“Well, maybe don’t,” I muttered, which only made her laugh harder.
She pushed off with one boot, spinning the chair in a lazy half-circle before letting it come to an abrupt stop. Then she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, eyes narrowing with laser-focused intent.
“Spill,” she demanded—Rowan in full interrogation mode.
“Spill what?”
“How long have we been friends?”
College. Day one. I’d walked into the communal lounge of our freshman dorm carrying a stack of orientation papers I hadn’t read, wearing a shirt my mother insisted made me look “approachable.” Rowan was already there, feet on the table, half-asleep over a coffee the size of her head. Someone had left abox of battered secondhand paperbacks on a chair, and when another freshman rifled through them, tossing a dog-eared sci-fi novel toward the trash, Rowan caught it one-handed and said, “Hey, that’s a classic.”
I’d turned. “You’ve readthat?”
She’d blinked at me, sizing me up like she was deciding whether I was worth her oxygen. “Have you?”
We ended up talking for three hours—books, film scores, the absolute tragedy of cafeteria coffee. By the time we realized the sun had set, we’d already fallen into the kind of easy rhythm people usually take years to build.
So, yeah. A long time.
“Too long,” I said with a sigh.
“So, you’re personally invested in Corporal Morgan Armitage and his daughter.”
“Is that a question or a statement?” Another eyebrow—honestly, would it kill people to use actual words instead of communicating exclusively through facial gymnastics? “Yes, I’m invested. And—” I blew out a breath. Screw it. “I kissed him. And I’m taking him and Gabbi on a date.”
She stared at me. Blinked once. Twice. “I’m sorry—you’re doingwhatnow?”
“You heard.”
She bit her lip—a tell, the same one she’d had since college. She was choosing her words, probably gearing up to say this was reckless, too fast, that Morgan was vulnerable, and the legal landscape was a minefield I had no business tap-dancing across. And just like that, my brain took off—worst-case scenarios, custody threats, me screwing everything up. Perfect. Now I was spiraling.
“Cool. I like him,” she said instead.
“Huh?”
“He’s shown up in your life at the strangest possible moment, carrying enough baggage to fill a cargo hold—but you’re a good man, Cole, and the two of you could actually be good for each other. And, selfishly? I’d finally get to call myself an unofficial but super cool aunt.”
“Oh. So, a date is okay?”
Rowan narrowed her eyes at me. “Yep, now where exactly is this date happening?”
I froze. “Why does that matter?”
“Because I know you,” she said, pointing at me. “You’ve overthought it, researched it, made a spreadsheet?—”
“I did not make a spreadsheet.”
“—and whatever you picked is either going to be adorable or a disaster. So? Spill. Where are you taking them?”
I sighed. “I was thinking… the Chicago Children’s Museum. They’ve got this sensory area—bright, soft, safe. Perfect for babies Gabbi’s age.”
Rowan’s mouth twitched. “Aw. You’re trying. That’s cute.”
“But is it a good idea?” I asked, suddenly uncertain. “Too much? Too forward? I’ve spent way too long googling child-friendly date ideas, and—look, don’t judge me—but I now know more about developmental sensory play than any man without a kid probably should.”
She snorted. “Cole, that’s sweet. And not in the ‘you’re pathetic’ way. In the actual sweet way.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “I’ve been ignoring paperwork. Lennox has already come in here three times because I keep initialing the wrong lines. And instead of fixing the mistakes, I’m looking up things like ‘best baby sensory environments Chicago’ and ‘first date ideas for single dads and their kids who deserve the entire world.’”
