Chapter 16

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Moving in with the grump—AKA a romcom.

Briar

"This is ahead of schedule," Lace says as she stuffs the things she's bringing with her to The Casa into a single duffle bag. Despite having four times as much luggage, Chip finished packing hours ago.

I will not be drawing attention to that, though.

That would be cruel.

Lifting a shoulder, I scroll through my personal phone for information about the restaurants near The Casa. After all, it's only logical that Rowan would take his fiancee out for a celebratory dinner after she moves in with him. It has nothing to do with my own personal wishes. Obviously. "That unexpected kiss a couple weeks ago really accelerated my timeline."

Lace stops cramming ten tank tops into her bag. "What?"

I blink. Look up. "What?"

A feral gleam spreads her smile wide, and she bounces onto the bed beside me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "A kiss? What kiss?"

Oops. I forgot. I only told Chip about my wee mistake since I normally only have girl talk with him. I suppose all my plotting energy has been sapped as of late. It takes a lot of mental power to gaslight, gatekeep, and girlboss. Clearing my throat, I say, "There may have been a kiss."

"He kissed ya?"

"No."

She claps a hand to her mouth. "Ya kissed him? Bossette, that's assault."

My eyes roll. "It was a questioning little peck. And he didn't tell me to stop. So I'm going to go with no, it wasn't."

She shrugs. "Men are wolves. Even the ones in sheep's clothing. Ya never know when one of them's gonna crack." Her lips curl. "Why, just last night you wouldn't believe what Chip—"

"Lace." I'm recalling why I don't ever broach the subject of romance with Lace. Chip's notions of affection lean toward emotions. His wife's focus is more physical. "I don't need to know about private matters with your husband."

She sucks her teeth and returns to her over-stuffed duffle bag. The zipper truly doesn't have a prayer. "You're too innocent for the roles ya put yourself in, Bossette."

Overly confident, perhaps. Innocent? I don't think so.

Innocent people don't coordinate how to break people, and succeed, time and again. Innocent people don't understand enough about the world to effectively tear lives apart like I do. Innocent will only ever be the guise I present as a tool to attain my goals of destruction.

"Hey, Lace?"

"Hm? Yeah?" She wrestles with the zipper, regardless of the fact I'm certain it's busy writing its will.

"Am I a horrible person?"

"If monsters had a contest, you'd win."

Chewing my lip, I return my attention to my phone and tap a picture of an extravagant Asian restaurant. "Well. I do like winning."

Lace breaks the zipper and mutters a swear before she begins searching for a different bag.

I skim the sushi menu while my mind works. Oriental food can be an acquired taste, sushi especially is a love it or hate it kind of thing. In order to convince Rowan that he wants to take me out—when I know he most definitely does not—I need to rely on things he does like.

Familiarity.

Pasta is usually safe.

Even if we weren't Italian somewhere deep in our heritage, close enough to link us to the mafia…and far back enough to juice all the olive tone out of that poor boy's skin…pasta is generally safe.

Logically, it's easier to manipulate someone into doing something they want to do.

Perhaps I should opt to throw together another PowerPoint. It worked in getting Rowan to agree to the amusement park, and I do believe dinner has lower stakes, so I can skip a spreadsheet this time. No mafia boss with info-posters plastering their meeting room walls can resist a solid PowerPoint. Even if every cell in them revolts at the ideas being presented.

Possibly…however…the kiss helped my case before.

Kissing impacts the frontal lobe. Shuts it down. Makes thinking hard.

Turning off Rowan's ability to reason is not really the method I want to employ.

It is not ideal to make my pet treat-reliant.

Obedience should stem from trust and care, not a shot of oxytocin.

Brushing a finger over my lips, I hum and search specifically through Italian restaurants. Cheese and gluten. The backbone of society. Sucks to be a lactose intolerant celiac in this dairy, carbohydrate world. Thank goodness for the strides vegan and gluten-free options have taken. Some of that fake stuff even melts now, and the bread is…almost bread like, last I checked.

If twice the price and half the size.

This place has paninis. If Rowan liked the sandwich Chip made for us, mentioning the option of paninis might be a good angle.

Lace snaps her fingers in my face, and I drag my attention up off the screen. "Yes?"

"I'm done packing. And you're getting lost in a very simple decision. Picking a restaurant isn't that deep."

My brow arches as I lock my phone. "Everything is ‘that deep'." Falling back onto my bed, I cross my arms beneath my head and close my eyes. "We live in a spiderweb of minute decisions that cause vibrations down a thousand other strings. If I don't account for every potential detail, I'll wind up stuck in the strands."

"Are ya sure this obsession's not a trauma response?"

