Which makes it very difficult to walk into this bar to introduce Rowan to Whitley for the first time…while pretending I don’t want to drag him somewhere private and do it again.
The place is packed, loud enough to blur thought, with string lights overhead and a crowd that’s already half tipsy. Somewhere in the back, someone’s butchering a Fleetwood Mac song on karaoke.
Rowan’s already at a booth when we walk in. My eyes drift to his black T-shirt and the way it clings across his shoulders, the inked patterns on his forearms clearly visible. His beer sits untouched, and for a second, I forget to breathe, caught on the easy tilt of his head and the way his gaze immediately finds me.
Whitley straightens beside me, predator-level awareness kicking in.
“Okaaay,” she drawls, giving him a slow, assessing once-over. “He’s hot. Offensively so.”
“Behave,” I warn under my breath
“Holy tattoos,” she breathes. “You mean to tell memysweet little Violet lets a man who looks likethattouch her?”
I elbow her, cheeks heating. “Stop it.”
“Touch her emotionally, I meant,” she deadpans. “Obviously. I’m a lady.”
Rowan starts walking toward us, and Whitley’s grin only widens.
“Is it weird that part of me wants to see him throw a chair through a window?” she mutters. “Just to really commit to the aesthetic.”
“Oh my god, please don’t say anything.”
“Too late. I’m already in character.”
“Whitley—”
Rowan stops in front of us, tall and calm and unfairly good at looking like the human embodiment of a motorcycle. His gaze finds mine first before shifting to my roommate and friend.
“You must be Whitley,” he says, offering his hand.
“Oh, I’mexactlywho you’ve heard about,” she says, taking it like she’s accepting an award. “Violet’s ride or die. And currently deciding whether or not to trust you.”
He smiles, more amused than rattled. “Fair.”
She hums, narrowing her eyes. “Do you own any shirts with long sleeves?”
“No,” he says, dead serious.
“Totally valid.”
He chuckles and glances at me with a silentis she always like this?
I just shrug in response because, yes. Yes, she is.
Before I can elaborate, a hulking figure with a permanent scowl materializes beside Rowan, beer in hand.
“And this,” Whitley says brightly, “must be Beau.”
Beau looks at Whitley, then at Rowan. Takes a sip of his beer.
“Unfortunately.”
Whitley claps her hands. “This issomuch better than I hoped.”
Beau stares at Whitley as if she’s the human equivalent of a migraine he didn’t ask for. She just beams at him.
Rowan gestures toward the booth, but Whitley’s already steering Beau that way, their dynamic instantly combusting into a competitive banter that’s less oil and water and more gasoline and a lit match. I watch as she slides in beside him.