“Individually-dyed Cheerios, clearly. Took me all morning,” she snarks.

I grin, though she doesn’t see it. “That smart mouth is going to get put to good use as soon as I’m caffeinated.”

“Are you threatening me with a good time?”

“More like promising. And speaking of good time,” I say, pouring the rest of the coffee into the largest mug I own before starting a fresh pot, “did you see Dr. Rostis there last night?”

“Ooh, I did, yeah. Didn’t get a chance to talk to him. Maybe we should make him into next year’s game instead of enlisting Lachlan to identify a target.”

A twinge of worry wracks my body with a shiver. I still see Sloane trapped in that cellar at Harvey Mead’s house, his boot print an angry red mark on her face, blood dripping from her nostrils in the rain. The flash of lightning across her misshapen shoulder is still vivid in my mind. I dream of that moment too often. It fucking haunts me. “Or maybe instead of a competitive game this year, we can play together. We could hunt him as a team.”

Sloane snorts a derisive laugh. “Are you afraid of losing again, pretty boy?”

“I’m afraid of losing you.”

Sloane turns to me then, a scrutinous eye flowing over my face. Her gaze softens into something akin to pity. It’s probably due to the dark circles under my eyes and my haphazard hair and longer-than-usual stubble. She catalogs every detail before she sits back in her chair. “Rowan, I’ll be okay. This is what we do. What happened with Harvey was my own careless mistake.”

“Why did you make it?” I press. I already know the answer. She knows I do.

Sloane swallows. “Because I thought he was coming for you.”

I head toward the table and she opens an arm to me, wrapping my waist in her warmth and laying her head against my side when I halt next to her. “I don’t want to stop,” I say. “But there’s a lot more risk involved when we work against one another rather than together.”

“True, but it’s also so fun when I kick your ass.”

A sigh leaves my lungs, a hint of frustration in a puff of air. “Sloane, I can’t handle worrying about you right now. I don’t think I can take that stress on top of everything else. I can barely manage to keep a day-to-day, normal life with you together, let alone that.”

Sloane stiffens against me. I realize that sounded harsh when I didn’t mean it to. I’m just so fucking tired, and the constant worry about messing this new life up is manifesting exactly what I don’t want to happen: messing it the fuck up.

“I’m sorry, love. I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

“It’s okay,” she says, but the brightness in her tone comes off forced.

“No, I’m serious. You’re not a burden, if that’s what you think.”

“It’s okay,” she says again as she casts a brief smile up to me before she turns her attention back to her laptop. “I get it. All your hard work has been worth it, though. The initial reviews from opening night are great.”

She pulls the computer closer so I can see the reviews she’s been reading. But it takes me a moment to turn my attention to what she’s trying to show me. I don’t know whether to press her on this obvious deflection, or if doing so will make her retreat even more. In the end, I figure it’s likely I’ll just make things worse if I open my uncaffeinated mouth on the topic, so I squeeze her arm instead and read the reviews over her shoulder. They might be early and a little biased as most are from loyal regular customers, but I can tell by the detail and enthusiasm that we’re off to a good start. And as Sloane points out particular passages and comments, I know she’s proud of it too, even if my words just now delivered a sting I didn’t intend.

“What have you got planned for the morning?” I ask when we’ve read through a few reviews together.

“I think I’ll meet up with the girls for coffee. It would be nice to see them a few more times before they leave town,” Sloane replies, but something about the way she says it makes me think this is an impromptu plan she just came up with to get out of the apartment. “After that, maybe I’ll run some errands, I’m not sure. What about you?”

“I’ve gotta head to 3 In Coach when brunch is over. Jenna texted that they’ve had some problems with one of the exhaust hoods.” I let my fingers drift through Sloane’s hair, the waves still faint from last night. “How about you meet me there at four? Come in the back, through the kitchen. We can go somewhere and grab a drink.”

“Yeah. That sounds good.” Sloane rises and gives me a brief smile when she turns my way, but there’s a tightness in it before she lays a kiss to my cheek and takes her empty bowl to the kitchen. “I’d better get ready.”

With a final flash of a smile, Sloane picks up Winston and disappears down the corridor with the cat growling in her arms.

I contemplate following her into the shower. Maybe I should press her against the cold tiles and bury myself into her tight heat and kiss every drop of water from her face until she knows without doubt that she is not a burden. But I don’t. I worry that when she needs or wants space, she won’t ask for it, and I’ll push too hard. I’ll push her away.

I rest my forehead in my hands and stay like that for a long while, thinking about all the things we should discuss tonight when we can relax with a couple of drinks. We’ll find a private table at a quiet bar and talk it through just like we agreed at Fionn’s. And then we’ll come back to our home and this morning’s conversation will just be another brick in the foundation of a life we’re making together.

When Sloane appears from the corridor with her skin flushed from the heat of the shower and her hair damp, I’m still at the table, a second cup of coffee nearly finished.

“Four o’clock at the restaurant, yeah?” I ask as I rise from my chair.

She nods, her smile bright, but the tightness she can’t hide from me remains. “I’ll be there.”

And though she kisses me goodbye, and tells me she loves me, and casts a smile over her shoulder as she goes, that thin mask still remains to follow her out the door.

“Feckin’ eejit,” I say to myself as I drag a hand through my hair and flop down on the couch.

I made up this fucking game on a whim just to keep her around, and now I give her the impression that I think the whole thing is just a giant pain in my ass. And even worse, I make out like having her in my life is a fucking burden.

It’s not. It’s the farthest thing from it. I just can’t bear the thought of losing her, which is exactly what’s going to happen if I don’t get my shit together and we talk this stuff through.

So that’s what I resolve to do.

I haul my ass up and go to the gym down the street, then come back for a shower. I spend some time looking up some ideas for the New Year’s Eve menu which is still a few months away, but I know will creep up fast. Winston keeps watch as I do some chores and make lunch and give him a slice of bacon that he hasn’t earned, because he’s kind of a dick. Then I’m headed to 3 In Coach, giving myself just enough time to make it there after the staff have all gone so I can see if this fan is something I can fix myself before Sloane arrives.

I enter through the back door and disarm the alarm, then head down the dark, windowless corridor to the kitchen.

Everything is sparkling clean, all the utensils and pots and pans where they should be for Tuesday lunch when the restaurant will be open again. As I scan the prep area, my gaze snags on the framed sketch hanging on the wall, the one that Sloane left for me that first day she came in. A faint smile passes over my lips as I remember the blush in her skin and the panic in her pretty eyes. It was the first time I really let myself believe she might want something more than friendship, but she didn’t know how to make it happen.