“These require review. By appointment.”
I studied her for a hot second. Rowan March had worked at town hall for three years, and in that time, I’d never seen her hair down, couldn’t remember ever hearing her laugh, and had never spotted her at The Knotty Tap or hanging out with friends. It was like she came with the building and settled in for good… practical, competent, steady, and determined to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks.
“Look,” I said, dialing down my tone. “I’ve got seniors who could really use these courts. People with arthritis who can’t handle tennis anymore but want to stay active. Kids who need somewhere to burn energy besides the town hall parking lot. This isn’t me being impulsive.”
Something flashed in her eyes—surprise, maybe—before her expression reset to professional neutrality.
“The Butterfly needs an appointment just like everyone else,” she said, her voice soft.
My grin slipped. The Butterfly. That was the nickname I’d been given by whoever the hell had written The Ex-List. The post had called me out as a guy who flitted from one woman or wild idea to the next, never settling, never serious. Never worth trusting.
“Nice,” I said, the humor gone from my voice. “But that has nothing to do with pickleball courts.”
She had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “I apologize. That was unprofessional.”
“Damn right it was.” I gathered my papers. “I’m trying to do something good for this town, but clearly you’ve already decided who I am based on an anonymous piece of trash blog post.”
I turned to leave, suddenly not in the mood to fight the red tape. My brothers had warned me that getting approval to put in the courts would be a headache, but I’d been sure I could charm my way through the process. I should have known better.
“Wait.”
I paused, not looking back.
Rowan sighed, and papers rustled. “Leave the forms. I’ll look them over.”
I turned. “By next Tuesday?”
“No.” She pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “Since it’s a private commercial lot and there’s no public opposition expected, I can fast-track the review. But I’ll still need to conduct a site inspection.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “You want to come to my gym?”
“A site visit is standard procedure, Mr. Thorne.”
“Call me Dane. Considering you’ll be inspecting my equipment and all.”
The blush that had been fading came back full force. “That’s not… I’ll be evaluating the proposed site. For compliance.”
“Of course.” I slid the papers over to her. “When can I expect you?”
She consulted her planner. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock.”
“Great. I’ll clear my schedule.”
“That won’t be necessary. It’s a routine inspection.”
I leaned closer, just enough to catch the subtle scent of her perfume… something clean and citrusy. “Nothing seems to be routine with you, Rowan.”
Those amber eyes flicked up to mine, surprised I’d used her first name, maybe. Or surprised I’d noticed her at all.
“Tomorrow. Two o’clock,” she repeated, firmer this time. “You’d better not stand me up.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I pushed off the counter. “And Rowan? You might want to wear sneakers. Pickleball’s addictive once you try it.”
“I’m not coming to play games.”
I flashed her a grin over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “Aren’t you, though? See you tomorrow, Sergeant.”
As I made my way to the exit, I couldn’t shake the image of Rowan’s face when she’d called me The Butterfly. Like she’d already filed me away under “lost causes.” Well, she was in for a surprise. This damn butterfly was about to prove he could land for good.
