Page 47 of Butcher & Blackbird
“This is very fancy, Butcher,” I say as I run my hand over the leather seat. “We could have taken an Uber, you know.”
Rowan catches my hand and holds it on the empty seat between us as I try not to let surprise flicker across my face. “I’m not taking the most beautiful girl of the night to the social event of the year in a fucking Honda Accord.”
“What’s wrong with a Honda Accord?” I ask as a flurry of butterflies dance across my rib cage. “I drive one.”
Rowan scoffs and rolls his eyes. “No, you don’t. You drive a silver BMW 3 series.”
“Stalker.”
“You’re overdue for an oil change, by the way.”
“Am not.”
“Liar. The car has literally been telling you ‘change my fucking oil, you heathen’ for the last three weeks.”
I guffaw a laugh and whack Rowan on the arm. “How do you know that?”
He grins and shrugs. “Got my ways.” His phone dings in his jacket and he lets go of my hand to read the message with a frown. “Anyway, I thought it would be nice to splurge for a change. It feels like I’ve been stuck with my head down, dealing with problem after problem between the two restaurants. I could use a fun night out with my best friend.”
My heart lurches in my chest as though it’s suddenly facing the wrong way around. Likeeverythingis. The hand-holding. The kiss on my pulse. Maybe I read too much into these small gestures.
What if everything I feel is all in my head?
I clear my throat and straighten my spine, folding both my hands over the sparkling clutch that rests in my lap. “How is it going with the new place?”
Rowan tilts his head side to-side, his focus on the phone screen as he taps out a reply. “Not too bad. A lot of work. We’re still on track to launch in October, but the electrical upgrades have been a bitch.”
“How’s David? Still doing well?”
At this he huffs a laugh, locking his screen before he pockets the device. “Great, actually. I’ve had Lachlan look again recently for any missing persons reports fitting his description, but there’s still nothing. And David’s been a solid helper. He’s steady with the dishes. Reliable. Got him set up in a new group home since the last time we talked—this one brings him over and picks him up for every shift when one of the kitchen staff can’t give him a ride. It works really well.”
“I’m glad,” I say with a smile as I sweep my waves away from my shoulder, a motion that Rowan follows with keen interest before he trains his gaze to the city streets passing by his window.
“Me too. At least one thing is going right at3 In Coach. It feels like everything else has been a bloody circus the last few months. I know it’s part of the nature of the business—shit just breaks and has to be fixed. Stuff inevitably goes wrong. It just…feels like a lot lately.”
I lay a hand on Rowan’s wrist and he glances down at the point of contact before meeting my eyes with a furrowed brow. “Hey, at least you’ve got this award tonight. Third year running, right? I know it’s been shit to manage, but you’re still doing it right.”
Rowan’s expression softens, and for the first time, I notice the subtle hints of stress in his face, the hint of dark circles beneath his eyes.
“And if something really goes South, I know what will help,” I say with a sage nod as his head tilts. His eyes dip to my dimple and narrow. “Beef Niçoise salad.”
Rowan groans.
“With homemade Dijon dressing.”
“Blackbird—”
“And maybe some—”
“Don’t say it—”
“—cookies and cream ice cream for dessert.”
He pokes my ribs and I squeak out some sound I’ve never made before. “You know I have not been able to eat ice cream since then?” he asks as I giggle with the onslaught of jabs. “I used to love ice cream,thankyouverymuch.”
“It’s not my fault,” I wheeze as he finally lets up. “I was just ensuring you were informed of the ingredients, in case you wanted something sweet to follow your one-of-a-kind dining experience.”
“Sure. Very believable.”
