Chapter 2
1101 Words
Before she could get a better look, Rowan crossed to a marble statue bathed in the soft glow of a desk lamp. With a sharp, decisive tug, a velvet cloth descended, shrouding the unfinished work. He rapped his knuckles on a spare bedroom door.
"You'll be in here," he said, his voice clipped and final.
Without another word, Rowan turned and disappeared down the hall, damp hair and rain-spattered coat showing he needed a hot shower. Joelle lingered, ever practical, trying a different angle.
Sensing an opening, she added, "My mentor, Henry Chen, has been your father's personal lawyer—and confidant—for three decades."
Rowan tossed his soaked coat on a rack. "A paid friend?"
Joelle gave a slight shrug. "You could say that. But thirty years build a real connection, whatever the arrangement."
Rowan shrugged back. "Well, you and I have about an hour of acquaintance so far."
Grabbing a towel, he retreated to the bathroom. The click of the lock echoed through the quiet house. As steam filled the air, Rowan tried not to think about sharing his space with a stranger — a disquieting feeling settling over him.
In the misted bathroom mirror, his reflection was sharp and composed. In her assigned bedroom, Joelle's thoughts were focused on pragmatism, not romance.
She was, at heart, a disciplined guest. She checked her emails, the rain hammering against the single-pane windows in relentless waves. The noise of the day faded, washed out by the night and the storm. A neglected flowerpot sat on the sill, an island among weeds, unlikely ever to blossom.
Sometimes life falls short of expectation.
Her inbox reminded Joelle that, even far from home, her efforts might well be wasted.
She messaged her secretary:
"If there's no progress in a week, I'll book my return to Boston."
The reply was prompt:
"Understood. I'll coordinate with the tech team."
Neither of them believed technology would change their predicament. This unspoken truth hung between them.
Joelle struggled alone, answering messages at record speed, never relaxing her grip. Isolation weighed on her, but at the slightest hint of hope, she pressed on.
When she finished her work, it was already one in the morning. Outside, she heard footsteps—Rowan hadn't gone to bed. He wandered like a sentinel, then paused; heavy chopping noises echoed from the kitchen.
The sound—a reclusive artist hacking at something in the dead of night—sent a chill down her spine. She remembered his sharp retort to the drunk, the low curse. This wasn't just quiet; it was tightly coiled tension, a calm that could snap at any moment.
Driven by a mix of caution and curiosity, she opened her door and followed the noise.
Rowan stood at the kitchen counter, his back to her, chef's knife in hand.
As she approached, Joelle slipped a hand into her coat pocket, her fingers brushing the cool metal of her compact baton. Keeping her voice light, she called out,
"Making a midnight snack?"
"Cooking chicken," Rowan replied without turning.
Joelle couldn't help but laugh. "Chicken?"
Rowan sensed her amusement. He planted the knife on the board and held up a Tesco box. "I wanted chicken soup. That a crime, counselor?"
She grinned. "If you want soup, you'd better make it good."
The kitchen was dim. Joelle moved closer. Fresh from her shower, the scent of soap and clean skin lingered. Her hair, still damp, curled over her shoulders, and she wore a simple nightdress, the hem grazing her knees, legs pale beneath the faint light.
Rowan glanced once, noting she'd brought sleepwear—clearly planning to stay.
He returned to his chopping, wordless, rhythmic. Soon the chicken was in the pot with water and salt. He covered it and left it to simmer.
Joelle leaned against the doorframe. "When it's ready, think I could get a bowl?"
Her tone was casual, almost teasing.
Rowan dried his hands. "Your light's still on. You ever sleep?"
Joelle considered. "Around two."
Rowan draped the towel around his neck. "You watch the soup. I'm going to bed."
Joelle paused, watching him retreat—tall and lean, the plain T-shirt doing little to hide his build. She almost smiled. He was, she admitted, intriguing.
By morning, the light spread wide. Night's rain had softened to a drizzle, soaking the city in fog. Church spires and crosses loomed above the rooftops.
A songbird trilled in a walnut tree.
Leo was walking his dog through the shadowed street when he paused, seeing Joelle wave her umbrella from across the way.
"Morning!" Leo said, stopping a few feet away, polite but friendly. His dog, however, broke character, bounding playfully toward Joelle.
Leo pulled the leash. "Hey, settle down."
The dog obeyed, tail wagging furiously.
"My family always had big dogs," Joelle remarked, not mentioning the kennels back home.
Leo smiled. "This one's usually shy—won't go near strangers. But today..."
Joelle caught his meaning and introduced herself. "Mr. Bennett? I'm Rowan's lawyer. Joelle Sorrell, Sorrell & Crane. We've emailed—you might remember?"
Leo nodded, hands in pockets, an easy smile. "Right, right. You work for his dad?"
Before Joelle could reply, Leo's grin widened. "Saw you come home with Rowan last night. He never brings girls home. You must be special."
Joelle shrugged. "Or maybe he just realized I was too stubborn to leave. He didn't exactly invite me, but I would've waited outside all night."
She added, "This contract is important. He trusts our firm; we can't let him down."
Leo nodded, curiosity piqued. "You didn't talk business this morning?"
Joelle sighed. "He was up and out before I could say hello."
She had no idea where he'd gone. She'd heard the door at dawn, rushed to the window, and watched Rowan walk out into the drizzle, dressed in a waterproof jacket and dark cap.
Joelle didn't understand, but Leo did. "A lazy boy, usually stays in bed till noon. If up early, he's in a mood."
Joelle made a mental note.
After saying goodbye, she visited her hotel for her luggage, returning to Rowan's by midafternoon. The house was remote—the trip took time.
By chance, he had a visitor.
With the door half-open, Joelle heard voices inside.
The scent of coffee lingered; china clicked on a saucer.
A man sat on the sofa, speaking gently. "Kevin, this is an opportunity you can't miss. You always wanted a London show, didn't you?"
He took a sip, glanced up—and met Joelle's eyes.
Joelle steadied her suitcase, suddenly recalling 'Kevin' as Rowan's art-world alias.
- Writer