Yawning, I crack an eyelid at her. "How dare you."

"Just wondering." She sniffs. "I mean, it's not like I'm the one psychoanalyzing the world. I'm just along for the ride. But overthinking is a concern, and last I checked, it wasn't healthy."

"Neither is underthinking. That leads to stupidity."

"I'm almost positive there's a balance between the two."

I let my eyes close again. "Sure, but who's going to calibrate the scales? How can anyone even begin to measure the hidden thoughts that spill behind every person's eyes?"

"Whatever ya say, Aristotle. Just tryin' to look out for you."

Well, if that's all this is.

I sigh. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

?

After the eighteenth trip, Rowan's closet contains more dresses than he's likely seen in his entire life, his will to live has depleted, and I'm almost fully moved in.

Did I need to pack this much stuff? Ha. Absolutely not. It's merely all part of the process.

The invasion, if you will.

Right now, Rowan is clinging to the reality his parents forged for him. He's hesitant to act, in case he's acting in the way they trained him to. He doesn't trust himself. He doesn't see his goodness beyond the scars his childhood left on his soul.

The only way to break him of his past is to overturn his present.

He needs to snap. Completely. And not beat himself up for it.

Hefting a final box onto his dresser, I begin arranging my shoes in a neat row beside his on a rack in his closet. "Pet?"

Rowan grunts.

"We should go out to dinner tonight. To celebrate moving in together. It's a very expected thing for couples, and we must keep up our appearances."

His fingers streak through his dark hair, and he sighs. "Where do you want to go?"

Oh? What's this? Cooperation? What an unlikely turn of events. Maybe I did overthink things earlier. "A little Italian place on the north side. They have sandwiches, pizza, pasta. The usual caboodle."

He mouths caboodle, closes his eyes as though in physical pain, and rubs his temple. "Fine."

Will wonders never cease? "It's a formal place. Your closet is full of dress shirts and suits. I'll pick one out for you—"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Suits are uncomfortable. Ties should be outlawed. I only dress nice for meetings and testy clients, then I'm back in my t-shirts and jeans as soon as possible. If you insist that I wear a suit out to dinner, on my own time, I will not take you."

My heart skips a beat. "Well now. You picked boundaries up fast."

His eyes open as his head cocks against the bed post. Silent and predatory, he watches me, challenging.

A headache blooms at the base of my skull, and I'm the first person to look away. "You're adorable, Rowan."

"Adorable?" he grumbles.

"Completely. Perhaps the most adorable man I've ever met. I can't wait to see you in a tux on our wedding day and know you're suffering the discomfort just for me." I take my time arranging the assortment of tiny glass snakes I brought on his dresser. "So romantic."

A bracing inhale fills his chest. "If I'm wearing a tux, you're not allowed to wear a cream puff."

A cream puff? I look down at my current outfit, discover it is remarkably similar to a cream puff, and hum. "Are you saying you don't like my clothes?"

Weary, he murmurs, "You know how some animals have markings that ward off predators?"

"Yes?"

"Your clothes are like that. But the opposite."

I stuff the resulting laugh deep down in my chest. "So what you're saying is that my clothes invite predators?"

"Yes."

"Good thing you aren't a predator, then."

"I lack the same faith in the rest of my family. You look vulnerable. What happened to black outfit you had that one time?"

"My torture garb? You prefer my torture garb?"

"Prefer is a strong word. I'd prefer you wear baggy shirts and jeans. Anything less inviting. You don't make it ten feet through my grounds without someone looking at you in a way that enrages me."

Resting my hip against the dresser, I face him. "So what you're saying is I should cover up because your men don't know how to control themselves? Shouldn't we make a point of teaching them instead of whatever nonsense is going through your head right now?"

Dry as the Sahara desert, Rowan peers into my very soul. "The nonsense going through my head right now is that if people keep staring, I'm going to have to collect a jar of eyes."

I brighten.

"Which isn't an option. We're fabricating a relationship, right?"

"Correct," I chirp.

"Then work with me on some kind of compromise here."

"I'm going to be a distraction to your men no matter what I'm wearing."

He sighs. "Of that I am painfully aware."

"So what's the point?"

His jaw locks, and his gaze slices downward.

Silence permeates as realization dawns on me.

Ah.

I see how it is.

It's not about his men.

The idea of sharing a room with me when I look so inviting scares him. He'd prefer I dress in leather and knives, because at least then getting accidentally too close might cut. He's being quiet and compliant because he's fighting to process the changes I'm imposing on him.

Kindly, I reference his closet. "I agreed not to embarrass you. Dress me, baby, if it'll make you feel better."

A swear hisses past his lips as he crumples in on himself. Palms to face, he mutters, "Briar, have you never once heard of self-preservation?"

