Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 555(@200wpm)___ 444(@250wpm)___ 370(@300wpm)
Yes, Rowan was a beer guy. He could’ve been the face of any and all beer companies. He was what advertisers were trying to sell when they made beer commercials. Masculine. Rugged. The look of a guy who knew how to build furniture and eat pussy like a champ.
Fuck.
Why was I thinking about Rowan eating pussy?
Rowan didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to the glass-fronted cabinet—the one responsible for my black eye—got out a glass—the correct one, it was important to point out— then walked back toward me.
I held my breath as he approached, my entire body stiffening. His eyes were intent on me, full of promises that shouldn’t exist. For a second, an extremely long one, I had the insane thought that he was going to kiss me.
But of course, he didn’t. He brushed past me and picked up the wine bottle I’d just opened.
He was holding the bottle, inspecting the label. “This needs to be decanted,” he observed, eyes flitting upward to me. “It’s a good vintage.”
I blinked rapidly. “It is a good vintage,” I agreed, stunned that the rugged, masculine man knew what glass to use for what wine, and recognized a good vintage.
I stored that information away, clutching it internally.
His gaze lingered on mine before he poured it. The moment was incredibly surreal. Rowan here, pouring himself some wine, like it was natural. Like he did this every night.
I took a large swallow of my own wine, even though it likely wasn’t the smartest decision given my current state of near inebriation.
“Can I offer you something to eat?” I asked, realizing that I was hungry. “I’m guessing that with all the returning to the early 1900s and running someone out of town, you probably worked up somewhat of an appetite.” There was a bite to my tone now, I was proud to say.
Rowan did not bristle even the slightest at my tone. In fact, he smiled. It was more than a little unnerving. Not just because he was showing off white, straight teeth and the smile itself was really hot. It hit me that he’d smiled more in the past few minutes than he had in all the time I’d known him.
Granted, I only knew him insofar as how he liked his coffee and baked goods. Maybe he smiled all day, every day when he wasn’t around me. But I didn’t think so. He didn’t come off as a cheerful guy. Some people might even go so far as to say he was a grump. Not in a bad way. But in a very sexy way.
Grumpy men were somehow more often than not regarded as broody, dangerous or mysterious.
Grumpy women were more often than not regarded as bitches.
“I have worked up an appetite,” he replied. “But I’m happy just to order pizza. Don’t want you runnin’ around after me. Not after you’ve been working all day.”
It made me feel warm, that line. No man I’d been with had ever considered what I’d done with my day prior to their arrival. They certainly didn’t think whatever I’d done—be it opening a bakery or remodeling a house or working a double shift—meant that I wasn’t able to fulfill my duty of serving them.
I had terrible taste in men, I realized.
“You are not ordering pizza,” I gasped.
The smirk returned. I decided I loved the smirk. I decided that I wanted to have an oil painting commissioned in order to immortalize the smirk.
“I said order a pizza, not decide to cook Maggie,” he scoffed.
I looked at the dog who was now snoring peacefully on the rug, horrified. “That is a gross visual.”
“Well, the look on your face when I said I was going to order pizza was as bad as sayin’ we were eating the dog,” he said blandly.
“I might’ve shed almost all of the weird and horrible routines of my childhood,” I explained. “I don’t scrimp, or use coupons, I light candles for the mood, not because I have no other option.” I nodded to my fireplace. “That is for décor, not because there’s no heating. And I buy $200 pillows. But for whatever reason, I cannot bring myself to engage in the luxury of ordering in. Not when there’s food in the pantry, in the fridge. A whole bunch of it.”
I hadn’t intended on saying all of that. I had intended on just telling him that the one and only pizza place was likely closed by now. Or that George, the delivery driver, was probably much too stoned to drive all the way out here if they weren’t closed.
But I didn’t say that. I spewed a whole bunch of personal, embarrassing details about my background at him.
As a result, Rowan was no longer smiling.
Shit.
His features were tight, eyes blazing with seriousness, mouth a thin line.
Before he could say anything, or look at me with some kind of pity, I stomped over to the kitchen, placing my glass on the countertop so I could open my fridge and peruse.