Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Something in her expression shifts as she takes me in. She remembers last night. So do I. My chest tightens.
She clears her throat. “Hi.”
“Hey. Hungry?”
Rowan stares at the eggs like they’re holy. “I’m starving,” she admits.
“Eat.”
She picks up the fork, then pauses. Her gaze flicks to me again. “Did you sleep?”
A simple question but it’s loaded as hell.
I keep my voice even. “Enough.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “That sounds like a lie.”
I arch a brow. “Don’t start.”
She smirks, then takes a bite of the eggs. Her eyes close for a second, like the taste is bringing her back to life.
I should look away. Fuck. I don’t. Instead, I watch her chew, watch the tension ease out of her shoulders by degrees. She’s safe right now. In this kitchen. With me. The thought does something to me. Something primal.
She opens her eyes and looks at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “You’re staring.”
“I’m assessing.”
“Assessing what?”
I choose my words carefully. “Whether you’re going to crash later. Adrenaline wears off.”
Her gaze holds mine, too steady for someone who just woke up. “And?”
“You need to stay strong.”
Her mouth curves. “So you made me eggs?”
“Yes.”
“That’s kind of… sweet.”
“It’s practical.”
“Sure,” she says, not buying it. “Practical eggs. Very tactical.”
I feel the corner of my mouth threaten to lift. I stop it.
Rowan eats another bite, then gestures with her fork toward my phone on the counter. “Your brothers?”
“Yeah.”
She swallows. “They okay?”
“They’re breathing.”
“That’s your version of reassurance?”
“It’s the only kind that matters.”
She studies me for a beat, then looks down at her plate again. “What did they find?”
I hesitate.
Rowan looks up immediately, catching it. “Sin.”
“Rowan.”
“Don’t ‘Rowan’ me. You can trust me.”
I laugh. “Trust an investigative journalist?” I raise a brow.
“Everything between us is off the record. Promise.” She steps closer. “I really want you to trust me. You’ve done so much for me.”
I push off the counter and move closer, keeping my voice low. “They found a consultancy tie out of D.C. Name on some old paperwork. Contractor type. Off-book operations.”
Her grip tightens on the fork. “Sounds dirty and messy.”
“Yeah, it is. They’re chasing it now.”
Rowan’s expression hardens, then softens again, like her mind is racing but her body is tired of fear. “And my mother?” she asks quietly. “Is she helping them because of me?”
I nod once. “She said she would. She already did. Funding hit their account last night. Resources too.”
Rowan’s lips part slightly, surprise flickering. “Of course she did.”
There’s something in her tone. Complicated. Love tangled with frustration.
“She cares,” I say, because it’s true.
Rowan’s laugh is soft, almost bitter. “She cares like a general cares about a mission.”
I don’t argue. Elena Sands has that cold precision. But she’s still moving heaven and earth for her daughter.
Rowan takes another bite, then her gaze drifts to me again. Slow. Measuring. “You look… tired,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
She lifts her brows. “Liar.”
I stare at her.
She smiles around her coffee mug, smug and adorable in a way that should be illegal this early.
I shake my head once, a quiet warning to myself. Danger. Not the kind with guns. The kind with pretty brown eyes and a smart mouth and a brave heart.
Rowan sets the mug down and studies me like she’s about to poke at something sensitive. “Last night,” she starts, then stops.
My pulse ticks once, hard. “What about it?”
She swallows. “Thank you. For staying.”
I nod, because if I speak, I might say something I shouldn’t.
Her gaze drops to the table, then back up. “I didn’t have nightmares.”
A small confession. It hits me harder than it should. My chest tightens, sharp and protective. “Good,” I manage.
Rowan’s eyes hold mine, warm and open, and for a second the kitchen feels too small, the air too thick.
My mind flashes back to her asleep beside me. The curve of her mouth. The way her hair fell across her cheek. The insane urge to lean down and taste that softness.
I grip the back of the chair she’s sitting in, knuckles tightening. Control. I need control.
Rowan’s voice is quiet now. “Are you always this… intense in the morning?”
“Yes,” I say.
She smiles, softer. “I don’t mind it.”
That’s the problem. I do. Because I can feel the edge of something dangerous forming between us, something that could distract me. Something that could get her hurt if I let it.
I force my gaze away from her mouth and back to her eyes. “Finish eating.”
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.