“Not that cowboy show, though,” he said. “We’re gonna watch that together. From the start.”

I gaped at him. “You mean Yellowstone?” Dumfounded that he remembered my blithering episode about Rip and Kacey and Beth.

He nodded.

He wanted to watch Yellowstone with me. Again, considering what we’d just done upstairs, this shouldn’t have felt as intimate as it did. But there was something domestic, permanent about watching a show together. Maybe not as romantic as whatever romantic gestures existed before the advent of streaming on demand, but it was to me.

“Go watch or read,” Rowan ordered, arching his head to the sofa. “Let me cook for you.”

Unable to argue with the man, I went and did what he ordered.

Maggie dutifully followed me.

I was certain after I curled up on the sofa, with Maggie lying against my legs and Rowan clanging away in the kitchen, that I would not be able to concentrate on the show I switched on.

But somehow, I did.

* * *

Rowan made spicy vodka pasta.

It was incredible.

I had two bowls of it, without feeling self-conscious that I was supposed to act demure and nibble at my food or whatever. Nathan had ordered salad for me whenever we went out, would scowl in disapproval whenever I ordered dessert. Although it stung, I never called him out like I should’ve. But I also didn’t cancel the dessert order. I was comfortable with my body. I was never going to be the woman who wore a size zero, or even a size six. That wasn’t how I was designed. I had curves. My stomach would never be completely flat, my hips would always be wide. I would always like sugar and wine, and I despised most forms of exercise. Nathan had known all of that when we got together.

Yet he still wanted me smaller, to fit in with all of his old fraternity brothers’ wives, starve myself like his mother did.

Such a fucking asshole.

Rowan did not frown at my second helping. No, he made it bigger than the first.

And he did the dishes.

“But the chef doesn’t do the dishes,” I argued.

Rowan considered me with an arched brow. “You do the dishes when you cook for people?”

I pursed my lips. “It’s my house, it doesn’t count.”

He snickered. “Uh-huh. I’m doing the dishes, cupcake, that’s all there is to it. Before I do that, gonna light a fire.”

He gestured toward the window, to where night had fallen, my solar lanterns illuminating my patio. All of my wicker furniture was centered around a large fire pit in the middle of the area. Fiona, Tina, Tiffany and I often sat out there as winter approached, cuddled up in blankets, drinking wine and talking through the night while the fire chased away the worst of the chill.

“You’re gonna sit out there with your wine, and I’m gonna come join you when I’m finished,” Rowan informed me.