Page 56 of If the Ring Fits

I laugh. “That’s the right attitude.”

“Damn straight.” She tucks the money into her pocket, then tilts her head. “What’s your poison, Bunny? Let me guess, black coffee?”

I grin, shaking my head. “Cappuccino, actually. With a sprinkle of cinnamon, if they have it.”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Really? I pegged you for a straight-up espresso kind of guy.”

“What can I say? I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

“A sweet tooth, huh? Well, in that case, you can have all the sugar in the world.” Her smile is blinding, it could send me flatlining.

“I’ll hold you to that,” I manage, and she grins.

“Be right back.” She turns and heads into the coffee shop, an extra sway in her step.

I watch her go, my chest tight and expanded all at once. Pride, affection, admiration and something deeper, something I’m not quite ready to name, swirl inside me like a whirlwind.

That evening, I walk into the kitchen and almost backtrack at the sight of Rowena bent over the oven, pulling out a tray of mini quiches, her pert butt sticking up in the air. Instead, Ifreeze on the threshold, savoring the aroma of spinach and feta filling the air and the view.

I suck at keeping my distance. I haven’t worked a single hour today. Just this morning I was helping her handle the train wreck with her ex, and now we’re playing house prepping appetizers for a dinner party?

Rowena must sense my arrival because she peeks over her shoulder, saying, “These smell amazing.”

Her hair is piled in a messy bun, a few errant curls framing her face, oven mitts dwarfing her delicate hands.

“One of Rosa’s specialties,” I reply, stepping into the kitchen and helping her transfer the golden pastries to a platter. A task so domestic I can hardly believe I’m a part of it. “Along with the stuffed mushrooms and bacon-wrapped dates.”

“You weren’t kidding about going all out.” Rowena surveys the spread with an impressed whistle. “I hope my friends are hungry.”

“About that…” I raise an eyebrow. “Remind me again why I’m subjecting myself to this inquisition?”

“Oh hush, they just want to meet you.” She swats me with an oven mitt. “Make sure your intentions are pure and all that.”

“My intentions? I’m a perfect gentleman,” I deadpan, earning an eye roll.

Truth is, my intentions are becoming less gentlemanly by the minute. Especially after our brief excursion this morning—the ex-boyfriend confrontation, the long, spontaneous walk home across the Brooklyn Bridge with the Manhattan skyline glittering in the distance. All it was missing for us to look like a full-fledged couple was to hold hands.

I’m in over my head, and I know it. Rowena has stormedpast all my carefully crafted walls as if they were made of tissue paper.

“Well, the table’s set, the wine’s breathing, the food’s ready…” She ticks off a mental checklist. “We’re in good shape.”

I follow her gaze to the living room table set for six.

“Why is your best friend bringing her boyfriend and her brother? Are they supposed to be the muscle in case I misbehave?” I muse, only half-joking.

“We’re a tight-knit group.” She side-steps the question. A chime from the second oven timer saves her from having to elaborate.

I watch her bustle around the kitchen like she belongs here.

With me.

I shake off the dangerous thought and grab the platter of quiches. The sooner we get this dinner party started and over with, the better. Because right now, playing house with Rowena is feeling far too real—and far too tempting.

Rowena sets down a tray of crab cakes next to the quiches and turns to me, her head tilted quizzically. “Can I ask you something?”

She says it casually, but I’m afraid she’s about to ask something deeply personal. I could say no, but there’s no point in pretending we’re not at least friends—if not already more.

“Sure.” I nod, bracing myself.

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