I had terrible taste in men, I realized.

“You are not ordering pizza,” I gasped.

The smirk returned. I decided I loved the smirk. I decided that I wanted to have an oil painting commissioned in order to immortalize the smirk.

“I said order a pizza, not decide to cook Maggie,” he scoffed.

I looked at the dog who was now snoring peacefully on the rug, horrified. “That is a gross visual.”

“Well, the look on your face when I said I was going to order pizza was as bad as sayin’ we were eating the dog,” he said blandly.

“I might’ve shed almost all of the weird and horrible routines of my childhood,” I explained. “I don’t scrimp, or use coupons, I light candles for the mood, not because I have no other option.” I nodded to my fireplace. “That is for décor, not because there’s no heating. And I buy $200 pillows. But for whatever reason, I cannot bring myself to engage in the luxury of ordering in. Not when there’s food in the pantry, in the fridge. A whole bunch of it.”

I hadn’t intended on saying all of that. I had intended on just telling him that the one and only pizza place was likely closed by now. Or that George, the delivery driver, was probably much too stoned to drive all the way out here if they weren’t closed.

But I didn’t say that. I spewed a whole bunch of personal, embarrassing details about my background at him.

As a result, Rowan was no longer smiling.

Shit.

His features were tight, eyes blazing with seriousness, mouth a thin line.

Before he could say anything, or look at me with some kind of pity, I stomped over to the kitchen, placing my glass on the countertop so I could open my fridge and peruse.

My fridge was behemoth and immaculately organized. There were rows of various soft drinks and sparkling waters in glass bottles, organized by size. Glass bottles of homemade dressings were in the doors along with my homemade nut milk. I had three different kinds of butter: salted, unsalted and PDO Charente-Poitou Butter imported from France.

If you took a look in my refrigerator, you’d think I was organized and completely nuts with no social life to speak of. Which would be right.

“Grilled cheese,” I decided, snatching up three kinds of cheese, mayo and butter.

Rowan had migrated from where he was standing to the kitchen. But not to perch on one of the barstools as was the norm for any visitor in my house. I cooked, arranged cheese boards and they watched. It was a rhythm. A comfortable rhythm, one I enjoyed. I loved people coming into my home, looking after them, feeding them.

Those dusty pink barstools had set me back a bomb, so I was glad I got my money’s worth.

But Rowan did not follow the rhythm I had established in this kitchen. Of course, he didn’t.

Rowan was there, right there when I closed the door of the fridge. So close that my body brushed against his before I knew what was happening. And before I could stop myself, I inhaled audibly, reveling in his clean, masculine scent.