“Hello,” he greets me, his voice warm.
“Did I wake you?”
He denies slowly. Another smile comes from me, a barely perceptible one from him.
“How was your night?” I ask.
Rowan shrugs off the blankets and gets to his feet. He wears sweatpants and a tight T-shirt, too tight not to invite my eyes to take a good look at his marble pecs.
“I survived.”
I laugh. Rowan approaches. He remains a step away from me; his eyes scanning my face intently. He lifts a hand, his thumb caressing my cheekbone.
“You’re still covered in glitter.”
“Maybe I didn’t remove my makeup properly. I was in a hurry and?—”
Rowan tilts his head to study me more closely. It’s as if he can read in my eyes the overwhelming urge I now feel to kiss him and lie on top of him on our temporary bed.
“In a hurry?”
In a hurry to get back to you. I needed to know if you would really wait for me like you said. I was eager to feel those butterflies in my stomach at the sight of you and hear your voice whispering in the dark like the other night.
Oh God. I can’t even think of such things!
The kids, I remind myself. The only thing that matters at this moment and in all the moments to come.
I shrug for no reason. Rowan finally takes a step back and lets me get some air that doesn’t smell so much of him.
“If you’re hungry, there’s a plate for you in the oven.”
“I’m starving. The night was so hectic that I didn’t have time to put anything in my stomach.”
I pass him and head for the kitchen, hoping to catch my breath for a few minutes, but Rowan follows me.
“I can keep you company if you want.”
“You don’t have to.”
This time he shrugs.
Tell him, Seth. Tell him to go to sleep. Tell him to stay away if he doesn’t want this to get a lot less fake in a few moments.
“Do you want to share it with me?” I ask him instead, taking the plate from the oven and showing it to him.
“No, thank you. I never eat at night.”
“I only eat too late too often.” I stick the plate in the microwave and start it up. Then I open the fridge and pull out a beer. I show it to him, he declines. I uncork it and set it on the table, then retrieve a fork, a napkin, and the plate from the microwave. I sit on the table, plate in hand and hungry as hell, while Rowan stands, still in the doorway.
“You’re not going to stand there and stare at me while I eat, are you?”
I stick my fork into the plate. I lift up a good portion of pasta.
“I have something to tell you.”
I swallow the first bite, which immediately turns bitter.
“Are you worried already?”
