CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HAYDEN
My alarm goesoff in the dark, shrill and unforgiving. And entirely too early for my liking, especially after barely sleeping all night.
I scrub a hand over my face and stare at the ceiling. The house is quiet, wrapped in peaceful stillness. I used to love this time of day. It felt controlled. Predictable.
Now it feels like a countdown.
I’ve been dreading this morning since yesterday. Hell, since Saturday night when I made the colossal mistake of kissing Rowan.
Granted, I saw her yesterday, but there were other people at my mom’s house. Noise. Distractions.
Today there’s no buffer.
Nothing to distract me from what happened between us.
I swing my legs over the side of my bed and sit there for a moment, elbows braced on my knees.
For half a second, I toy with the idea of firing her. Telling her it’s not working out.
But on what grounds?
Because I kissed her and can’t stop thinking about it?
I doubt that would go over well.
Plus, she’s damn good with the kids. Better than good. She’s nurturing and patient in a way my kids haven’t had in a long time.
Not since they lost their mother.
That’s what matters.
That’s all thatshouldmatter.
It doesn’t stop me from remembering the way Rowan felt against me. The way her breath caught when I deepened the kiss. The way her fingers fisted in my shirt.
I quickly shut down the thought and jump to my feet, heading for the shower.
By the time I make my way downstairs, the house smells like pancakes and coffee.
Presley is at the table, her tongue peeking out in concentration as she colors something in her sketchpad. Jemmy is in his high chair, banging a plastic spoon against the tray in an uneven rhythm, singing along to whatever song is in his head.
Rowan is at the stove, her hair pulled up, a soft white sweater slipping off one shoulder, revealing her smooth skin. She flips a pancake with easy precision, then glances my way.
“Morning.” Her tone isn’t cold. But it’s not warm, either.
It’s more polite. Professional. As if reminding me of what our relationship is supposed to be.
“Morning,” I reply, already moving toward the coffee maker.
Normally, I have no problem striking up a conversation with her. I’d ask her how she slept and what her plans were for the day.
I don’t today, trying to keep our interactions to a minimum. All because I don’t trust myself after that kiss.
And how I can’t stop thinking about it. How I can’t stop thinking about pinning her against the wall and tasting her again.
But this time, not stopping.
