Rowan’s smile lingers as she takes another bite. And I realize, with a certainty that tastes like trouble, that protecting her body is the easy part. Protecting my own discipline is going to be the fight.
SIX
ROWAN
Sin Hawthorne is the kind of problem women write into books when they’re tired of dating men who think “communication” is sending a thumbs-up emoji after three days of silence. It’s unfair. It’s statistically offensive. It should be regulated.
He stands at the counter with a mug of coffee in his hand, shoulders broad under a fitted black T-shirt like the fabric is making a personal sacrifice. His hair is still slightly messy from sleep, not in a cute romcom way, more in a “I woke up and chose competence” way. His jaw has a faint shadow that makes him look like he never wastes time on anything that doesn’t matter.
Including feelings, probably.
And then there’s his eyes. They’re light, focused, constantly tracking. Like he’s cataloging the world in real time, sorting threats from non-threats, deciding what gets close and what doesn’t.
I know I should stop staring. But I can’t. He’s so good-looking. No, he’s more than that. So much more. He’s gorgeous. Likemaybe in another life he could have been a movie star. An action star. He’s definitely got the body for it.
But it’s more than his face. It’s what he does with it. The restraint. The stillness. The way he carries himself like a weapon.
I stab a piece of bacon and pretend that’s the reason my pulse keeps doing stupid things.
He told me to finish eating like he’s my coach and my warden at the same time. Normally, I’d be offended, except he made me eggs, and my body has decided eggs are now intimate.
I swallow, set my fork down, and take another sip of coffee. The mug’s warm in my hands. The kitchen’s quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house settling.
Safe house quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think. I don’t want to think. Thinking leads to realizing that my life is currently a moving target, and my phone has been tattling on me like a snitch with a data plan. So instead I think about Sin.
Which is also dangerous, just in a completely different way.
He turns slightly, glancing toward the window, then back to me. “You done?”
I lift my chin. “Yes.”
He takes the plate without a word, rinses it, and sets it in the sink. Efficient. Controlled. Like he does not believe in lingering.
I watch his hands. Long fingers. Strong. Clean nails. No rings. A faint scar near one knuckle. The hands of someone who’s done things he doesn’t talk about. My brain, which is supposed to bein survival mode, offers up a vivid, completely unhelpful thought about those hands on my waist.
I choke on my coffee.
Sin’s head snaps toward me. “You alright?”
“Yes,” I croak. “Just inhaled wrong.”
He studies me like he’s deciding whether coffee is now a threat. “I can Heimlich you,” he jokes.
“I hate that I find that reassuring,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. He fails by a fraction. That fraction is lethal. He wipes the counter with a towel, then leans back against it, arms crossing. The casual stance doesn’t match the intensity of his gaze. “Tell me about the story,” he says.
My brain stutters, trying to switch gears from Sin’s forearms to organized crime. “Which part?” I ask. “The part where powerful people are laundering money, or the part where someone turned my phone into a surveillance device.”
“Start with the money,” he says. “Then the names.”
I nod slowly, gathering myself. This is what I do. I connect dots. I chase patterns. I make dangerous men uncomfortable. I tell him more than I told Cal. Not because I’m reckless, but because Sin looks at me like he can handle the truth.
I explain the nonprofit network again, but this time I go deeper. The donor lists. The contracts. The way a few specific names kept popping up in places they didn’t belong. The fundraiser where I asked about a contract number tied to a “consulting group” that was allegedly providing crisis management.
Sin’s expression stays controlled, but I see the moment something catches.
“Crisis management,” he repeats.
