“What job?”

“You’ll see.”

“Are you going to leave that sticker on your face?”

Rowan scoffs. “Of course. Makes me prettier.”

Four blocks and one turn later, Rowan pulls me to a stop. Though I ask him what he’s doing and where we are, he evades my questions. Instead of answering, he maneuvers behind me to fold his palms over my eyes before he nudges me forward. I’m about to give him some little jab about how I’m not going to walk across the entire city of Boston blindfolded when he guides us to a stop and we turn to the left.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod.

He lifts his hands from my eyes.

Before me is the front of a brick building where a new black awning with globe lights stretches over an outdoor seating area that doesn’t yet have chairs on the freshly painted deck. The interior is finished, the luxurious details of the furnishings and dark wood tables mixed with the exposed brick and unexpected pops of teal blue decorations. Massive ferns wave gently in the breeze of the air conditioning system hidden among the industrial network of black steel beams and ductwork on the ceiling. It’s beautiful and elegant, yet comfortable.

And across the full front of the restaurant, stretching over the door and the awning, a massive sign in block letters.

Butcher & Blackbird.

“Rowan…” I take a step closer, staring up at the sign and the stylized wrought iron raven and meat cleaver incorporated behind the first few letters. “Are you for real?”

“You like it?”

“It’s incredible. I love it.”

“Well, that’s a relief considering we’re two weeks away from opening. Reservations are booked up past Christmas. Would have been awkward to cancel.” With a flash of a grin, he takes my hand and tows me toward the door where a large poster details the upcoming grand opening and the contact details. He unlocks it and holds the door for me to step inside, the scent of fresh paint and new furniture greeting us. “Still need your help, though.”

As we head toward the kitchen, Rowan points out details, decorations that reflect his brothers’ influence, like the selection of Weller’s bourbon behind the bar for when Fionn comes for the opening, or the branded leather coasters that Lachlan made. But I am everywhere too. In the huge black leather wing, the intricate feathers spread across a wall above the booths, the exact spot where I would want to sit. In black-and-white paintings of ravens by local artists, a butcher’s knife or meat cleaver incorporated into every one.

It’s not just me. It’s us.

I pull Rowan to a stop in the center of the room. His eyes dart across my face and down to my neck as a burning swallow shifts in my throat.

“You…” is all I manage to squeak out. I gesture between us and then to the room. “This…?”

Rowan tries to bite down on a laugh as knowing smirk sneaks across his lips. “Eloquent. Is this another ‘man-guy’ situation? Can’t wait to hear what you come up with, Blackb—”

“I love you, Rowan,” I blurt out. I take only a moment to register the shock in Rowan’s expression before I barrel into him, wrapping his solid body in my embrace. His heart hammers beneath my ear as I press my face to his chest.

His arms fold around me, one hand threading into my hair as he lays a kiss to the crown of my head. “I love you too, Sloane. So fucking much. But the restaurant was probably a giant clue.”

I laugh into his chest and shimmy a hand between us to catch a tear before it falls. “I kinda got that vibe. Not sure what tipped me off. Might have been the sign out front.”

Rowan pulls away, his hands warm around my shoulders. When he stares down at me, I see everything I feel reflected back at me in his faint smile and soft eyes. There’s relief knowing I can love and be loved, after years wondering if I was so broken that there was only room for vengeance and loneliness in my heart. And I think I see the release of that burden reflected in Rowan’s eyes, too.

“Come on,” he says after pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “I still need your help.”

Rowan leads the way to the kitchen where brand new commercial appliances and stainless steel counters gleam beneath the recessed lights in the freshly-painted ceiling. He heads first to a row of hooks where aprons are hanging and tosses one to me before he disappears into a walk-in fridge.

“What are we doing?” I ask as he returns with ingredients stacked on a tray that he sets on the counter next to me.

“Building a spaceship.” He grins when I give him a flat glare. “Cooking, clearly. I’m still fine-tuning the lunch menu for opening week. I need your help tweaking it.”

“I thought we’d already established that cooking is not my strong suit.”

“No, we established that you cook perfectly well, we just need to do it together.”

And we do.

We start with simpler things, like making a red wine vinaigrette for one of the salads and prepping vegetables for a soup. Then we move on to harder things—pork loin with shallot rings, a salmon filet with cream sauce. And watching Rowan share his art with such passion and confidence is like injecting an aphrodisiac directly into my veins. My desire for him grows more powerful with every moment that passes, and he’s so immersed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t seem to notice any of the signs.

It only makes me want him that much more.

We sample the dishes we create together and Rowan presses the gold star from his cheek to the top of a fresh page in a stained, dog-eared notebook where he jots down ideas and feedback on everything we make. And then he declares that it’s time for dessert, the course where he needs the most help. When I try to protest that I’m full, he laughs me off.

“I know you can take more,” he says with a smirk, then strides off in the direction of the fridge.

He returns with another tray of ingredients, but this time the pavlova and crème brûlée and chocolate cake have already been made. They just need to be assembled with their presentation and sauces, which Rowan does with speed and precision before he sets them in front of me on the counter. He then takes a step back and lets his gaze flow down the length of me. I feel it in the center of my body, like he pulls an invisible string that tightens my core until it aches.

“Face the counter and pull your dress up, Sloane.”

My panties instantly dampen, even before my brain has fully processed his words, like my body knows what’s about to happen before my mind does. I suck in an unsteady breath and my mouth pops open, but I don’t know what to say.

Rowan raises his brows and flicks his gaze toward the counter. “You think I didn’t notice the way you tugged your dress down before you leaned over to show me your tits when we were making that white wine sauce? I always notice you, Sloane. Now do as you’re told.”

I shudder out my held breath, grasp the hem of my dress and drag it up my thighs as I turn and face the stainless steel counter, its polished edge cold against my heated skin. Rowan’s warmth envelops my back as he steps behind me to run a calloused palm up my leg and across the globe of my ass.

He pulls my panties to the side and notches his cock to my entrance, then slides into me with a single stroke to the sound of my gasp.

And then he just stays there, unmoving, lodged to the hilt in my pussy.

A whimper catches in the back of my throat. My clit throbs, begging for friction, my cunt desperate for motion. I try to move forward and back again, but there’s nowhere to go between Rowan’s unyielding strength and the sharp edge of the counter against my hips.

“No,” he commands when I try again. “Relax, Sloane.”

A strangled moan passes my lips. “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

Rowan chuckles, nonplussed by the fact that desire is burning me up, every cell torched with the need for more than he’s going to give. “Just try. See where it takes you.”