Story copyright October 2018 by Hollis Shiloh. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover image content is being used for illustrative purposes only and any people depicted in the content are models. Proofreading by Carol Davis. This story was previously a Patreon reward.
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Rowan Clare At Home
by Hollis Shiloh
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Rowan Clare At Home
Rowan Clare At Home
I speak with the designer in his tasteful New York apartment, decorated in an intimate style with the lush pattern he's known for. At 5'7" he is smaller than I expected, with a slim, almost feminine grace to his boyish frame. His large gray eyes are so appealing that at one point I overcome my better judgment and can't help asking if he's seeing someone. He simply shakes his head, ducking his chin slightly to avoid looking at me, and gets back to the topic at hand.
One senses the man is approached frequently, that it would take a lot to get his attention. He is forthcoming about current and past projects, his ideas for future projects, and where he sees himself in twenty years (a small cottage, two dogs, a garden to putter in). The only question he reacts tersely to is one about his famous ex-husband. When I mention the short marriage that was such tabloid fodder at both its beginning and its termination, he cuts me off. "I'm not allowed to discuss that. If you want a quote, speak to my lawyer. He'll know what can be said. If you're done asking questions about my work..."
We get back on track. There will be no further mention of Hugh Logan's name. When I eventually leave his home, having seen his antique copper bowl collection and tasted his delicious homemade artichoke rangoon, I feel as if I've been in another world with one of the most beautiful people I'll ever see in person. I feel as though I've learned almost nothing about the man himself.
HUGH LOGAN THREW THE sleek magazine down onto the couch and ground his teeth. "Damn him," he whispered. Then louder, "Damn him."
Hugh, still wearing his Armani suit from the office, got up and began to pace, a scowl plastered over his face. He glanced back at the couch, where the magazine lay still open. Rowan's professionally captured image stared up at him, artful yet real as life.
In the image, Rowan sat on a stool in a kitchen, his slim-cut trousers revealing his perfect form, his pose as unstudied and beautiful as a dancer's, a smile just beginning on his serene features, bringing his whole being to life in a striking, heart-clenching fashion. He was wearing an oversized, large-knit gray sweater, half-hiding in it. His grey eyes looked as honest as ever, but with a maturity and sadness to them now, as if he had changed only there in the years since college.
He was completely perfect, and completely untouchable.
Hugh could never have admitted to anyone how much he'd waited for this interview. He'd pulled strings and begged favors to read a copy the night before the magazine officially hit the shelves. Now he couldn't even get through the first half of it without his mind bringing every single thing about their relationship flooding back.
He looked back at the magazine again, and then away, frown deepening as his heart clenched. He'd loved that man once. He was beginning to think he'd never stop, no matter how hard he tried.
A weight settled in his chest as he moved back to the couch, picked up the magazine, and began once again to read.
"YOU KNOW I DON'T APPROVE of those things," said Rowan. "Bachelor auctions are iffy at the best of times, in my opinion. I'm certainly not going to stand up and be auctioned off in front of a bunch of greedy millionaires."
"But, darling, it's for charity." Stuart had all the tact of a basket of bulldog puppies, no matter how refined he sounded. "All those poor puppies and kittens."
"I've donated some of my designs. I don't want to hear any more about this."
"I suppose you're frightened," Stuart said with a sniff, studying his fingernails. "You-know-who might be there."
"And what if he is? I don't care about that."
"Of course you do. You get ever so high up on your dignity whenever he enters the scene. You didn't even want to sell in his parents' store, remember? Remember how you almost scuttled that contract, Row, dear?" His grin was sharp.
"It's prostitution. High-end prostitution. Why should I sell myself for charity, or anything else?"
"Your feathers are ruffled. If you really don't want to do it, I'll ask someone else. I just thought you'd help."
"Then think of something less vulgar next time! I said I'd donate a design—two designs if you wish!" Rowan was shouting.
