She slides off of my lap and turns to look at me, stunned and breathless, and I reach my hand up to cup her face. “Now get some sleep.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Rowan
If I didn’t know any better, I would think that last night was a dream, but the gentle ache in my muscles and the faraway smell of vetiver clung to my skin tells me otherwise.
I make a point to avoid Colt this morning, only getting out of bed when he leaves for his early morning workout, then I get Macie ready for school and head out probably a little too early. We stop to grab fast food breakfast; I don’t think I can even remember the last time we drove through somewhere for breakfast. We take the long, slow route to school while we eat our food before I drop her off.
I can already hear Colt’s voice when I walk into the office – he’s pissed about something, and yelling. In all the time I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him more than frustrated or annoyed. The power behind his voice right now makes me want to turn around and go home, or at least hide in a supply closet with the mops and toner. Normally, I would swing into the room and offer my morning greeting, but I’m a little scared to today.
The calm, controlled man that was in my room last night is nowhere to be seen today.
Opting against my usual approach, I reach forward and knock at the door with my knuckle, poking just enough of my head past the frame of the door for him to see that it’s me, and lower any weapons he might have aimed at the door.
Despite the anger in his voice, directed at whichever poor soul is on the other end of the phone, his features soften when he looks at me and he offers me a small smile, gesturing with one hand to come in. I do as instructed and reach for the pad of paper on his desk to write out a note to him.
Happy Thursday, Mr. Fowler
I slide the notepad across the desk to face him and he reads it, then grins and picks up his pen to scribble out his own note in response.
Happy Thursday, Rowan
Smiling, I move to take off my jacket and set down my things like I always do before going through emails and appointments for the day.
A sudden booming shout from Colt startles me, making me jump as he slams his hand down on his desk and stands, and I take my tablet with me while I scurry out of the room with my heart slamming in my chest and close the door behind me.
I don’t like the sound of angry men. I don’t like when angry men make sudden movements.
The copy room is much quieter, and I find peace in here as I connect my tablet to a printer and start the – thankfully slow – process of printing out Colt’s calendar for the next month, and I plan to organize some of the supplies in here when that’s finished. Literally anything to keep meoccupied and out of his office until he’s finished with his phone call.
I give him a good fifteen minutes before I re-enter the office and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that the phone is back on the receiver. He works to straighten some of the papers that wound up strewn across his desk during the call; probably because he threw them.
“Is…everything okay?” I ask. I’m almost afraid to speak to him until I know that he’s not still in rage monster mode.
Looking at me with a tight smile that doesn’t meet his eyes, he answers, “It will be, and I will personally be putting the children of our entire legal team through college by the end of this. Very good colleges.”
“Oh,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“You weren’t home when I got back.”
It’s like my heart is slamming itself against the bars of its cage, trying to break through my chest, squish out onto the floor and run away. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears.
“I’m sorry,” I offer, lowering my gaze.
A moment of confusion passes over his face before realization hits.
“Oh – Rowan, no, I’m not mad at you.” He walks past me and closes the door, turns the lock, then comes back to face me. His hand comes up to cup my face – the same hand that touched me last night, the same hand he…I look at him, watching his features soften, just for me. “I’m asking if you’re okay.”
“After…?”
“Yes.”
I melt into his touch, letting myself remember the way his hands felt on me, the gentle but commanding way he spoke to me, how good he made me feel all over. Body and mind.
“That was more than okay,” I tell him.
“Good. I wouldn’t want to have made things ‘get weird,’ I think you said?”
