chapter 7 Found something you’ll love on the way back.
ROWAN:
Cooking something you’ll love. At your place.
ME:
I’ll be back in five minutes.
ROWAN:
What’s this mysterious something?
ME:
Not telling. Not unless you tell me if you’re accepting my brilliant plan first.
ROWAN:
Still undecided. Depends on you.
Depends on me?
I’m still trying to decode that when I push open my apartment door—and the smell hits me full force.
Basil.
Garlic.
Parmesan.
Pesto pasta.
My favorite.
Instantly, my brain shuts down every other thought. Business stress? Gone. Emotional confusion? Temporarily silenced. My stomach growls so loudly I’m fairly sure Betty’s cat next door hisses in protest.
Rowan has always been a phenomenal cook. I, on the other hand, treat the smoke alarm like an unwanted roommate. Living next door to him has significantly improved my survival rate.
“Smells incredible, Collybear,” I call out. “Are you actively trying to ruin every other meal for me?”
I round the corner—and stop.
Rowan is standing in my kitchen.
Wearing my ridiculous frilly mint-green apron.
The one Elaine gave me as a joke.
The one that says HOT STUFF COMING THROUGH in glittery pink letters.
It barely covers his chest. The strings are tied in what looks like a deeply unserious knot behind his back.
How does he make something this ridiculous look unfairly good?
“That apron looks… inadequate on you,” I manage, biting the inside of my cheek.
He turns, wooden spoon in hand, a smear of green pesto on his cheek. His blue eyes crinkle.
“I elevate everything.”
Yes.
Yes, you do.
I drop my bag and lean closer, peeking into the pan. His cologne mixes with basil and pine nuts, and something in my chest does a very unprofessional little somersault.
“If you ever open a restaurant, I’d be a loyal customer,” I say. “Borderline concerning levels of loyalty.”
“You’d bankrupt me,” he chuckles. “You’re early. Almost done.”
I hop onto the counter beside him, legs swinging. “I found a new gummy bear flavor.”
I dig through my bag and pull out a small packet of blue gummy bears—his weakness since third grade. The man who meal-preps like a machine secretly hoards candy like it’s contraband.
“Blueberry?” His face lights up. “Mind feeding me one? Hands are busy.”
I squint at him. “You have legs. And a sink.”
“Where’s the romance in that?”
I sigh dramatically and pull one out. “Fine. Open.”
He leans in. I drop it into his mouth.
My fingers brush his lips.
My heart stutters like it’s forgotten how to function.
It’s just Rowan.
My best friend.
The guy who saw me with braces and chicken pox and a truly criminal perm.
“Verdict?” I ask.
“Mmm,” he hums. “Acceptable. Still prefer watermelon.”
“Gummy snob.”
I slide off the counter. “So—I went to Diane Mills’ presentation today.”
“The rival matchmaker?” He arches a brow. “That’s bold.”
“It was public,” I defend. “And… I got ideas. Her system focuses on matching people who check all the dream boxes.”
Rowan’s mood shifts. He rinses his hands, drying them slowly.
“And that’s what you want to do?” he asks carefully. “Turn love into a checklist?”
Why does his voice sound like that? Concerned. Protective.
“It’s more reliable,” I say quietly. “More scientific.”
He steps closer. “Isla, you see things a checklist never will. You read people. You feel connections.”
My throat tightens.
“My business is still falling apart,” I whisper.
He reaches for a gummy bear—and says the last thing I expect.
“I’ll let you match me.”
I choke on air. “You’ll—what?”
He smirks, patting my head like I’m glitching. “Are you regretting it already?”
Regretting?
I’ve just agreed to front-row seats to watching the man I love fall for someone else.
But my business is drowning—and this could save it.
“But,” he adds, holding up a finger, “I have one condition.”
My stomach flips. “I don’t like conditions.”
“You train with me.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Weekly sessions. At the gym. With me.”
Rowan.
Workout gear.
Hands adjusting my form.
His voice counting reps near my ear.
Absolutely not.
“This is just professional,” I remind myself quickly. “You’re my client.”
I learned my lesson once.
Never fall for your client.
“I’m not gym material,” I protest weakly.
He taps my nose. “Afraid you can’t keep up?”
“Fine!” I blurt. “Deal.”
His smile turns soft. Dangerous.
“Looking forward to it, Peachie.”
And suddenly, I realize I didn’t just agree to match Rowan Hale with someone else.
I just agreed to spend hours alone with the one man I absolutely cannot afford to fall for again.
