I think about Sin.
Which is also dangerous, just in a completely different way.
He turns slightly, glancing toward the window, then back to me. “You done?”
I lift my chin. “Yes.”
He takes the plate without a word, rinses it, and sets it in the sink. Efficient. Controlled. Like he does not believe in lingering.
I watch his hands. Long fingers. Strong. Clean nails. No rings. A faint scar near one knuckle. The hands of someone who’s done things he doesn’t talk about. My brain, which is supposed to be in survival mode, offers up a vivid, completely unhelpful thought about those hands on my waist.
I choke on my coffee.
Sin’s head snaps toward me. “You alright?”
“Yes,” I croak. “Just inhaled wrong.”
He studies me like he’s deciding whether coffee is now a threat. “I can Heimlich you,” he jokes.
“I hate that I find that reassuring,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. He fails by a fraction. That fraction is lethal. He wipes the counter with a towel, then leans back against it, arms crossing. The casual stance doesn’t match the intensity of his gaze. “Tell me about the story,” he says.
My brain stutters, trying to switch gears from Sin’s forearms to organized crime. “Which part?” I ask. “The part where powerful people are laundering money, or the part where someone turned my phone into a surveillance device.”
“Start with the money,” he says. “Then the names.”
I nod slowly, gathering myself. This is what I do. I connect dots. I chase patterns. I make dangerous men uncomfortable. I tell him more than I told Cal. Not because I’m reckless, but because Sin looks at me like he can handle the truth.
I explain the nonprofit network again, but this time I go deeper.
The donor lists. The contracts. The way a few specific names kept popping up in places they didn’t belong.
The fundraiser where I asked about a contract number tied to a “consulting group” that was allegedly providing crisis management.
Sin’s expression stays controlled, but I see the moment something catches.
“Crisis management,” he repeats.
“Yeah. On paper it’s PR. In practice…” I shrug. “It’s the kind of thing you hire when you want a problem to disappear.”
His gaze hardens. “What was the name of the group?”
“Fielding Group,” I tell him.
He doesn’t react. Not visibly. But his eyes shift slightly, like he’s filing it away.
“What?” I press. “You know it?”
“I know the type,” he says. That’s not an answer. But I let it go, because his face just tightened in that way it did in The Bridge when his phone buzzed.
His family.
I hesitate, then take a breath. “Sin, can I ask you something without you doing the whole ‘Rowan’ thing?”
His brow lifts. “Try.”
“Why are you… like this?” I gesture at him, at the calm vigilance, the way he seems built for danger. “You’re not just a bodyguard. You’re… intense.”
The corner of his mouth almost lifts, then stops. “That’s a compliment?”
“It’s an observation,” I say. “Compliments are earned.”
Sin holds my gaze for a long beat. Then, surprisingly, he answers. “My father,” he says. Just two words, and the air changes.
I straighten in my chair without thinking. “Your father.”
Sin uncrosses his arms, setting his mug down, and looks past me for a second like he’s seeing something that isn’t in this kitchen.
“He was presumed dead when I was a kid,” he says.
My heart slows. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick to mine. “Don’t be yet. The story doesn’t end there.”
He exhales once, controlled. “It was an accident. That’s what we were told. Wreck on a back road down by the river. No body recovered.”
My stomach twists. “No body?”
He shakes his head. “None. We were young. We believed what we were told because we had to. Our mother held us together. We moved forward.”
“And now?” I ask softly.
“Now there have been sightings,” he says. “A man who matches him. Same limp. Same scar. Same build. It could be a coincidence. It could be someone who looks like him.” His voice goes slightly quieter, like the words weigh something. “But it could be him. Yet, my mother wants us to stand down.”
A chill moves through me. “That’s… huge.”
“It is,” he says.
“Why wouldn’t your mom want you to look?” I ask, and immediately regret it because it’s personal, and I’m suddenly very aware I’m talking to a man who doesn’t do feelings.
Sin’s jaw flexes. His gaze drops to the counter, then returns to me. “Because she thinks he’s gone,” he says. “Or she wants him to be. Either way, she told us to stop. To let him stay dead.” The phrase hits me like a cold slap.
Let him stay dead.
I swallow. “That’s… brutal.”
“It’s self-preservation,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like he believes it. It sounds like he’s trying to.
I sit back, absorbing it. “And your brothers are looking anyway?”
“Yes.”
“How many brothers?” I ask.
