“Cinnamon rolls,” I tell him, keeping my voice casual. “A new batch in the oven.” I lean in closer to Rowyn, just enough for her to feel my warmth. “Why don’t you guys have a seat? I’ll bring out some chowder.”
“I can help,” she says, playful but firm. “You don’t need to serve me.”
I brush my hand lightly against her elbow, leaning so my mouth hovers near her ear. “Oh, babe,” I murmur, letting my breath tickle her skin. “But I love serving you.”
Her cheeks flush a soft pink, and I can’t resist the smug grin that spreads across my face. She shoots me a warning glare, but I catch the almost-hidden twinkle in her eyes. The part of her that likes when I push buttons. Likes the little games we play.
Honestly, Vegas can’t come soon enough. I imagine sneaking her away, just the two of us, maybe even to a tiny chapel, where I can claim her fully, no games, no pretenses.
She turns and glides toward a table near the window, the afternoon light catching the highlights in her hair. My gaze follows her every movement, memorizing the curve of her back, the graceful sway of her hips. Gina sweeps over to introduce her to the new staff, and I don’t miss Billy’s sharp eyes scanning the room, noting the players, their positions, and who’s talking to whom. Every instinct I have tells me to watch, to protect.
I retreat to the kitchen and take a deep breath. I scoop up three big bowls of steaming chowder. I check the cinnamon rolls—they’re browning perfectly, sweet curls of sugar and cinnamon peeking through the folds. I carefully set the bowls on a platter, gripping it like it’s fragile treasure.
Carrying it into the dining area, I move slowly, deliberately. I can glide across the ice with effortless grace, handle a puck under pressure, but balancing three bowls of chowder in my hands? Not so much. My calves tense, toes trying to grip the floor for stability. A bead of sweat slides down my temple.
Every step is a test. Every eye in the room seems to follow me—but it’s Rowyn’s that matters most. She looks up just as I approach, her smile warming the space around her. My chest tightens. And for one delicious, torturous second, it’s just her and me, the rest of the café fading into background noise.
I set the platter down, carefully, making sure none of the soup sloshes. Billy’s eyes are on me, watching. I sit, and we all dig in. The clang of cutlery and murmur of conversation surrounds us, but I feel every inch of Billy’s gaze as he scans the place, like he’s sniffing for a story.
I slide my chair a little closer to Rowyn. Billy’s head tilts slightly, watching the movement, and I catch a glint in his eyes—calculated, searching.
“So, Jaxon,” Billy says smoothly, voice low, carrying that practiced charm that screams untouchable. “Vegas sounds… exciting. You looking forward to the trip?”
I force a casual shrug, but my gut tightens. “Yeah. Looking forward to it.”
He leans closer, too close, and I catch the faint cologne. “Are the guys worried about Rowyn going? You know, her being a reporter and all, and getting inside your circle.”
“What the heck, Billy?” Rowyn shoots back, eyebrow raised.
He throws his hands up, innocence plastered across his face. “What? I’m just saying. These guys aren’t fans of reporters.”
“Celebrity gossip reporters, sure,” she counters, voice cool. “But I don’t fall into that category.”
“A reporter is a reporter, Rowyn,” he says smoothly.
My jaw stiffens. “She’s coming as my girlfriend. She’s not on assignment,” I remind him evenly, keeping my tone light but firm.
Billy’s smile widens, too sharp, too deliberate. He tilts his head like he’s genuinely amused—or calculating the angle for his next move. “No, of course she’s not on assignment. She’s… different. Unlike the rest of us, she can…” he snaps his fingers, “…turn that part of her brain off when she wants to.”
What the hell? Is he trying to plant a seed of doubt? I don’t know, but I do know he’s up to something, and I don’t like it.
I shift slightly in my seat, angling my body subtly between him and Rowyn, signaling possession and protectiveness without saying a word.
Billy glances around the café, then back at me. Sharp. Assessing. Like he’s weighing exactly how far he can push. I raise a brow, a silent, what the hell are you doing?
He laughs, light, easy, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry,” he says, leaning back, finally pulling away. “Just checking out the players. I’m a fan.”
A fan. Right. And I’m supposed to believe he’s just here for chowder and cinnamon rolls.
I keep my gaze on him, long enough to make sure he knows that I’m not buying it.
Billy is trouble. Subtle, insidious trouble. And I have no intention of letting him turn our lives—or Rowyn—into his next story.
30
Rowyn
The guys flew to Vegas early yesterday. They’re catching a show tonight, and added a few extra days on the other end of the long weekend because why wouldn’t they? They’re on break, they deserve to let loose. The girls and I are going later tonight, catching the red-eye because half of us are working right up until Friday night. It’s not ideal, but at this point, I’d sit in cargo just to get away. I just wish I didn’t feel like I’m already running on fumes.