I watch her ass sway under that dress as she walks out of my office, fighting the urge to call her back in here, lock the door and bend her over my desk.
“Rowan,” I call out. She turns to face me and I tell her, “I’m taking you home tonight. No discussion.”
“O— Okay, Mr. Fowler,” she says. “Thank you.”
•
“How many cars do youhave?” Rowan asks as I open the passenger door to my Continental GT and wait for her to climb inside.
“Four,” I answer, closing the door behind her. “But I’m looking at a fifth.”
I slide into my own seat and reach behind her, placing my hand against the back of her headrest. When I turn to look behind us, I stop to meet her gaze, just for a second, before reversing out of the parking space.
From the corner of my eye, I can see her hands fidgeting with the hem of her dress as we cruise through the streets, and I wish it was my hands there instead.
“It’s like a space ship in here,” she comments.
“Do you want to drive it?”
I glance over as she practically jumps up in her seat, excitement overcoming her.
“Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
Pulling off to the side of the road, I bring the car to a stop and step out. She doesn’t move to open her own door. Good, she’s figuring it out. I pop open the door for her and extend a hand to help her out of the car.
As she settles behind the wheel, she pulls the seat forward until she’s in a comfortable position then pulls the car into drive, looking over at me, her eyes full of both fear and excitement.
“This is a lot fancier than my car,” she comments. “I don’t wanna wreck it.”
I shrug. “I have insurance.”
A giggle bubbles up from her throat as she puts weight on the gas pedal, propelling us forward. I should be watching the road ahead of us, but I can’t pull my eyes away from her. She smiles the entire time we ride, giggling when she takes a sharp turn or bumps up the speed on an empty patch of road.
It’s like watching a kid let loose in a candy shop, and her overwhelming excitement is contagious.
It isn’t until we pull up in front of her house that the smile leaves her face. As her expression falls, I follow her gaze to the truck on her driveway – scratched, dinged and peeling, parked halfway on the yard. Again.
“Your father?” I ask.
Her only answer is a nod.
“Does he drink?”
“Yeah.”
“Does he hurt you, Rowan?” I don’t mean for my voice to be as rough as it is.
She shakes her head, tapping the spot on her chest just above her heart. Her voice breaks as she whispers, “Only in here.”
My hand finds its way to her knee, offering her a comforting squeeze.
“Do you want him gone?”
“Sometimes,” she admits. “Most of the time, I just want him back.” I’m not sure she even realizes that she leans forward and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you, Colt. That was really fun.”
“Rowan…”
