So, he didn’t talk shit about the people in my presence. Not often, at least. But he had made it known that he was better. He always talked about moving to the city, to New York, L.A., where he could reach his full potential. Except I always knew he wouldn’t because then he wouldn’t be a big fish in a small pond. He’d be a tiny fish in a vast ocean. He wouldn’t be the richest, the Ivy League educated, important—in his eyes, of course—person in town. He wouldn’t be important at all. On some level, he knew this. Because he never left. He never would leave.

Except he did.

Tonight.

With Rowan following him.

“I’m struggling to digest this information,” I informed him, turning back to my unfortunately empty glass in search of some relief.

Though it did give me something to do, and I was thankful for that. I was sure if I stayed under Rowan’s stare for much longer, my feet would burn holes into my lovely, restored hardwood floor.

I gave Rowan a wide berth while walking to the bar where the decanter was. Such a wide berth that I slammed into my console table, almost knocking over a vase. It toppled for a couple of moments before righting itself once more. I mentally cursed my klutziness, especially considering my audience. I continued my journey to the bar, feeling Rowan’s eyes hot on my back.

I focused on the act of opening the bottle of wine, not bothering with the decanter… There was no time.

My hands shook as the amber liquid splashed into my glass.

It occurred to me that I was feeling somewhat tipsy. Fiona and I had cracked into the bottle of wine as soon as we walked in the door. Normally, I would’ve arranged an extensive charcuterie board at the very least. But I was off-kilter. So, we’d polished off an entire bottle of wine between the two of us, without consuming anything to soak up the alcohol.

Therefore, I was tipsy.

When I turned around, Rowan was still standing where he’d been previously, except now he was facing in the other direction… Toward me. Eyes on me. He stood in the middle of my house, looking like something an ancient Greek or French artist might use to make a sculpture from.

“Although you are an uninvited guest, I cannot physically have you in my house without offering you a refreshment,” I told him, my voice somewhat breathy. I didn’t want it to be breathy because I wanted to be firm and adult-like, and sober.

But one could not be looked at the way Rowan was looking at me and not be breathy. Sober or not.

“So would you like a glass of wine?” I nodded to the bottle I just opened. “Though you don’t exactly look like a guy that drinks wine,” I squinted at him. “I’ve got a plethora of spirits… I could whip you up a cocktail. I don’t have beer, unfortunately. And you look like more of a beer guy than a wine guy... or a cocktail guy.”