Stuart drew back, eyebrows rising. "Row, calm down. No one is going to force you to do anything. And it really isn't high-end prostitution, you know. It's a fun, flirty time for all." He wrapped his friend in his arms; Rowan was trembling a little with pent-up...something. "Have I pushed some buttons, dear?"
Rowan swallowed a few times and got control of himself. "Everyone said I was a gold-digger for marrying Hugh. But I wasn't, you know. I really loved him once. I—I hate that the rumors still follow me. That his influence is the only reason I got anywhere as a designer."
"You're the most talented designer I know. You'd have succeeded, no matter what. Sure, there was a bit of interest in you for the connection—just at first. But really, everyone just loves to gossip. Nobody really thinks your success has anything to do with him."
"Well, I—" Rowan swallowed several more times and finally hugged his friend back fiercely, burying his face against Stuart's shoulder. "I found out yesterday that Hugh might have bought some of my early things through a proxy bidder. I had a lot of big-number sales at first, and it helped, you know? I was so grateful to do well right out of the gate, so I'd never have to touch the divorce settlement I didn't even want. I was so proud of myself, standing on my own, not needing him or his money. But if it was him all along..." Despair filled his voice. "Don't you see? I don't want to owe my success to him, not any of it!"
"He really bought your things? What did he do with them?"
Rowan laughed bitterly. "Maybe he burned them in a ceremony. Maybe he fucks all his boyfriends on them. I don't care."
"You do care, or you wouldn't be so upset now. He probably warehoused them as an investment. He isn't stupid, you know. He saw an opportunity to make money, and took it."
"Do you think?" Rowan drew back, his tear-stained gray gaze searching Stuart's earnestly. "You really think it wasn't about him trying to take control of my career?"
"No, no," said Stuart. "You know what a businessman he is. Always was, even in college. He saw a chance to make a good investment at a good price. He saw the same potential as everyone else."
"I hope so." Rowan stared at a wall, brow furrowing. He moved away from his friend and walked over to the wall to straighten a hanging that might or might not have needed it. "Well, when I found out, I was upset, really. I felt like he'd taken something from me. Like he'd taken a piece of me without me knowing. I lost enough when we were married. I wasn't mine anymore—I was something pretty for him to take care of."
"Some people wouldn't mind that," Stuart said gently. "Some people like to be taken care of."
"I do. You know I do. But not like a bird in a cage. I need to be loved most of all."
Rowan turned back to Stuart, and gave him a smile, tremulous but real. "I'm not sure I'll ever find that. But I can try."
STUART FACED HUGH IN a half-dark kitchen as big as some people's houses, all polished, gleaming chrome and fancy marble countertops. It felt vaguely like a morgue to Stuart.
&nb
sp; "He won't go to the bachelor auction, and you're going about this all wrong."
"What? Why not?" Hugh, who had been leaning against a counter, his toned arms crossed, uncrossed them now, a look of dismay on his face. "I thought for sure he'd listen to you."
"He won't. Anyway, if he did, and you 'won' him, it would be exactly the thing to drive him further away."
"How can I talk to him if he won't listen?" demanded Hugh. "I thought if I could at least pay for a few hours of his time—"
"I do have something to share, if you'll only shut up and listen. He doesn't think you ever loved him. And as rotten as I feel playing the double agent, I'm only doing it because I think you did."
"What?!" Hugh stared at Stuart, eyes blazing. "Of course I loved him! I gave him everything! I wanted him to be my husband forever! Haven't I—" He swallowed down his voice as Stuart was gesturing for him to stop. "Go on. What did he say?"
In a sympathetic voice, Stuart repeated the things Rowan had shared in that raw moment. How he'd felt like a bird in a pretty cage, a thing to be kept, not a person to be loved.
"Why didn't he tell me that? It isn't true, and it wasn't true then, either." Hugh frowned, brow furrowed as he tried to think back. It was true he'd grown up with the sort of love that showed itself best in extravagant displays. To him, it was an act of love to buy someone a house, to set it up just so for him. It was a telling symbol of all he felt—and that he still lived in the same house was like having his heart on his sleeve all these years.
