by Linnea May
“Can I offer you a drink?” he asks from behind me. “Or do you want to eat right away?”
I turn on my heel, surprised to find him standing next to a bar cart I hadn’t noticed before. I step closer, my eyes widening with awe at his selection.
“Nolet’s Reserve!” I exclaim upon eying the most expensive bottle of gin I’ve ever come across. “These cost like ... hundreds of dollars!”
My eyes dart back and forth between Rowan and the dark bottle. “May I? Can I touch it?”
Rowan laughs, stepping closer. “You can drink it, too.”
I reach for the bottle, holding up the golden label as I study it. I’ve read about this dry gin before, and I’ve always wanted to try it. But it’s so far out of my price range that I never thought I would get the chance.
Rowan fetches two glasses from a shelf next to the cart and lifts the lid of an ice bucket next to the bottles lined up on the bar cart.
“Do you want tonic with it?” he asks while dropping ice cubes in the glasses.
“Are you insane?” I retort, casting him an appalled look. How could he suggest watering this wonderful gin down with tonic water?
I open the bottle, closing my eyes as I inhale the gin’s scent. It’s faint, but it’s there, speaking of a character I’ve never experienced before with this botanical liquor.
“Let me,” I say as he’s about to take the bottle from my hand to pour our drinks. “I’m the bartender.”
“Not in here, you aren’t,” he tells me, his eyebrow arching. “You’re my guest.”
“I got this,” I insist.
At first look, gin may look like water, but a trained eye can see the life in it; the herbs and spices that make it unlike any other.
“Let’s sit,” Rowan says, grabbing both glasses before I get a chance to do so, determined to clarify his position as the man of the house.
My heart is beating at full speed as I sit down on one of the bright designer sofas. He positions himself right next to me, so close that our legs are touching. He raises his glass for us to clink and waits for me to take the first sip. I’m reluctant to just drink the gin like any other beverage. Carefully wetting my lips, I take the first taste, relishing the warmth of the spirit before taking an actual sip and having that same sensation run down my throat. It tastes different than any other gin I’ve ever tried. Warmer in a sense, it’s fuller, with a strong hint of saffron, flirting with other herbs that I can’t identify.
“You seem to like it,” Rowan observes.
I side-eye him.
“You didn’t even ask for our selection when you ordered a gin and tonic at The Velvet Rooms,” I say, “but you have this at home? I didn’t think you to be some kind of connoisseur.”
“Who says I am?” he retorts. “The gin was a gift.”
“Of course, it was.” I roll my eyes. “He that has plenty shall have more.”
His gaze darkens, reminding me that my remark was uncalled for. What was I thinking? Especially after what he told me last time we met, how could I say something like that? He may have all the money in the world, but Rowan is the perfect proof that money can’t buy you happiness.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupts me, waving me off.
“No, it’s not,” I insist. “I didn’t come here to insult or be ungrateful after you shared ... this with me.”
We exchange a somewhat awkward look, both of us sipping on our gin as if holding on to a lifeline.
“Then why did you come here?” he asks. “Why did you want to see me again but not at the club?”
I bite my lower lip, my eyes scurrying through the room, looking for something to hold on to as I try to find the right words.
“After what you told me last week, I ... I don’t think I handled it very elegantly,” I utter, evading his dark gaze. “I don’t think it was fair to run out on you like that.”
I pause, giving him room for a response he’s not willing to give. He just shrugs, voicing no reaction to my attempt at an apology.
“I just ... I wanted you to know why I did it; why I reacted the way I did.”
“Isn’t that obvious?” he says, his voice cold and low. “I scared you.”
Our eyes meet as I wring my hands nervously, and I nod at him.
“Yes, you scared me,” I admit. “But there’s more to it.”
He leans in, twirling his hand to beckon me to continue.
I take a deep sigh, my fingers tensing around the glass as I get ready to share my story with him.
25
Rowan
She lowers her voice several times as she speaks, but I never interrupt her to tell her to speak up. Instead, I lean in, using my impaired hearing as an excuse to be closer to her, just like she said she did on the very first night when we met.
She tells me of her first job, of her last foster home, of the way she felt when she started working at a job she never expected to be her destiny. She has to pause often, her eyes resting in her lap as she walks down memory lane. Obviously not sharing every last detail with me, she’s keeping some secrets to herself, just as I did when I opened up to her. She looks pensive but not sad most of the time.
My fists clench as she comes to the grueling night that left its irrevocable mark on her, even if it was merely the culmination of former experiences with angry men and their dangerous temper.
“That’s why I was so happy to meet Miss Barry,” Melina concludes her story. “My hopes weren’t high when I landed the job interview with her, so I was ecstatic when she offered me the job at The Velvet Rooms. It’s a huge step up and a much nicer environment to work in. Even though I’m pretty sure she didn’t hire me purely based on my bartending skills ...”
She winks at me, displaying a confidence I haven’t seen from her in a while.
