“You’re having a bad day.”
“I’m not! Christ, just leave me be!” My voice cracks as I shout, my voice echoing through Main Street. “Shit.”
“Natalia…”
“Leave it alone, Rowan.” I move to break out of his hold. But, if he lets go of me I won’t be able to breathe. “Stop fucking trying so hard,” I snap without thought.
Rowan huffs, a small smirk lining his lips. “All right, Natalia. Fine.”
He releases me, calling my bluff. I’m a fucking idiot for this push and pull I put myself through. And him. Worst of all, him. He and I should not be friends. It’s not good for him when I’m like this.
I hate myself.
I can’t explain this part of my head—the irritability. I wish things didn’t bother me so easily but I can’t control it. Then there’s the guilt that fills me after my snappiness and attitude and angry, thoughtless decisions.
“Rowan,” I sigh.
“I know,” he breathes, patient as ever.
“I’m having a bad day,” I rasp, hushed. “And I just need…fuck, I?—”
“I brought you dinner. Do you want to talk about it?” Rowan asks gently.
“No.” I frown. “But I’m hungry.” I walk away from my car, toward The Black Cat. The thud of his shoes on the sidewalk is the only indication that he’s following behind me as I unlock the front door of my bakery.
I hold the door open—a door I’m proud of picking out and decorating (black matte doors with glass in their center and an intricate design of swirls surrounding it). Silently, Rowan walks in behind me, clutching the paper bag, and claims a table for two as I lock the door. I watch him take off his coat, brushing his hand down the fabric before he hangs it on a coat hook.
It’s silent, save for the hum of the fridge running, and I drown in the graceful movements he makes. Like each one ofthem is made with careful intent, even the way his long fingers pull the sleeves of his black knit sweater up his forearms—exposing muscled forearms with an even blonder dusting of hair than the color on his head.
It’s when his arms fall at his sides that I blink out of my forearm-porn-induced haze, and my eyes flick up to his ocean ones. He throws me a wink-smirk combo before his intentional hands open the paper bag.
“Why did you bring food?” I ask, removing my own coat and tote, and hanging them on a hook beside his as he removes to-go boxes. The aromas make my stomach rumble for the first time today.
Rowan pulls out two more to-go plates from the large paper bag and sets them out, followed by plastic utensils. “I figured you forgot to eat today.”
A frown tugs at my lips so I pull my bottom lip between my teeth to keep it to myself.
“Did you?” Rowan asks and pulls out a seat for me.
I sit in the green seat across from the purple one at the round table “I did,” I admit in a whisper as he sits across from me. “Thank you.”
Rowan unveils the mozzarella sticks first, shredded parmesan drizzled on top with a side of ketchup as my dip. “Your favorite.”
“Thank you,” I murmur and immediately reach for one. I dip, and nearly chomp off a finger when I go for a bite.
“Can I ask you a question?” Rowan asks.
I cover my mouth as I chew. “What?”
“Why do you hate me?”
I blink, swallow the food, and blink again. I forgot I hatehim, or that I’m supposed to make myself hate him. So I shrug.
“Why do you say you do?” Rowan asks again, softer.Sadder.
“Why do you do these things for me?” What I mean to ask is,Why do you keep trying? Why bother? I’m not worth it so why are you doing this? You don’t think you’re wasting your time? Why me?
“Because…” His blue eyes crash into me. “We’re…friends.”
