And I was in love with him.

I almost said it right there and then. Opened my mouth and heart.

But I lost my nerve at the last minute.

Saying it out loud might’ve made this fantasy disappear. Might’ve punctured whatever magic it was creating all of this, everything disappearing when I said those three words. And I didn’t know how I’d handle Rowan going away.

* * *

My recovery at home was the worst kind of hell. Not because of the pain, because of the muscled man who would yell at me every time I lifted something, was on my feet for too long or tried to get my KitchenAid mixer from the pantry. Which is what I did after about a week.

“I need to bake,” I snapped at him.

“You need to heal,” he argued, clutching the mixer.

I held fast, though even at my best, my strength was nowhere near his. “Healing for me is baking,” I bickered through gritted teeth.

Rowan’s gaze was steely and resolute.

I’d backed down on everything else since I’d been discharged, let him treat me like an invalid, conceded to him carrying me up the stairs—though I did enjoy that. I’d relented on not going to work for two more days… which was killing me.

But because I wasn’t back at work, I wasn’t baking. And because I wasn’t baking, I was quickly coming out of my skin. That afternoon, I’d felt better and thought Rowan was too distracted with his tinkering in the greenhouse to notice.

“Baking is like meditating to me,” I ground out, making another unsuccessful attempt to grab the mixer from his arms. “I know that sounds silly, and you likely won’t understand, but the smells, the sounds, creating something… I haven’t missed a day of it in years.”

I remembered the first time I’d baked, having scrounged up the meager ingredients in our small, damp kitchen. How I’d made the house smell like something other than mildew. How I’d filled my brother’s belly and made him smile.

“I know I may seem a little intense with my weirdness, and my anxiety is pretty bad now, but you should’ve seen me before I found baking,” I implored into Rowan’s resolute gaze. “I need this.”

Rowan’s face softened some, but there was still determination in his expression. And he didn’t loosen his grip on the mixer.

“Fine, you’ll bake,” he conceded.

I sighed in relief, already feeling less antsy.

Rowan placed the mixer on the kitchen island, not in the spot where I put it when I was baking.

My eye twitched with the need to put it back in front of the recipe books, below the cupboard with organized spices for easier access. The problem was that Rowan’s large form was in my way, and I suspected he’d block me if I even tried to move the mixer.

He pointed over to the barstools. “You, sit.”