Page 15 of One Last Chance

His house really is as nice as I expected. Either Rowland is one of those perfectionistic minimalists, or he had a cleaner come in, because there is no clutter nor distraction in sight. Everything seems to have its place, sparkling like new—the large key bowl on the table below the long mirror in the hallway, meticulously lined shoes and folded jackets at the dresser by the door, evendried flower arrangement in a vase on a little round table ahead. The plan is open, with the kitchen to the left, somewhat defined by the large island, living room ahead and stairs to the right, with another smaller room I presume to be a sunroom or a toilet further down right.

The colors are natural, tame, and mostly beige. I don’t hate it, but it doesn’t exactly scream personality, either, only status.

There are some pictures at least—one looks like a child’s attempt at surrealism, another is plain and simple kid’s drawing, stick figures and all, but they are framed and displayed with such reverence, I suspect they’re some incredibly expensive modern art wonders.

I realize I’ve been peeping around for a little too long, and quickly find Rowland waiting in the kitchen. “I’m sorry,” I say with a chuckle.

He’s smiling, in a way that says he probably expected it or is at least okay. Once I come close, he steps away from a long, built-in cabinet in the wall by the kitchen counter, and dramatically pointing at it opens its door to reveal a hidden wine fridge. “I promised good wine,” he announces in a charming tone. Looks like he’s getting his footing a little, and I like that.

“Can’t say no to that,” I reply with the same playfulness and step closer. “The real question right now—one that will determine whether this date will even continue—is…red or white?” Cocking one of my brows, I make a serious expression, locking with his eyes.

Rowland’s sharp chuckle, and the way he leans against the glass of the fridge, makes my cheeks heat up. “Red,” he says; hesitant undertones slipping through his mask of confidence.

“That is correct!” I rejoice, showing my teeth in a smile. “Thank god you're one of the good ones. People who drink white wine deserve to be shot on the spot, if you ask me.”

The moment those words leave my mouth, I wonder if I’m not going overboard. We might seem unusually free to be honest around each other, but he might not yet be ready for the full throttle of my stupid humor. Thankfully, the sound that comes from somewhere deep within Rowland’s throat is positive, I think.

“Well, I don’t know if I’d gothatfar… I can honestly do both, but definitely prefer red. It’s healthier too, you know?” He flashes me another knee-buckling glance before opening the fridge and running his fingers across the many, many neatly stacked bottles. “Tell me more,” he says, his back to me.

“Something dry and savory, please.”

Humming the sound of approval, Rowland bends down and searches on the lower shelves. Shamelessly, my eyes land on his ass, and I begin dreading what will happen with the alcohol level in my blood rising.

“I can only have two or three glasses—I’m driving. So don’t bother with anything special,” I add quickly, hoping he’s not picking some expensive bottle.

It takes about a minute of focus for Rowland to speak up again. “I think you’d love this Brunello di Montalcino Sangiovese or…I have this great South African Pinot Noir, but I’d really like it if you don’t drink too much if you’re driving, so this Rawson’s Retreat Cabernet Sauvignon will be perfect I think,” he says, sliding a bottle out with a swift motion and presenting it to me.

“Joyless wine, huh?” I say with a skeptic grimace, glancing at the label.

“Trust me, alright?” Rowland winks, but the second he does, he turns around to get the glasses and the bottle opener. I am glad he does, because my cheeks must be flush with blood that very moment.What is it about this man that turns me into a giddy teenager?“It might be de-alcoholised, but the flavor is still really full and smooth and… You'll like it. I hope,” he sayssoftly. I can’t help but feel like his voice loses on firmness once again, and wonder if he’s also standing there with heat rising to the cheeks hidden by his beard.

As he removes the cork and starts pouring the wine into the glasses, I watch the muscles on his manly, hairy arms flex. They were hidden from me before by the sleeves of his suit, but now that they’re presented in their glory, I can add another pro to my mental checklist I made to convince myself Rowland was less desirable than he really is.

I have to watch myself so that I’m not ogling him with the bottom lip held between my teeth once he finally turns to me.

“This way,” he says, leading us to the living room. A long, L-shaped couch serves as a sort of wall to frame and define the area. There are a lot of neat boxes, cabinets and storage compartments, with everything that could tell me more about him hidden and tucked away.

I try not to judge or see it as a red flag. If he visited my apartment—assuming I wouldn’t have stress-cleaned the whole place—he would have seen a bunch of clutter, stuff I haven’t touched or used in months, unfinished paint jobs, and one too many plants.

God, I…Iammy mother!

Having to work through that realization at a later date, I force myself to be present with a sharp blink just as we’re sitting down. It feels like I haven’t talked at all, and I don’t want Rowland to feel awkward, so I speak. “I was a little surprised when you texted me back after…how I ran away,” I admit, a lump forming in my throat from even remembering it. “Maybe you’re one of those crazy obsessive alphas who senses an omega they want and gets all territorial,” I joke.

Yet another mistake—as I meet eyes with Rowland, a look of stark diffidence washes over his face, but only for a moment.Like he realizes I was joking, he smirks awkwardly and shifts on the couch, resting against the low back.

“No, but…I guess that’s exactly what that sort of person would say, huh?”

I smile, relieved he finds the humor in it as well. Between the sporadic, gut-wrenching moments of insecurity and nerves I haven’t felt around another person since high school, there’s a sense of understanding; warmth spreading through my chest when he gets the joke, or smiles, or tilts his head while narrowing his eyes in that interested way.

“Sorry if it was too forward,” Rowland continues, a little more serious. “I just haven’t had that good of a time in a long while. And you said you were simply tired from work, so I figured I'd take you at your word and believe that.”

I watch the coppery red liquid in the glass I’m swirling.I’m glad you did…

“I made a cheese platter, by the way.” Rowland says swiftly, like he just remembered, and points to the low coffee table next to us I’ve completely ignored.

It does, in fact, have a huge plate in the middle, adorned with several types of cheese, a few pieces of vegetables, olives, and crackers, all displayed meticulously.

My eyes go wide, so much so I see Rowland stiffen again, and I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. “Umm, I think that right now would be a great time for me to come out and say that I’m lactose intolerant.Tadaaa!” I exclaim with a faint celebratory gesture and give Rowland an apologetic grin.

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