"You can undress me, too. If you want."

His head lifts, a perfect glower twisting his red face. If looks could kill…

At this point, I am beginning to wonder if smiling is in his genetic code. He is ever so adept at frowning.

Standing, he marches into the closet. It takes five gloriously peeved seconds before he turns on me. "Do you own nothing normal?"

"Define ‘normal'."

"Jeans." The word is a grumble—a gruff, disparaged sound.

I snuggle myself into the closet with him and tug on the hem of a jean dress. There's so much tulle and lace that the skirt's practically a tutu, but technically… "Jeans." I beam at him, as though I'm awaiting praise for procuring the requested fabric.

Weariness saturates his poor dark eyes. "Actual jeans, Briar."

Releasing the dress, I ignore his personal space and glance down the broad expanse of his body, to the dark wash pair of jeans he's currently wearing. "I could borrow yours."

"They wouldn't fit."

"That is a boring answer. Do you know how to flirt at all?"

He blinks slow, like a cat toying with the idea of knocking something off a table. "No."

My hand lifts before I register the intention behind the action. I touch his rough cheek, feel the prickle of his five o'clock shadow against my fingertips.

Our gazes hold one another, and the breathless instant stalls, dragging out. The closet light cuts across his sharp jawline, highlighting the masculinity he bears. He's…well-sculpted.

Beautiful.

My smile drifts away into the foreign quiet, and, once again, I find myself acting before I understand my intention when I say, "I could teach you."

"To flirt?" His hand lifts, grasps mine, and returns it to my side. "I'd rather not learn."

I giggle. "That's fair. Knowing how to flirt might make you too powerful. And then what will I do with myself?" Wetting my lips, I regain an inch of space between us. "Well? What do you want me to wear?"

His harsh gaze slashes across my clothes, before his head shakes. "Whatever you want. You have no decent clothes, so it's meaningless for me to pick something."

A light bulb turns on in my head, and Rowan's twitch is the only indication any deviousness reflects on my face. Pulling my phone out of a deeply hidden pocket in my pouncy skirt, I chirp, "If you wanted to take me clothes shopping, you could have just said so."

"I didn't—"

I lift my phone to my ear as I march out of the closet.

"Who are you call—"

"Hello, Corbin? Can you handle all Rowan's meetings for tomorrow afternoon?"

Rowan goes board-stiff as Corbin responds, "Of course, but what's the occasion?"

"He wants to take me shopping."

Disbelief taints Corbin's tone. "He wants to?"

"He said so himself," I protest.

"I did not," Rowan grumbles.

I shush my fiance. "He said I have nothing decent to wear."

"Now, that I believe," Corbin muses, chuckling.

You know what? I rather like Corbin. I'm glad Rowan appointed him as consigliere when everything turned upside down. It's good to have reliable, upbeat advisors who know how to smile. Especially when that isn't a certain someone's strength.

"Briar," Rowan hisses. "I did not suggest that—"

I put my finger to his lips, and for the splitiest of seconds, he twitches. Then he grips my wrist, reels me in, and grabs my phone. Pressing it to his ear, he says, "Cor—" His grip tightens. "Stop laughing."

That makes me laugh, and distress rushes off poor Rowan in tsunami-sized droves.

A moment later, my world spins, and my back hits Rowan's chest as his hand clamps to my mouth, muffling my laughter. A tickle of heat runs up my spine, and I could bite his hand. I could. Alternatively, I could lick it. Given this precarious position he's put us in, I have such marvelous options. And he couldn't blame me for a thing.

"Handle my meeting for tonight, too," Rowan says, and I pause my deliberation. A few moments pass while I temper my piranha tendencies and listen intently. "I'm taking her to dinner."

That makes my heart flutter. For some reason. Maybe I just like the idea of someone taking me to dinner. No one has ever taken me to dinner before.

"Stop laughing," he growls. "I am perfectly capable of taking a woman to dinner." His hold around me tightens shortly before he snaps, "Italian." His fingers dig into my skin. "It is not for the sake of branding. Just take care of the meeting, you—" Swearing, he hangs up and heaves an exasperated breath.

I can still feel the coil of his arm around my chest long after he's planted my phone back in my hand and released me.

Pacing back and forth in front of me a few times, Rowan rakes his fingers through his hair, then grumbles, "Why do you have Corbin's number?"

"Networking is important."

His eye twitches. Clapping a palm to his face, he mutters, "Right. How foolish of me." Adamant, he straightens, points, commands, "Get ready to go."

"Get ready to go, please?"

His eyes roll skyward, but I get a begrudging please out of him, so I do as I'm told.