He nodded.

“But walking into my house and announcing you were staying here was… subtle?” I asked, putting a hand on my hip.

Rowan was smiling now.

I didn’t like it.

Or actually, I did. Which was the problem.

“Are you going to get your dog’s food and let me finish our dinner?” I asked him with faux impatience.

What I needed was space to take a breath that didn’t smell like him.

For one heart-stopping second, I didn’t think he was going to give me that respite since he just kept staring at me. And for the second time tonight, I was sure he was going to kiss me.

But he didn’t.

He put his wine down on the counter and walked around me to retrieve the dog food.

He was going to stay.

As was Maggie.

* * *

The rest of the night passed in something resembling harmony.

Not complete harmony.

Because I was still freaking out on the inside, my foundation cracked. I was hyper-aware of my every movement, my every breath, the way that I was eating, walking, sipping my wine. The wine buzz helped me a little with that self-consciousness. Enough so I could get through our meal of grilled cheese without choking.

Maggie had happily chomped away at her own food. Especially after I topped it with a can of tuna.

Rowan had regarded that with a raised brow before I’d gone on what could only be called a rant about the chemicals they put in food—even dog food—and that we needed to adjust Maggie’s diet so she could live a long and happy life.

At the end of my rant, I realized I’d overstepped my bounds by judging the food he fed his dog and insinuating that it was any of my business.

Rowan did not seem bothered at all, though. He had a soft, intense, vaguely amused and incredibly handsome expression on his face.

At that point, I focused on my wine and my sandwich, which turned out to be an incredible combination.

Rowan had sat directly beside me at the breakfast bar with his own two sandwiches. We were close. So close that his thigh actually brushed against mine a couple of times. I’d stiffened, the sandwich pausing on its journey to my mouth before I forced myself to act chill. Or as chill as someone like me could manage.

Once I was done, I shot up to do the dishes. Or tried to. Rowan took them from me, standing much too close once more. “Cook doesn’t do the dishes,” he said, voice low and thick.

“I don’t mind doing the dishes,” I whispered.

“Didn’t ask you if you minded,” he replied, taking the plates from my hands. But he didn’t walk to the sink immediately. Didn’t even move. He just stood there, the plates between us. “You make a kickass grilled cheese, cupcake,” he murmured.

I looked down at the plates, no longer able to hold his penetrating gaze. I did make a kickass grilled cheese.