His heart...or a mourning band.
The place he'd made for the man he loved—rejected, unwanted, returned to sender.
The echoes of Rowan still haunted him here some nights. He didn't know why he tortured himself by staying here when he wasn't traveling for business. He didn't know why he collected Rowan Clare originals and placed them around the place, never letting himself entirely forget.
It was as creepy as it was self-defeating, probably, especially if Rowan thought Hugh had never loved him.
But how could he let go of all he had left of Rowan? He sagged, feeling the loss more keenly than ever. Since that magazine article last year, he'd renewed his attempts to win Rowan back, at least within the bounds allowed by their divorce settlement. He'd contacted Rowan only through lawyers, and instead of loosening up and getting in touch more personally, Rowan's replies had been stiffer and more formal than ever until he stopped sending them even through lawyers.
It wasn't pleasant to think of oneself as an unwanted bane on Rowan's existence. But with the failure of the bachelor auction plot, it seemed that Hugh's last window had closed. There were no more ways to reach Rowan, to win him back.
He'd been gone so long. But it still hurt.
"So there's no hope, then?"
"I wouldn't say that." Stuart leaned closer, conspiratorial. "Here's what I would do, if I really loved Row and wanted to win him back."
ROWAN TOOK HIS MORNING cup of coffee out in back of the little cottage. This was his refuge, his time of peace. For several weeks each year, longer if he could swing it, he stayed at the little cottage in the countryside and rested, and sometimes worked, sketching new possibilities spun from daydreams and clouds. He wholeheartedly loved this place. But it was impossible for him to do his job without being in the city most of the time, so his rural idylls had to be squeezed into the smallest timeframe possible.
He owned the cottage outright, an early investment when he'd first started to become successful. It paid its way by being a vacation home rental when he wasn't using it, and he was very proud of finding and fixing up the place to be as nice as it was. He hired people to maintain it so he never came home to a disarrayed rental. It was always neat and clean, peacefully waiting for him.
Now he wondered if even that was partly tainted by Hugh's money. Had Hugh's early anonymous purchases set Rowan on the course toward success? The thought was not becoming much easier to bear.
Next door, a neighbor was snip-snip-snipping industriously (rather too industriously) at his rose bushes. Since these houses were all sometimes rented out, Rowan figured it was a guest. He set down his coffee cup and walked down the little stone path of the garden to the decorative fence separating the two properties. It was draped in vining roses and other flowery, leafy things that added to the pastoral charm.
"Hello?" Rowan called cautiously. He stepped carefully, but it was more from habit than anything else. There were never loose stones or anything like that here; it was a safe place. "I don't think you're supposed to chop them back quite that hard. The owner of the place might not like it."
"Oh?" The man's head popped up over the fence as he straightened up to face Rowan, holding some clippers in a clearly inexpert way that managed to look slightly menacing. His floppy garden hat revealed a face that was far too familiar underneath, even after all these years.
For a moment, Rowan couldn't accept what his eyes were seeing. "Hugh?" he whispered. This was like a bad dream. He would wake up any minute, surely?
Hugh's smile lit his face, as handsome as ever. He was more weathered now, but somehow the lines on his face made him even better-looking. He even looked good in his disguise, the plaid shirt and blue jeans and that ridiculous hat. "Rowan. Hi. I'm not good with roses, I admit. Do you think I should just leave them alone for the gardener to deal with?"
Rowan choked down his reply. He didn't know what to say to the man, but it hurt seeing him here—hurt unbearably. Rowan's one place of refuge from the world, and his ex was invading it.
Hugh's grin changed, an expression like excruciating pain crossing his features swiftly. "Did I scare you? I didn't mean to. I'm not stalking you. I've decided I want to spend more time in the country, that's all. This place was going for a good price, so I bought it. I'm going to live here for the next few months and slow down my fast-paced lifestyle. But I won't always be in your face, I promise, and if you think I should leave the roses alone, I'll try. It's hard for me not to try to fix things, that's all."