We sit in silence for a few moments, each cautiously sipping on gin that probably costs more than her monthly rent. I partly lied when I said it was a gift. It was a lie in the sense that it was not a gift for me. I bought it myself, but I bought it for her. I don’t know why I didn’t just tell her that. Maybe it felt wrong to want to impress her. Everything about this place impresses her, as I knew it would. Why did I suddenly feel weird about impressing her even more? I bought it for her, so it was a nice gesture I knew she’d appreciate.
Her face lightens every time she takes a sip from the lavish drink, rolling it on her tongue, tasting and savoring it before she swallows it down. I love that she’s such a gourmet, especially since this kind of appreciation evades me. Probably because I grew up surrounded by luxury and everything that comes with it. With the way she grew up, she could only dream of the life I took for granted.
A life I was more than ready to throw away at some point.
“What has changed?” she asks as she’s been following my train of thoughts.
“What do you mean?”
Her finger trails along the rim of her glass, her eyes following in an absentminded gaze.
“You seem to have your temper in control now, don’t you?” she murmurs, barely audible. “What happened? What is different now?”
I nod, understanding where her question comes from and what she may need to hear. She needs to have a guarantee that there will be no outbursts with her, that I would never hurt her or scare her as others have done before.
The problem is, I can’t give her that guarantee. I can’t tell her of a significant event, a clear change that cut into my life and made me a different person, a better person, even. Nothing like that ever happened. I’m still the same man, still haunted by the same loud rage, easily ignitable and hard to control.
The only difference?
“I try.”
Melina’s eyebrows curve, trying to make sense of my vague reply.
“That’s all I can say,” I add. “My younger self never cared to contain the beast inside me. I just let it run wild; I even welcomed it. It took years—and the deaths of other peo
ple—for me to get sick of it and to finally understand that it can’t dictate my life.”
I pause, gauging her reaction while she keeps her eyes locked on mine. She doesn’t say a word, her slim fingers still fiddling with the glass in her hands as she waits for me to continue, to say something that gives her more to hold on to, but I’m not sure I can. I could make up stories. I could tell her that therapy really helped, that it stabilizes me as it should, but that would be a lie. Therapy helped me accept the physical repercussions of my actions, but it never settled my mind in other aspects.
“Why did you come to The Velvet Rooms?” she asks, catching me off guard. “You said you didn’t come there to find a woman, so then, why even go there at all?”
I huff. I went there because Dwight wouldn’t shut up about it. Because he said I needed the distraction and that it would be a calm and safe place to hang out, have a drink, and converse with some lovely girls—and more, if I wanted that.
“For company.” I sum it up for her sake. “I’m under a lot of stress at work, and I was advised to find a way to relax. Something safe, calm, and pleasant.”
A chuckle rattles my chest as I come to a conclusion. “I guess I value The Velvet Rooms for the same reasons you do.”
Melina lets out a little laugh, nodding as she agrees with me.
“And did it help?” she asks next, winking at me. “With your stress at work.”
I catch her glance, responding with a smile. She looks cute today, wearing a navy blue summer dress that stands out against my bright furniture. Her long brown waves fall down on her shoulders, only tamed by a single hair clip on the side, and wreaks havoc with my mind as the waves proceed down her chest, mingling between her cleavage. I don’t know what she has in mind for today, but she definitely looks more than good enough to eat.
“It did help,” I assure her. “A lot.”
She leans in, placing her hand at the side of my face, and kisses my lips. It’s an innocent peck, nothing more, but my body is quick to respond with savage need. A need that will have to wait.
Melina retreats, leaving me wanting more while she nonchalantly sips at her drink as if nothing happened.
“You said you’re getting ready to take over for your father?”
Her questions come as surprising as the first one about my motivation to visit The Velvet Rooms.
“Yes, correct,” I reply, sparing my words.
“How is that going so far?” she probes, tilting her head to the side as she regards me with a friendly but curious smile. “Despite being stressful, I mean.”
“I guess as good as these things can go under the circumstances.”
My response is vague at best, so I’m not surprised when she broaches the subject again.
“Circumstances?” she presses.
I sigh deeply, not really wanting to elaborate on the subject, but knowing that I can’t evade her questions forever. In a way, it was a leap of faith for her to come here today, giving me a second chance despite my daunting revelations. She’s asking these questions because she wants to get to know me because she wants to understand me. I get it. I totally get it.
And I’m ready to give her what she needs if it means I’ll be able to keep her. But that doesn’t mean it comes easy to me.
“My father got diagnosed with cancer a few months back,” I finally get myself to say. “Pancreatic cancer, stage 4.”
“Shit.” She gasps, placing her hand on mine.
“There’s no cure, and it will kill him rather sooner than later,” I continue. “And I need to make sure he can go in peace. I need to settle things, continue his company, and come into my place before it’s too late for him to realize.”
I pause, needing another moment to breathe before I add, “He was a good father—not great, but good. He tried. He wanted things for me, and while that pressure put a burden on me I wasn’t willing to carry, I know that it came from love. He deserves for his efforts to be worthwhile.”
