Chapter Five
Two birds.
One stone.
Brilliant.
That’s the conclusion I reach as I stand outside Rowan Hale’s apartment door, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape my ribcage.
I spent the entire ride home replaying dinner. Then I paced my apartment for twenty minutes. Then I marched straight over here before logic could catch up and tackle me to the ground.
The whiteboard beside his door is still there—our shared message board for emergency snack runs and unnecessary commentary.
Me: Why does your lavender-chamomile tea taste better than mine?
Rowan: Because I don’t forget it exists halfway through brewing.
My knuckles rap against the door in a nervous rhythm.
This is a terrible idea.
A catastrophically bad one.
But desperate businesses require desperate solutions, and my matchmaking career is currently doing a dramatic swan dive off a cliff.
We still live stupidly close. Three years ago, when Mom remarried, I moved out. Rowan just happened to mention a place opening next door to his apartment. A miracle price. Practically charity.
Sometimes I wonder if he bribed the landlord.
I knock again. Harder this time.
If he doesn’t answer, that’s fate telling me to go home and rethink my life choices.
The door swings open.
Rowan stands there, hair damp, skin warm, water droplets tracing slow paths down his bare chest like they’re aware of what they’re doing.
Oh.
Oh no.
“Is something wrong?” His brows knit instantly. “You know you don’t have to knock.”
Words leave me. Entirely.
Because my best friend is shirtless.
And unfairly attractive.
And dripping water like some kind of fitness-instructor mirage.
A droplet slides over his collarbone. Lower. Between muscles I absolutely should not be cataloging.
Do not look.
Do not count.
Do not acknowledge the fact that his torso looks like it was designed by someone with personal vendetta against my self-control.
“Is?” His mouth quirks. “You look… frozen.”
“I—important business,” I blurt. “Urgent. Very. Extremely urgent.”
He leans against the doorframe, one arm flexing casually.
This should be illegal.
“Come in,” he says. “I’ll grab a shirt.”
My shoulder brushes his chest as I pass him, and the contact sends a sharp zing straight down my spine.
He doesn’t move away.
I absolutely cannot think about that.
His apartment is neat, cool-toned, everything exactly where it belongs. The bookshelf near the window holds our shared collection—dog-eared paperbacks, notes tucked inside spines.
Not the romance novels.
Those stay hidden.
My phone buzzes.
UNKNOWN: Hi Isla. It’s your dad.
The room tilts.
Seven-year-old me flashes through my mind—standing at the window, clutching a teddy bear, watching taillights disappear into the dark.
I lock the screen and shove the phone away.
Spam.
Has to be.
Rowan comes back dressed, thankfully. He sits beside me, close enough that his scent—cedar and soap—settles my racing thoughts.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Fine. Just junk messages.”
He studies me for a beat, then nods. “Can we clear something up first?”
My stomach drops.
“That day. After Greg. You asked me—”
“Nope,” I cut in instantly. “No memory. Deleted. Gone.”
His jaw tightens. “You think I rejected you.”
I clap a hand over his mouth before my dignity disintegrates entirely.
“Absolutely not a real thing,” I rush. “Sunstroke. Hallucination. Shared delusion.”
His lips are warm under my palm.
Oh no.
I yank my hand back like I’ve touched fire.
“Clear?” I ask.
“If you say so.”
The silence stretches.
I lunge for the remote—and my shoulder screams.
Rowan’s instantly behind me, hands warm and sure as they settle where the pain lives.
“Still bothering you,” he murmurs.
“I’m fine.”
“You carried those speakers,” he says quietly. “You could’ve called me.”
Something in my chest softens painfully.
“What’s this urgent mission?” he asks.
I inhale. Exhale.
“I have a proposal.”
His hands still.
He moves to face me. “Dangerous words.”
“I can help you find your perfect match.”
The air shifts.
“You’re matching me with other women?” His voice goes rough.
I ignore the sting. “Think about it! You’re the town’s most eligible bachelor. I rebuild my reputation. You get love. Win-win.”
I flip open my notebook, enthusiasm compensating for fear. “She’ll be kind, loyal—”
“And what if I already know what I want?” he interrupts.
My pulse stumbles.
He leans closer, one hand braced behind me. “What kind of woman do you think I need?”
“Someone outdoorsy,” I say quickly. “Warm. Caring.”
His fingers slide into my hair. Slowly. Intentionally.
“And passionate,” he adds softly. “Clumsy. Always trying to fix everyone but herself.”
My breath catches.
“That’s very specific.”
“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
I swallow. “So… you’re saying no?”
“Yes.”
My heart dips.
“Because,” he continues, catching my hand, thumb pressing into my palm, “I know exactly who I want.”
My brain stalls completely.
“You think you know me,” Rowan says quietly. “It’s time you realized… you don’t.”
And suddenly, my brilliant plan feels like it just lit the fuse on something I am absolutely not ready to face.
