- a beautiful, black-haired woman with hazel eyes and freckles, 5’8”, probably alone, shy, looks like she wants to run
Inform Rowan immediately of any reservations under this name or any guests fitting this description.
And then, in red text as though it was added at a later date:
IMMEDIATELY. I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND.
The word ‘IMMEDIATELY’ is underlined six times.
“That’s so cute,” Lark says as she lays her chin on my shoulder and reads the note, pointing to the red text. “It sounds like he’s going to cut people up for you. That’s so Keanu-mantic.”
I snort a laugh as I pass the paper back to Meg. “First of all, Keanu–mantic is so not a word. Secondly, Keanu doesn’t cut people up in a red-flag romantic kind of way.”
“He does in John Wick.”
“Sure. For a dog. I wouldn’t call that romance, Lark.”
Lark shrugs before she beams a smile at Meg. “Table for two, please, for Sloane Sutherland, black-haired, freckled, 5’8” beauty who looks like she wants to run.”
Meg takes two menus from her podium and grins as she motions us forward. “Follow me. I’ll let the Chef know you’re here as soon as you’re seated.”
Lark squeaks and grips my wrist as we follow Meg to the booth I sat in the last time I was here over a year ago. She can probably feel my pulse hammering into her hand. I stayed with Rowan for two weeks after extending my time off from work as Fionn had recommended. And those two weeks with Rowan just weren’t enough.
My body was still bruised and sore when I left for Raleigh to pack up my things and rent out my furnished house. I made arrangements at work to go fully home-based, and spent my evenings and weekends dismantling my storage container kill room that I’ve barely used since we started this game. It’s been three weeks since I saw Rowan, and my heart is nearly ready to burst through my chest as the seconds tick down to the end of our separation.
I don’t know if this is going to work—living with him, working from home every day, being in a new city, trying to build this foundation we’ve made into something more. But I’m going to try.
“You’re hella excited,” I say to Lark, trying to divert attention from my own blistering anticipation as we weave through the busy restaurant. The lunch rush has passed, but there are still more full tables than empty ones, even if many of the patrons have finished main courses and have moved on to desserts.
“Of course I am. My bestie is in l-o-v-e and I get to meet her man for the first time.”
I snort. “I never said anything about love.”
“Didn’t you sneakily install a security camera in the kitchen?”
“That’s stalking, not love.”
“To-may-to, to-mah-to. And clearly, he adores you, too. He knows my baby,” she says, gesturing toward the booth as Meg lays the menus on the table. “A perfect Sloaney choice. Sheltered and equidistant between the exits.”
Oh my fucking God. She’s right.
Lark slides onto the padded seat and Meg disappears to grab Rowan from the kitchen, and I’m still standing off to the side like a dumbass, staring at the table like I’ve never seen one before.
He permanently reserves the booth he knows you would want at his popular restaurant. He beats the shit out of an emo pervert for watching you masturbate. He has some random neighborhood kid bring you groceries.
Who the fuck are you kidding? You don’t just ‘more than like’ this guy.
Lark’s head tilts and a crease appears between her brows as her gaze travels across my face. “You okay there, Sloaney? You look broken.”
I’m about to say something. I open my mouth, manage a stuttered start to a sentence that never materializes. It dies on my tongue when I hear the subtle Irish accent rise above the conversations of diners and the clang of cutlery on plates, glasses on tables.
“Blackbird,” he says loud enough to carry across the noise. When I look over, he’s striding past tables of patrons, looking much like he did the last time I came to 3 In Coach, his chef coat rolled to his elbows and a white apron tied around his waist. But this time, there’s no look of shock, only a warm smile and his arms spread wide. “Get over here.”
I glance at Lark and her grin is electric, her eyes dancing. She jerks her head in his direction and even though I know I probably look like some lovesick teenager, I can’t help it. My heart is pounding its way up my throat. If it had its way, I’d already be running in his direction.
I might not run, but I still walk. Fast.
When we meet in the middle of the restaurant, Rowan grasps my face between his palms and takes a moment to just absorb the details of my face, as though he’s savoring every nuance. He’s radiant, clearly in his element in this space, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners with the width of his smile and the depth of his relief.
The kiss we share doesn’t linger. But its heat does, infusing every cell with both comfort and the need for more than we can take in this moment.
“You look so much better,” he says when he pulls away.
I shrug. “A little sore still, but getting there.”
“Trip was okay?”
“Winston hated every moment of the drive from Raleigh. I think I’m going to hear his growl in my sleep for a week, but he’s settled down now that he’s in your place. He seems a bit weirded out but I’m sure he’ll adjust in a day or two. I left my stuff on the floor in the living room, so I’m ninety percent certain my cat will have all the luggage shredded in retribution by the time we get back.”
“Our place,” Rowan corrects, and loops an arm over my shoulder to guide our way back to the booth. “Our cat. I can’t wait to be kitty litter influencers together, what a great side hustle. We’re gonna be rich.”
I huff a laugh and roll my eyes. “You’re the worst.
“You’ll love me someday.”
One of my steps falters.
Today is that day.
Maybe yesterday too. And the day before that. Maybe for a while, in fact.
I can’t tell exactly when it started, but I don’t think it will ever stop.
I take Rowan’s hand where it lays over my recovering shoulder, the joint still a little tender but getting better every day. When I look up at him, I try to repress a smile but fail. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Rowan doesn’t call me out, doesn’t prod for more, but I know he can see it in me like it’s written in the constellation of dots on my skin, even when I try to force my gaze away.
“Told you so,” he whispers as he presses a kiss to my temple.
Lark slides out of the booth and gives Rowan a hug as though she’s known him for years, and the two fall into easy conversation from the moment we’re seated. And though I pretend to be immersed in my menu, I’m not. I’m watching Lark and Rowan with a heart more full than I ever thought it could be. The only two people I love in this world are sitting right next to one another, forging the first moments in a friendship, a foundation that will hopefully only grow with time.
I might not have a lot of people, but I have Lark and Rowan, and that’s enough.
We share a meal together. A bottle of wine. We split the fig phyllo Napoleon for dessert and sit with our coffees until the last guests have departed and the restaurant shuts down to prepare for the dinner shift. There’s no lull in conversation. There’s no shortage of laughter. And when it’s time to leave, we make plans to get together again over the next few days while Lark is in town—live music, dinners out, maybe a sailing trip around the harbor. As we make our way to the exit, Rowan gives me a wink, like this is all part of his grand plan to lure Lark here.
We hug her goodbye at the door and Rowan winds up with a gold star sticker on his cheek before Lark dances away.
“Come on, need your help,” he says, taking my hand when Lark turns a corner two blocks down, heading for her hotel. Rowan tows me along in the opposite direction. “Very important job, Blackbird.”