She nods quietly, squeezing my hand as if to signal me that it is okay to stop at this point, that she’s heard enough to understand now.
At least that’s what I want to believe at this point.
26
Melina
I can still see the weight pulling him down as he sits at the table across from me. The room is dark, the only light from in the kitchen and the candles he lit on the table before us. The flickering candlelight puts life in his tense features, making his somber mood apparent.
We migrated to the dining area on the first floor, where he uncovered a delicious spread of sushi dishes that his cook prepared for us. It’s the perfect food for the hot summer weather we’re having right now and way too much. Sushi has never played a big part in my diet. Not because I don’t like, but because quality sushi is hard to get on my budget.
And I’ve definitely never been spoiled like this. He introduced the different rolls with names that sound familiar—tuna roll, avocado maki, inari, egg roll, unagi sushi—but none of them look like the run-of-the-mill sushi that I’m used to. The California roll is twice the size of what I know them to be, looking as crisp and fresh as it tastes.
It appears that Rowan has made it his mission to indulge me with elect drinks, presenting a pricy sake to go with the sushi he serves.
“Picked it myself,” he said as he poured it into a ceramic shot glass for me.
“I don’t know anything about sake,” I add for consideration. “So you’ll have to do without my professional judgment here.”
He cocks his head to the side and raises his little cup for me to clink. I don’t particularly like the taste of sake itself but agree that it goes well with the light dish consisting of raw fish, rice, and pickled vegetables.
We haven’t spoken much since we came downstairs. I feel oddly intrusive here; as if I forced my way in even though he was the one to invite me. I told him that I didn’t want to meet at the club, but I never figured he’d choose his place as the alternative. I was about to suggest a coffee place or even a bar—anywhere but my workplace.
I wonder why he suggested we meet here? Was it to test me? To see whether I trusted him? He knew that his story scared me even though he didn’t know the extent of why. Inviting me to his home is such an intimate move; something I didn’t expect this soon.
If it was about guaranteeing that we would have sex tonight, he’s doing a very good job at hiding those intentions.
“This place is so beautiful,” I remark randomly, picking up another maki roll with my chopsticks.
“Thanks. I like it, too,” he says, his voice monotone and absent. “It was my parents’ suggestion to move to this area.”
I regard him with a puzzled look.
“It’s close to the company,” he elaborates. “And not far from where they live.”
“So you grew up here?”
He nods. “I’ve lived in this area most of my life, yes.”
We continue eating in silence for a while; a silence that shouldn’t feel uncomfortable, but somehow it does. For a few moments, I even wonder whether he regrets inviting me here. Up until now, tranquility has been our thing. It’s what ties us together; the serenity of being together without needing many words binds us together like no other. It was one of the reasons I felt so close to him after such a short amount of time.
Tonight is different. Tonight, we need words like others do to escape that awkward feeling of being naked in front of each other despite being fully clothed.
Or maybe we’ve shared too much to feel that quiet ease any longer? Maybe words are the last thing we need right now.
But why do I feel so fucking weird around him? Why does it feel like he doesn’t want me here anymore? He’s scarce with words, only replying in short sentences and making me fight for every piece of information now that he’s already shared so much with me.
I don’t get him. Not right now, I don’t.
I’m tipsy by the time we’re done eating, the gin and the sake going t
o my head as the hard and sweet liquor unfolds its effect.
“Thank you,” I say when I’m done eating, trying not to slur.
He smiles as I lean back in the elegant tulip chair. “Your cook is divine.”
“I’ll let him know,” Rowan says, his dark eyes flickering, suggesting that the liquor is affecting him, too. “You’re my first guest here. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the praise coming from someone else but me.”
“Really?” I retort, furrowing my eyebrows. “You’ve never had ... anyone here?”
“No one,” he confirms. “No women, either. I told you. I haven’t done much dating because it could never work.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, my stomach tensing at his words.
“Do you think it will work now?” I ask, blurting out the question before thinking twice. I don’t want to come across clingy or overeager, but I have to know. It’s easy to assume he’s serious about me, about us, since he invited me into his home, but who’s to say this wasn’t also about something else?
He presses his lips together in a slight grimace, his gaze ping-ponging across the table as he works out a response to my inquiry.
“I want it to work,” he says, speaking with cautious reluctance, emphasizing each word. “I like you, Melina. I feel drawn to you, and I feel comfortable with you. Even having you here, in my home, eating, talking ... it feels right, good. Doesn’t it?”
He breaks eye contact, shrugging as he draws a deep breath. “I’ve never told anyone about all those things I told you. I never felt the desire to, and I hated having it pulled out of me during therapy. But with you, the words just poured out. Just like that.”
I smile, feeling flustered in a way I’ve never experienced before. It’s one thing to have a man tell you that you’re beautiful and want to get into your pants. But having someone like Rowan confide in me; that’s different. The compliment that comes with that is so much stronger, so much deeper, and so much more meaningful.
