I’m ready to go, sitting on the edge of the bed with a bouncing knee, when Rowan texts to say he’s downstairs in the lobby.

One last check in the mirror, and then I’m walking out the door, my clutch gripped tight in my hand. The elevator ride is the longest of my life. When that door finally opens, he’s the first thing I see across the hotel lobby, his broad back facing me and his head bent.

My phone buzzes in my bag. I pull it out and read the message.

I’ll be the pretty boy in a black suit.

I can see that. But I’m not sure how I’m going to keep it from getting to your head if you look that good.

Rowan’s head snaps up and he turns to face me. He’s so beautiful it steals the breath from my lungs. His hair is swept back, his suit perfectly tailored, his shoes polished, his momentary shock eclipsed by a bright smile. He pockets his phone as he strides across the lobby, his eyes never straying from me.

When he stops within reach, his eyes flow over every inch of my body, unabashedly drinking me in. I feel his gaze everywhere it touches. My lips, crimson red. My hair, the waves held back on one side by a sparkling, starburst barrette. My neck, sprayed with Serge Lutens Five O’Clock Gingembre perfume and decorated with a simple gold necklace. My breasts, unsurprisingly, and his attention lingers there for a moment before sweeping all the way down to my toes and back up again.

“You look…” He shakes his head. Swallows. Shifts on his feet. “You look gorgeous, Blackbird. I’m so happy you’re here.”

He closes the distance between us and wraps me in an embrace, and I fold my arms around him in return, my eyes drifting closed as I take in a deep breath of his scent, warm sage and lemon and a hint of spice. For the first time in the last few hours, my heart slows even though it still hits my bones with heavy beats. Something about this feels foreign yet right, somehow.

Rowan releases me from his embrace but holds my upper arms in his warm palms. And then lips are pressed to my neck where my pulse surges. My breath catches as the kiss lingers for a moment just long enough to etch itself into my memory for eternity.

There’s an electric charge in the air between us as he pulls away to look down at me with a lopsided smile. How a man can simultaneously look so cocky while blushing I have no fucking clue, but it’s intoxicating. “Would have kissed your cheek,” he says as his fingers trace my skin where his lips were pressed, “but I didn’t want to ruin your makeup.”

My lips tighten around a grin that begs to be set free. I know he can see the way my eyes dance with surprise and amusement. He eats it up. “What’s your angle, pretty boy?”

“To make you blush, of course.” He gives me a wink and then takes my hand, seemingly clueless to the cacophony of thoughts that riot through my head at the simple touch of his palm to mine. “Come on. Car’s waiting. We’re going to have a fun night, Blackbird. Guaranteed.”

Rowan leads the way to the lobby doors and the circular driveway where a blacked-out Escalade is parked, a driver waiting by the rear passenger door that he opens as we approach. Rowan keeps hold of my hand as I step up into the vehicle before he walks around to the other side, and then we’re off to the Omni Boston Hotel at the Seaport, the venue for the gala.

“This is very fancy, Butcher,” I say as I run my hand over the leather seat. “We could have taken an Uber, you know.”

Rowan catches my hand and holds it on the empty seat between us as I try not to let surprise flicker across my face. “I’m not taking the most beautiful girl of the night to the social event of the year in a fucking Honda Accord.”

“What’s wrong with a Honda Accord?” I ask as a flurry of butterflies dance across my rib cage. “I drive one.”

Rowan scoffs and rolls his eyes. “No, you don’t. You drive a silver BMW 3 series.”

“Stalker.”

“You’re overdue for an oil change, by the way.”

“Am not.”

“Liar. The car has literally been telling you ‘change my fucking oil, you heathen’ for the last three weeks.”

I guffaw a laugh and whack Rowan on the arm. “How do you know that?”

He grins and shrugs. “Got my ways.” His phone dings in his jacket and he lets go of my hand to read the message with a frown. “Anyway, I thought it would be nice to splurge for a change. It feels like I’ve been stuck with my head down, dealing with problem after problem between the two restaurants. I could use a fun night out with my best friend.”

My heart lurches in my chest as though it’s suddenly facing the wrong way around. Like everything is. The hand-holding. The kiss on my pulse. Maybe I read too much into these small gestures.

What if everything I feel is all in my head?

I clear my throat and straighten my spine, folding both my hands over the sparkling clutch that rests in my lap. “How is it going with the new place?”

Rowan tilts his head side to-side, his focus on the phone screen as he taps out a reply. “Not too bad. A lot of work. We’re still on track to launch in October, but the electrical upgrades have been a bitch.”

“How’s David? Still doing well?”

At this he huffs a laugh, locking his screen before he pockets the device. “Great, actually. I’ve had Lachlan look again recently for any missing persons reports fitting his description, but there’s still nothing. And David’s been a solid helper. He’s steady with the dishes. Reliable. Got him set up in a new group home since the last time we talked—this one brings him over and picks him up for every shift when one of the kitchen staff can’t give him a ride. It works really well.”

“I’m glad,” I say with a smile as I sweep my waves away from my shoulder, a motion that Rowan follows with keen interest before he trains his gaze to the city streets passing by his window.

“Me too. At least one thing is going right at 3 In Coach. It feels like everything else has been a bloody circus the last few months. I know it’s part of the nature of the business—shit just breaks and has to be fixed. Stuff inevitably goes wrong. It just…feels like a lot lately.”

I lay a hand on Rowan’s wrist and he glances down at the point of contact before meeting my eyes with a furrowed brow. “Hey, at least you’ve got this award tonight. Third year running, right? I know it’s been shit to manage, but you’re still doing it right.”

Rowan’s expression softens, and for the first time, I notice the subtle hints of stress in his face, the hint of dark circles beneath his eyes.

“And if something really goes South, I know what will help,” I say with a sage nod as his head tilts. His eyes dip to my dimple and narrow. “Beef Niçoise salad.”

Rowan groans.

“With homemade Dijon dressing.”

“Blackbird—”

“And maybe some—”

“Don’t say it—”

“—cookies and cream ice cream for dessert.”

He pokes my ribs and I squeak out some sound I’ve never made before. “You know I have not been able to eat ice cream since then?” he asks as I giggle with the onslaught of jabs. “I used to love ice cream, thankyouverymuch.”

“It’s not my fault,” I wheeze as he finally lets up. “I was just ensuring you were informed of the ingredients, in case you wanted something sweet to follow your one-of-a-kind dining experience.”

“Sure. Very believable.”

The vehicle slows and turns into the venue drop off, drawing to a halt in front of the glass building where other gala attendees arrive with their shimmering gowns and fancy suits. I tug at the hem of my dress where it hits just below my knee, as if that will magically lengthen it. The driver has my door open, waiting for me to accept his hand and step out of the vehicle, but I don’t.

“It’s not black tie,” Rowan says as his hand slips between my back and the seat to prompt me toward the door. “And I guarantee that you could wear a potato sack and still be the most beautiful woman here. The dress is stunning, Blackbird. Perfectly you.”