Page 27 of Love on the Tracks
“That was maybe too enthusiastic?” Valkyries shouldn’t look sheepish.
“Not at all. When Stanley sees these pictures, he’s going to backflip into a giant pile of money, Scrooge McDuck style.”
I like making Rowan laugh, her pink cheeks getting rounder. “Well, as long as we’re making Stanley happy.”
As much as I’d like us to ditch out on the event and head back to my suite, I was actually looking forward to seeing this, and we should give the press more opportunities to spot us. I offer Rowan my arm, even though it means not being able to shove my now-freezing hands in my pockets. “Shall we?”
She shakes her head. Is she going to say she’s got to go? Team meeting or practice or something? I mean, I guess we’ve fulfilled our obligation for a photo op, but—
“You’re a dumbass.”
The laugh rockets right out of me, and I sound like an idiot. She’s maybe right. “What for?”
“Is there only one thing?”
“Kinda hoping so. We haven’t known each other long, and I try to hide my serious dumbassery until I’ve gotten to know a girl better. You know, really sunk my claws into her.”
She shakes her head. “Well, your claws aren’t going to do much sinking if they get frozen and snap off.”
Rowan rummages in her bag, and pulls out a pair of mittens that look a lot like hers. Scratch that—exactly like hers. “Here. These are for you, since I knew you wouldn’t have gotten yourself a pair yet.”
I can’t quite say whether it’s embarrassing or touching she A, knows me so well, and B, has brought me this exceedingly practical gift. I’ll go with touching, especially since there’s no way I’m turning them down.
Taking them from her outstretched hands, I lean down and kiss her again. Not with lust, though that’s always simmering when I’m near her, but with genuine gratitude. “Thanks, Row.”
She ducks her head, and looks away, muttering a quick “Welcome.”
Meanwhile, I suspect I get a little red myself. Calling her Row seems presumptuous somehow. I’ve done it before, but that was right after we’d escaped from a crowd—she was a little overwhelmed. Just because she didn’t object doesn’t mean I should keep doing it if she doesn’t want me to.
“Is that okay? If I call you Row? I won’t, if you don’t like it.”
It’s not often Rowan looks small, because she’s not much shorter than me and she’s built—like in acould-bench-press-me-and-that-is-hot-as-hellkind of way—but she looks that way now. No, not quite small, but bashful? Her shoulders are up by her ears, and even with her mittens on, I can tell she’s making fists.
“Uh, yeah. It’s fine.”
“Hey, I don’t want you just saying that. If you don’t like it—” Christian loses his shit when people call him Chris, and if Rowan feels the same way I don’t want to be a turdblossom.
“You can call me Row. I actually like it. A lot.” She’s fumbling, and it relieves my worries. She’s hot as fuck when she’s all bossy and in control, but I want to hug her when she gets all disconcerted like she is now. “Can we go watch the event?”
I won’t laugh at her, but she’s so frigging cute it makes me want to die. “Yeah, of course.”
Nodding toward the gate, I start walking over. “I’m going to pull on my mittens while we walk. Are these authentic Team USA gear?”
Rowan nods. “Sure are.”
“Are they yours?”
“Yeah. I hope they fit. I could probably rustle up a bigger pair if they don’t, but I thought—”
“Nah, they’re great.” Truthfully, they’re snug, but even if I could only fit a pinky finger in each of them, I’d say the same thing. I like the idea of my hands in the same mittens Rowan’s worn, and it’s cool she didn’t stop at one of the zillions of pop-up shops and get me a pair any tourist could buy. These are special, and I’ll guard them with my life.
Once I’ve tugged them on, I reach out and pull Rowan under my arm, and she wraps an arm around my waist. That’s how we walk into the ski-jumping venue, and I don’t even notice whether there’s press to document this PDA or not. Which is maybe not the best idea given that this is supposed to be a stunt to get attention for the band and for Rowan, but at the moment, I don’t care.
Chapter Eleven
Zane
The next time I see Rowan, it’s at a trendy restaurant where Stanley got us reservations. It’s where a bunch of the celebrities and star athletes and TV personalities have been hanging out. The perfect place for us to have—or pretend to have—a romantic dinner. Because right now, Rowan doesn’t look starry-eyed. Nor does she look like she’s having a good time, which is even more concerning to me. Not because of what might be splashed across the headlines tomorrow, either, although I can see it now:LtG Lead Singer and SIG Luger’s Romance on the Rocks?Ugh.
