Page 57 of Objection Overruled
I study his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the tiny scar on his temple he got from a freak coffee table incident freshman year. Details I shouldn’t remember but do.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
His hands tighten on the wheel. “No.”
“Because you seem?—”
“I’m not nervous, Tessa.”
The way he says my name, all sharp and final, makes me shut up.
But I can feel the nerves radiating off him in waves. Whatever this weekend means to him, it’s bigger than just impressing some partners. It’s something that matters enough to make Rowan King’s composure crack.
* * *
We drive in silence until my stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead.
Rowan glances over. “When did you last eat?”
“I had coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t food.”
“It is if you put enough cream in it.”
He doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just flicks on his turn signal, already decided, and takes the next exit like this conversation was never up for debate.
Five minutes later, we’re parked outside an airport café that is aggressively… fine. Fluorescent lighting, plastic chairs, and a menu board missing half its letters. It’s so painfully normal it throws me. Not exactly what I expected from someone whose coffee maker probably has a PhD.
“You sure this meets your standards?” I ask as we find a table near the window.
He pulls out my chair. “My standards are flexible.”
I stare at him.
He stares back.
Then I sit, because apparently, chivalry isn’t dead, just confusing.
The server—a college student with purple hair and tired eyes—hands us menus. I flip through mine, but Rowan doesn’t even look at his. He just sits there, watching me with crazy intensity.
“What?” I ask, touching my face. “Do I have something?—”
“You’re wearing glitter.”
I glance down. Right. MyBrunch Is My Love LanguageT-shirt. With sparkles. Because I’m nothing if not consistent in my ability to dress for every occasion incorrectly.
“Well, I didn’t exactly dress thinking I’d be abducted at nine a.m.”
“You weren’t abducted. You were collected.”
“Like evidence?”
Something flickers in his eyes. “Something like that.”
The server returns. I order pancakes and orange juice because I’m apparently five years old. Rowan gets a black coffee and eggs Benedict, because of course, he eats like a seventy-year-old.
While we wait, I fidget with my napkin, tearing tiny pieces off the edge.
