Yes, Rowan was a beer guy. He could’ve been the face of any and all beer companies. He was what advertisers were trying to sell when they made beer commercials. Masculine. Rugged. The look of a guy who knew how to build furniture and eat pussy like a champ.

Fuck.

Why was I thinking about Rowan eating pussy?

Rowan didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the glass-fronted cabinet—the one responsible for my black eye—got out a glass—the correct one, it was important to point out— then walked back toward me.

I held my breath as he approached, my entire body stiffening. His eyes were intent on me, full of promises that shouldn’t exist. For a second, an extremely long one, I had the insane thought that he was going to kiss me.

But of course, he didn’t. He brushed past me and picked up the wine bottle I’d just opened.

He was holding the bottle, inspecting the label. “This needs to be decanted,” he observed, eyes flitting upward to me. “It’s a good vintage.”

I blinked rapidly. “It is a good vintage,” I agreed, stunned that the rugged, masculine man knew what glass to use for what wine, and recognized a good vintage.

I stored that information away, clutching it internally.

His gaze lingered on mine before he poured it. The moment was incredibly surreal. Rowan here, pouring himself some wine, like it was natural. Like he did this every night.

I took a large swallow of my own wine, even though it likely wasn’t the smartest decision given my current state of near inebriation.

“Can I offer you something to eat?” I asked, realizing that I was hungry. “I’m guessing that with all the returning to the early 1900s and running someone out of town, you probably worked up somewhat of an appetite.” There was a bite to my tone now, I was proud to say.

Rowan did not bristle even the slightest at my tone. In fact, he smiled. It was more than a little unnerving. Not just because he was showing off white, straight teeth and the smile itself was really hot. It hit me that he’d smiled more in the past few minutes than he had in all the time I’d known him.

Granted, I only knew him insofar as how he liked his coffee and baked goods. Maybe he smiled all day, every day when he wasn’t around me. But I didn’t think so. He didn’t come off as a cheerful guy. Some people might even go so far as to say he was a grump. Not in a bad way. But in a very sexy way.

Grumpy men were somehow more often than not regarded as broody, dangerous or mysterious.

Grumpy women were more often than not regarded as bitches.

“I have worked up an appetite,” he replied. “But I’m happy just to order pizza. Don’t want you runnin’ around after me. Not after you’ve been working all day.”

It made me feel warm, that line. No man I’d been with had ever considered what I’d done with my day prior to their arrival. They certainly didn’t think whatever I’d done—be it opening a bakery or remodeling a house or working a double shift—meant that I wasn’t able to fulfill my duty of serving them.