Rowan swallowed several times, feeling as if he was going to cry. Hugh was still irresistibly charming. Rowan wanted to believe him, to be near him, to bask in his confidence.
"Did you have to buy the cottage right next to mine?" Rowan demanded, refusing to be swayed by Hugh's beautiful face and big, strong presence. He put his hands on his hips. "It's not really the spirit of the divorce, now, is it?"
"The divorce was ages ago. I'm not forcing you to speak with me, and I don't intend to harass you in any way. I don't know why you think I'm such a stalker that I can't live nearby. This is a lovely area—you know it is. And I really do need to slow down. I've been working too hard. Everyone says so."
Since this was exactly what Rowan used to tell him, pleading with him to stay home and not leave Rowan alone in that big, empty mausoleum of a house, he could hardly argue with that. Hugh's gaze could look sincere just as well as ever.
Rowan swallowed again.
"Please?" Hugh tilted his head, his crooked smile looking frayed at the edges. "Don't look at me like I'm a spider ready to pounce. I'll behave. I promise."
The promise brought to mind a particularly heated interaction they'd had a year after the divorce, meeting by accident at a fundraising event (although, had it really been an accident? Rowan had wondered afterwards). He'd ended up letting Hugh take him back to a fancy hotel room—his hands relentlessly possessive, the rest of him as growly and fierce and as passionate as he'd ever been when they were together—and make sweet, fierce love to him, owning him body and soul for just one night more. The mention now of pouncing, even to disavow it, wasn't promising.
Rowan had been so careful. He'd avoided Hugh religiously. And now here Hugh was, all tempting six-feet-one of him, gorgeous and in charge. So perfect—and so aware of it.
His face slowly heating, Rowan turned away and walked swiftly back up the path, head down. He didn't intend to lower the barriers anymore. He didn't intend to make himself so vulnerable to Hugh—the only ma
n he'd ever really loved.
It wasn't enough for just one person to love another that much. It had to either be closer to mutual, or it had to end. And for them, it had ended. Rowan couldn't let that smile charm him back into bed and into the pain of breaking his heart over stupidly wonderful Hugh Logan, not again.
Even if it meant cutting his vacation short and going back to work early, he couldn't risk it.
HUGH KNOCKED AT THE door, feeling like the world's biggest clod. The idea had seemed so sound when Stuart had floated it. But he'd messed it all up somehow, as he always did.
Maybe I should stop trying to get him back. Maybe I should just give up.
He really should. He'd given up so many times. The only trouble was, he couldn't seem to go on giving up.
"Rowan!" he called, raising his voice as he knocked again. "Look, don't leave. I know you value this time. I can go. I can rent the cottage out and stay somewhere else to unwind. Would that make it better?"
He was begging, and he hated begging, but Rowan had looked so hurt. This wasn't a game or a mild annoyance to him. He was really hurt that Hugh had intruded on his neighborhood, his space.
The door opened and Rowan stood there, eyes red around the edges like he'd been crying or was about to. He gnawed at his lip and gave Hugh an indignant look, his shoulders high with all the dignity he could muster.
"Rowan." Hugh sighed. "Look, I'm not trying to make things worse. I miss you. I loved you. I—I keep thinking we could make things right somehow, and start again, with better communication."
"You bought my pieces without telling me." It was a loathsome accusation when Rowan said it like that, full of quivering indignation. "I thought I'd sold them to—to someone who wanted them! Not for you to laugh at me behind my back and do god knows what with them!"
"No, no," said Hugh. "I like your work. I always have. I'm a collector. Besides—" He swallowed back the urge to make this light and airy, and instead dug deep for the raw honesty and pain he would normally do anything in the world to hide. Stuart had said he needed to let Rowan see it, because the fanciest words, the biggest gifts, none of that would mean a damn. But maybe the truth would.
Rowan Clare At Home (Marrying Men) Page 1
