Page 21 of Rowan: His Exception

"Brought breakfast," she says, holding out a cup. "Figured everyone who got stuck here last night would need it." Her gaze lingers on me, then drops to Rowan's hand, and a slow smile spreads across her face. "Looks like you two found your own way to stay warm."

She presses the coffee into my hand, and when I take it, she leans in close enough that only I can hear. "Good for you, honey," she whispers. Then she winks before turning back to her truck. "See you around, Cross."

Rowan watches her go, surprise flickering across his face. "What the hell was that?"

I take a sip of the coffee, scalding and perfect. "That," I say, "was a woman who recognizes another woman who has finally chosen herself."

I climb in the passenger seat of Rowan’s truck, and he climbs in beside me. He starts the engine and pulls out onto the road. Instinctively, his hand finds mine on the center console, our fingers threading together, like they belong this way.

Like we belong this way.

Together.

Chapter Eight

Epilogue

Rowan

Six months later…

The truck rumbles up the gravel drive, and I feel it in my chest. It’s the same road I’ve taken for years, the same one I took the morning I found her at Lou's, eating eggs like she was punishing them.

Now it's more than just the commute home.

Claire's Subaru is already in the drive, parked crooked like always, half in the gravel and half on the grass. I pull in beside it and kill the engine. The cabin looks different now in late afternoon light. It’s fuller. I used to come back alone, to four walls surrounding the bare minimum and silence. Now I come home. Where every inch has her in it, her boots on the porch, her jacket hung on the hook I carved into the wall because she kept leaving it on the floor.

I grab the groceries from the passenger seat. She sent a list this morning, which means she plans to cook, which means the kitchen will be a disaster and the food will be worth it.

The door isn't locked, and hasn't been since she moved in. I told her a dozen times, mountain or not, you lock the fucking door. She just looks at me, with that same look from the day we met. Make me.

I step inside, and the smell hits me. Garlic, something burning, and her.

She's standing at the old cast iron stove she refuses to let me replace in one of my old t-shirts, bare legs, hair tied up in a messy knot on top of her head that's already falling.

She doesn't turn around.

"You're late."

"Traffic." I set the bags on the counter and move up behind her, resting my hands on her hips, my chin resting on her shoulder. She smells like lavender soap underneath the smoke. "What are you burning?"

"Nothing." She elbows me, but she leans back into me, ass pressing exactly where she knows it gets me. "It's caramelized."

"Baby, it's black."

"Rowan, stop. It's caramelized." She removes it from the burner and finally turns to look at me. No makeup, cheeks flushed from the heat, that defiant set to her jaw that made me want her in the first place. "How did the new group do?"

"Fine. There are eight, two of them might actually survive if it decides to flood again."

"That’s good, right?"

“Babe, I was being sarcastic,” I laugh.

“Smart ass,” she comes back at me.

"They listened. Mostly." I slide my hands under the shirt, palms flat against her stomach. She's softer now than she was then. Not weaker. She’s settled into herself. Into us. “Asher called. He wants me to go with him to look at some new logging equipment before the season starts.”

She goes still for half a second. Still not too fond of him. "Are you going?"