The UnLucky Unfinished Sentences
961 Words
Elara didn’t let go of his arm even after the terrier had wandered off to find a new target. The cold was beginning to seep through her coat, but the heat radiating from Rowan made the idea of moving feel like a mistake.
"Since you're already here saving me from ferocious beasts," Elara said, her voice lighter than it had been all day. "I don't suppose you've eaten? I was about to attempt something resembling dinner. My skills are questionable, but the cottage has a stove and I have a very determined spirit."
Rowan laughed, a low sound that vibrated through her. "A determined spirit is usually the best ingredient. I'd be honored, Elara."
Inside, the cottage felt different with him in it. It felt smaller, warmer, and much more like a home than a rental. Elara moved around the small kitchen, tossing pasta into a pot while Rowan leaned against the counter, watching her with an intensity that made her hands tremble just a little.
"So, Mr. Architect," she said, tossing a look over her shoulder. "You know my life story—the missed flights, the broken luggage, the general cosmic conspiracy against me. Tell me about yours. What keeps a man with a multi-state empire rooted in a town where the most exciting event is an ice-skating wipeout?"
Rowan reached for a bottle of wine she had found in the pantry and uncorked it with effortless ease. "It’s the silence," he said. "When you build things for a living, everything is loud. The machines, the clients, the city. Here, I can hear myself think. I love this town because it doesn't try to be anything other than what it is."
He spoke about his enterprises, the way he designed structures to fit the landscape rather than fight it. He was ambitious, yes, but there was a groundedness to him that fascinated her. Yet, Elara noticed he stayed focused on work and the town. He was an open book with the middle chapters missing.
"I get that," Elara said, draining the pasta. "I usually prefer silence too, mostly because whenever I speak, the universe takes it as a personal challenge. If I say 'it's a nice day,' a bird will usually find a way to make me regret it. My life is essentially a long-running sitcom that nobody asked for."
Rowan smirked, leaning in. "You have a very dark way of looking at the world, Elara Winters."
"It's not dark," she corrected, waving a wooden spoon. "It's realistic. I'm just a woman who knows that if there’s a one-in-a-million chance of a piano falling from the sky, I should probably wear a helmet. My grandmother called it being cursed. I call it being the universe’s favorite punching bag."
Rowan laughed loudly at that, the sound filling the kitchen. "Well, for a punching bag, you're surprisingly good at making carbonara."
They sat at the small wooden table, the candlelight flickering between them. For hours, they talked. She told him about the time she tried to photograph a wedding and ended up accidentally joining the bridal party because of a wardrobe malfunction. He told her about the first building he ever designed—a shed that collapsed the day after it was finished.
"See?" she said, pointing a fork at him. "You have a little bit of my luck in you after all."
"Maybe," he whispered, his eyes locking onto hers. "Or maybe I just needed to meet someone who knew how to handle it."
The air in the room shifted. The playful banter died down, replaced by a pull so strong Elara felt like she was leaning toward him without moving.
When dinner was over, he helped her clear the plates. The movement brought them close together in the narrow kitchen, their shoulders brushing, the scent of his cedarwood cologne making her dizzy.
He walked her to the door, the cold air waiting on the other side of the wood. Rowan paused, his hand on the latch, looking down at her. The humor was gone now, replaced by something raw and searching.
"Tomorrow is the twenty-first," he said softly.
"I know," she replied. "The day I finally stop being your problem."
"You were never a problem, Elara."
He stepped closer. His hand came up, his thumb grazing her jawline, tilting her face toward his. Elara held her breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she felt the warmth of his breath on her lips. It was finally happening. The one good thing in a month of disasters.
Yap! Yap! Yap!
The terrier from earlier was back, barking frantically at a squirrel on the porch. The sudden, sharp noise shattered the moment.
Rowan blinked, stepping back with a ragged exhale. He cleared his throat, a sheepish grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I guess the dog decided the timing wasn't right," he muttered.
Elara let out a shaky laugh, leaning against the doorframe. "Of course. My luck strikes again. Even my first kiss in years is being gatekept by a ten-pound dog."
Rowan reached out, squeezing her hand briefly. "I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Eight sharp. Let's get you to that airport before the sky changes its mind."
"I'll be ready," she promised.
She watched him walk to his truck, the red taillights disappearing into the snowy night. She touched her lips, feeling the phantom heat of where he had almost been. She had twenty-four hours left. And for the first time in her life, she was terrified that her luck might actually work—and the plane would actually take off.
- Writer
