“I’m guessing he knows where you live, and you said you don’t have any money so you can’t get a hotel room.” I stare at him, taking in my ownwords from barely ten minutes ago like it’s brand new information. Itfeelslike brand new information. “The way I see it, you’ve had a pretty terrible day and I’ve had a terrible week, so…” He buries a nervous hand in his hair, pulls at the ends. “If you want a commiserating buddy, I’m available.”
The chuckle sneaks up from my chest before I can stop it. This beast of a man stands at least two inches taller than six feet—not too jarring beside me in my three-inch heels, but intimidating to the general public all the same. Forearms covered in tattoos peek out from where he’s tugged up his sleeves. Rowan makes a liar out of every man who’s ever purchased a black Henley because they heard it could make them more attractive. They can’t—not anymore. Not when he’s out here wearing them.
Moral of the story? He could crush the man I left at the altar between his thumbs. And his dimples.
Rowan shifts on his feet, hands tucked into his pockets—fidgeting. I bite back a grin.
Cute, handsome,andendearing.
“I wouldn’t mind the company, I suppose.”
“Okay then.”
I twiddle the bunch of fabric between my fingers. His questions aboutmyterrible day probably aren’t all that different from the ones I have abouthisterrible week. Except, he’s seeing me on my worst day—raccoon eyes, ratty, windblown hair, runaway bride in the flesh in all her glory. Baselevel getting-to-know-you small talk feels like child’s play with this guy.
My eyes pinball between him and the busy convenience store. My stomach grumbles, a staunch reminder that I haven’t eaten all day. “Would you mind if I grabbed something to eat?”
“You wanta hot dog with your mustard?”
I’m too busy using my finger to spread the generous serving of mustard into every crevice between the meat and the bun to look up when I answer. “Fun fact about me, Rowan. I’m a sucker for cheap, gas station hot dogs.” I lick my finger clean and lean a hipagainst the counter. “If it’s not full of preservatives and drowning in MSG, you’re doing it wrong.”
With one hand still clutching my dress, I use the other to carefully pick up my hot dog. For a few seconds, I hold it up between us, showcasing its beauty—a masterpiece.
By the third bite, the mustard has begun to mound at the top of the bun, spilling onto my fingers. Before I can catch it with my tongue, a huge glob of yellow goo falls. Rowan and I watch as it lands on my gown, right over my boob, thankfully missing his jacket. Gravity instantly causes the oozing liquid to droop, and a second later it drips onto the bundled fabric in my hand.
I sigh dramatically. “This tracks.”
Rowan’s laugh brings out my own smile. He hands me a napkin, but it’s no use. It’s mustard on white satin—just give me the death certificate to sign and let’s be done with it.
God, he must think I’m such a mess.
“Cute,” he says in a tone that’s equal parts deadpan and fascination.
I pop a shoulder, disassociating from the hits that keep on coming. “I said I didn’t care if it got dirty. I am unaffected, Rowan. Hot mess. But unaffected.”
Before I realize what’s happening, he wipes a dot of mustard from the corner of my mouth. Deep blue eyes hold mine, thumb lingering along the edge of my parted lips for seconds longer than necessary. His hand falls away but he never drops my gaze.
He smirks. “What do you say we get you out of this dress?”
5
walker texas ranger
Rowan - now
Incoming FaceTime call from Bri.
I prop my phone on the windowsill over the kitchen sink and hit accept before turning half my attention back to the leaky faucet in my hands.
My stepsister’s face fills the screen. “Hey, Bri.”
“Um, Rowan?” Irritation edges her voice. “Care to explain who this oaf is that just showed up at our front door like a stray dog?”
Bri huffs out a restrained breath through her nose as my best friend sidles into the frame, not a care in the world, proud grin on his face.
“Dubs?”
“Shaw, tell your sister I’m not a creeper.”