CHAPTER 9
LOLA
The rain continues to fall steadily around us as we eat lunch, when I insist on helping Rowan clean up, and after, when he commands me to sit down in the living room so he can take a look at my foot.
Even if it’s the tiniest bit of information in the world — that he has agood reasonfor hiding out here — he’s sharedsomethingwith me, and it makes me feel good.
But maybe someone should have warned Rowan about people like me. He might have thought that little tidbit would be enough to satiate me, but no. I’m like the mouse you shouldn’t give a cookie to. When I saw something pass over his face — grief, embarrassment,anger? — at the topic of his seclusion, it’s like my brain latched onto it.
And now I’m burning with even more curiosity than before.
Who could he be, hiding out here like this?
Maisie likes to read books about criminals and mafia men who fall in love with regular girls. Rowancouldbe a mafia guy, hiding out here after betraying the family. Or he could be a moresophisticated criminal, whiling away his time in the wilderness after pulling off the heist of the century.
But there’s something about him that tells me that, for him, being out here isn’t just a temporary break from civilization. He doesn’t move around this cabin with the air of a guy who can’t wait to leave. In fact, it seems more likely that he never plans to come back to civilization at all.
He could be a prince from another country, or a journalist, like me. Someone who spoke out against a corrupt government and is now hiding away from his home country. That would explain all the books, but it wouldn’t explainthisplace.
Fully camouflaged. Somehow both imbued with technology and rustic at the same time. A wood stove, but a highly sensitive security camera system (which I spotted in the corner of the living room, though the screen was tucked away against the wall, like Rowan didn’t want me seeing it).
His accent sounds American to me, and he seems so vaguely familiar that it kind of drives me wild when I look at his face for too long.
Like I’m doing now.
“Let me see,” Rowan says, and his hand sliding along the inside of my ankle makes me gasp, my teeth sinking into my lip in an attempt to muffle the noise. He glances up at me, his grip slackening, and it’s clear he’s worried he’s hurt me before his gaze darts to my lip, darkens, and quickly darts away.
“Sorry,” I breathe, clearing my throat. “Didn’t expect it, is all.”
He nods and says nothing, gently turning my ankle from side to side, examining it. Before getting in the shower, I’d undone thewrappings and winced at the sight of my ankle — still round and purple — underneath.
“You shouldn’t be putting weight on it,” Rowan says, shaking his head and looking up at me. “Maybe I can find something and make you a pair of crutches.”
That makes me laugh. “A real MacGyver. You could probably win the Ecotra trip.”
He sits back, reaching for a new set of wrappings, flicking his eyes up to me briefly. “Your sponsorship?”
Something we learn about interviewing in journalism classes is that most of the time, your best method is going to be staying quiet — let the silence sit until the person starts to spill. But I’ve already seen Rowan sit absolutely comfortably in silence, and I hate that method, anyway.
Another tactic is to open up. Tell them about yourself, and they might be more likely to share, too.
“Well, not yet.” I sigh, trying to focus on what I’m saying, rather than the brush of his skin against mine, the electric pulse it sends all the way up my shin and through my knee. If I focus on that, I’m going to start fantasizing about sliding off the couch and into his lap, just to see what his reaction might be. “And probably not ever.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know if you couldn’t tell from the wholefell on your porch in the middle of the nightthing, but I’m not super outdoorsy, I guess.” Rowan is quiet, wrapping my ankle deftly, and I look over his shoulder, focusing on the wall of books behind him. “I mean, I used to be. But not anymore. And theEcotra thing… the company is all about nature. Well, the blend between nature and city. I need to show that I can go from an urban setting to a rural one seamlessly. Backpacking through the mountains one day and twirling in a sundress in the city square the next.”
“Wow, seems like a big ask.”
“There are a lot of influencers who can pull it off,” I say, feeling defensive of the company, though I also feel like it’s a big ask.
He gently releases my ankle and starts to pack up his supplies. “So, if there are a lot of influencers who can pull it off, and you’re not really outdoorsy — not anymore — then why are you going after it? Aren’t there other opportunities you can pursue?”
“None that will get me far enough away.” The second I say it, I wince, realizing this wholeshare-with-himtactic is going a little too far. That I’m straying too close to the core of me, and as much as I want to pick Rowan apart and figure out what he’s doing out here, I don’t exactly want to bare allmyinnards to do it.
“Do you have any Tylenol?” I ask, interrupting him before he can follow up on what I’ve just said. He narrows his eyes at me.
“Ibuprofen would be better,” he says after a second, his eyes still intently on me. “For the swelling. Are you allergic?”