“Six,” he says. “Nash is the oldest. Banks is the tech. Crewe is the strategist. Jace and Colt are the muscle. Mack is…” His mouth tightens slightly. “Mack’s the one who looks calm but feels everything.”
I blink. “And you’re what?”
His eyes meet mine, steady. “The one who does what needs doing.”
That should not make me feel something. But it so does. It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t like. Because I recognize that kind of person. The one who carries weight so no one else has to. I’ve been that person for myself for a long time.
Sin watches me, like he can tell I’m putting pieces together. “This mission matters,” he says, voice firm, as if reminding himself as much as me. “Your case matters. If we can’t figure it out, it could get worse.”
“Worse than attempted vehicular homicide?” I ask weakly.
He doesn’t smile. “Yes.”
A silence settles between us, heavy and intimate in the worst way.
I glance at the window again, at the trees outside, the quiet, the isolation. Safety feels different when you realize how far you are from help. I feel safe with him. But safety is a strange thing. It can make you brave, or it can make you realize how alone you’ve been.
I clear my throat and look down at my coffee. “I haven’t dated in almost a year.”
Sin’s eyes flick to me.
I shrug, forcing a laugh that doesn’t land. “Not that you asked. But it’s relevant. Kind of. Maybe. My brain is… spiraling.”
He stays quiet, so I keep going because silence is my enemy.
“My last boyfriend was a joke,” I say. “Not like funny ha-ha. Like, funny in a tragic way. He called himself an entrepreneur. Turned out he was selling motivational PDFs and using my Netflix account.”
Sin’s mouth twitches.
“Anyway,” I continue, heat rising in my cheeks.
“I dumped him, and then I threw myself into work. Investigations, deadlines, digging through financial records at two in the morning. I told myself I didn’t have time to date.
” I glance up at him, and my voice goes softer.
“The truth is, I didn’t want to risk being distracted. ”
His gaze holds mine, intense in that quiet way that makes my skin feel too tight.
“And now,” I add, because my mouth has no self-preservation instinct, “I’m sitting in a safe house with you, and I can’t stop thinking about… things that are very much a distraction.”
His eyes darken slightly. My pulse jumps. I should stop. But I can’t.
I gesture vaguely between us. “This is a terrible time to notice you’re gorgeous.”
Sin’s voice is low. “Rowan.”
There it is. The warning.
I swallow, my heart banging against my ribs. “I know. I know. You’re here to protect me. You don’t do feelings. You probably have a rulebook.”
“I do,” he says.
I nod slowly. “And I’m probably breaking all of it by even saying this.”
“Yes.”
The bluntness should offend me. Instead it makes me laugh, shaky and real. “You’re not exactly reassuring.”
“I’m honest.”
I stare at him. “That’s worse.”
His gaze doesn’t move from my face. “You feel safe with me.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
I swallow. “Yes.”
“And that’s making everything else hit you,” he says.
My throat tightens. Because he’s right. I nod once.
Sin’s expression shifts again, the hard edges rearranging. Not soft, exactly. Just… aware. “You’re not alone,” he says. The words land in my chest like warmth.
I blink, suddenly stupidly emotional. “You don’t get to say comforting things like that when you look like you could snap a door in half.”
His mouth curves, barely. “I can do both.”
My heart does a somersault, dramatic and embarrassing. I look away quickly, because if I keep staring at him, I’m going to do something reckless. Like ask him to kiss me. Which is exactly what my brain has been chanting since breakfast.
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.
But the thought is there anyway, bright and insistent. His mouth on mine. The heat of him. The way his restraint might finally crack. I grip my mug tighter.
Sin’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Rowan.”
I look up.
His eyes are steady, but his jaw is tense, like he’s fighting something too.
“What?” I whisper.
“We’re going to figure out who did this,” he says. “And we’re going to stop them.” It sounds like a promise.
I nod, because my voice is gone.
He picks up his mug again, taking a sip like he didn’t just rearrange my entire emotional infrastructure. I watch him over the rim of my coffee. He’s gorgeous. Yes. But more than that, he’s solid.
He’s smart. And focused. And somehow, he’s the only person in the world right now who makes me feel like I can breathe. Which is ridiculous, because I met him yesterday. But the truth doesn’t care how long you’ve known someone. It just shows up. And right now, the truth is this.
I want to kiss Sinclair Hawthorne.
And I need him to keep me alive. Those two things should not exist in the same sentence. Yet here we are.