On her way home, Rowan could feel the exhaustion slowly creeping in. Thank God the heat of the day was finally dying down and the air was moving again. She had the window rolled down to catch every little bit of the slight breeze. Sometimes she wondered how she had ended up as a librarian in a small town and hosting birthday parties for 10-year-old girls.
When she came here three years ago, she picked Wildermere on a whim because the name had somehow spoken to her. Back then, she’d just wanted to get away—from the relationship that had just ended, and not on the best terms, her job as an accountant, and, most of all, from her family. She just needed some space and room to breathe. So she picked a name from the map and found a little cottage to rent online. And just got sucked in.
And every time she drove back to the farm from town, she got the same feeling of coming home. Just like the first time she took that winding road, trees crowding in from both sides, their branches almost brushing the car. Then, after the final bend—always sharper than she remembered—the landscape opened up.
There it was. The farmhouse, painted deep red with white trimmings, standing close to the edge of the woods as if it had always belonged there. To the left stood the old barn, its roof a little crooked but holding strong. And to the right, tucked slightly out of sight, was the small cottage she now called home. A wide porch wrapped around the front of the main house, inviting in the last of the day’s light. A few chickens wandered near the barn, pecking lazily at the dry ground.
It wasn’t a working farm, not really. Just land and quiet, and the kind of place that asked nothing from you. James Barret—or J.B, as everybody called him—didn’t seem to need much more. Between Rowan’s rent and whatever income came with getting older, he got by just fine.
She slowed down for the last few meters of the drive, just to enjoy the view a little longer, then came to a stop in front of the cottage and parked her car.
Through the windshield she could see J.B.. He was sitting on the porch, wiry and weathered, skin the color and texture of old leather, like he’d been carved by sun and wind instead of time. His old creaky rocker gently rocking. Pipe in the corner of his mouth, cup of tea in his hands. Like clockwork, every evening.
She was pretty sure, if she ever came home and J.B. wasn’t sitting on the porch, she would immediately assume the worst. She couldn’t remember more than a few days in the last three years when he hadn’t been sitting there in the evening.
Rowan grabbed her bag, stepped out of the car, and closed the door behind her. For a moment, she just stood there, enjoying the slight breeze on her skin, breathing in the familiar smells. With a little grunt, she started walking toward the porch. The few steps she had to take to get onto it felt like a whole workout now. She walked over and sank into the rocker next to him with a soft groan. On the little table between them, a still-steaming cup of tea waited—already set out by J.B. Thoughtful, or just habit? Hard to tell with him.
She dug her cigarettes out of her bag, fished one from the pack, and lit it. She picked up the cup, leaned her head back, and inhaled deeply. The sigh that slipped out of her was more surrender than frustration—a slow deflation of limbs, noise, and too much glitter.
J.B. just sat there, acknowledging her presence with only a little nod.
This was one of the things she loved about J.B.—he never talked in the first few minutes, sometimes longer. There was just quiet. He always gave her the time to get here, to settle into herself before anything else. After all the noise and movement of the afternoon, she definitely needed that moment to breathe.
And then there was him. The reason her thoughts kept circling, even after the glitter settled. She could feel the note in her pocket, pressing against her thigh like a reminder. She wasn’t sure he was a good idea. There was something about him, something that pulled at her in a way she didn’t want to admit. But damn, he smelled good.
Maybe better not to think too much about it.
She looked down at her shirt. It looked like she’d been at war, and the ammunition had been frosting. Somehow, she’d believed only toddlers got sticky from cupcakes—not ten-year-olds. She’d been dead wrong. As proof, she had frosting stains in multiple colors… and glitter in places she’d rather not think about. And still, the look on Tess’ face made it worth it. She couldn’t help but smile as the memory of it softened the edges of her exhaustion.
“You look like hell. Had an interesting day?” he said in that gravely voice amused, but deadpan.
“Yeah… if you want to call that interesting,” she muttered, giving him a sideways glance.
“Tess’, Molly Cavanaugh’s youngest, you know, had her birthday party today–at the library.”
“Well, that explains the, I assume, frosting. And the glitter.” J.B. replied dryly but clearly amused. “But there is something else…”
She gave him another glance, fished the note out of her pocket and handed it to him.
“I… bumped into someone… well, more like, ran into…” she trailed off lamely, not even sure why she’d handed him the note to read.
“Chest guy…?” J.B. asked, after reading it. An amused eyebrow raised, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Yeah… well, I ran face-first into his chest. A really nice chest. And… we… well, I… and then I left. I had a birthday party to organize. Then he left a note on my car, in front of the library. And…well, yeah, that’s it.” She gestured vaguely toward the note in his hands, as if giving up on explaining.
“It seems he left quite an impression.” J.B. said, handing her back the note.
“He left something, alright. But I think I made more of an impression. On his chest.” she replied, stuffing the note back into her pocket.
J.B. chuckled. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
Rowan sat in silence. “I don’t know… There’s something about him. Something I can’t quite figure out. And that’s exactly why I think he’s a bad idea.”
He watched her for a moment, quiet. She could feel the weight of his gaze.
“You know, girl,” he said, leaning one arm on the armrest of his rocker, “sometimes not knowing is half the fun. And you deserve some fun.”
He turned to face her more fully. “I’ve known you for what, three years? And except that one guy—what was his name? The one who came around a couple of times…”
“Sam. Samuel Jones.”
“Right, him. Besides him, I haven’t seen you with anyone. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t tell me you don’t need… something… every now and then. You should have a man in your life. Even if it’s just for the fun of it. And some man should have the privilege of having you in his life. To some extent.”
He paused, then added with a smirk, “And I don’t count. You need something different.”
Yeah something. She was just not sure she was ready for something yet. Rowan stubbed out the dead cigarette and lit another.
He pulled at her. Chest Guy.
But that feeling had an inevitability to it. She wasn’t sure she was brave enough to face what it might mean.
Maybe it was better if she didn’t think for a while.
“I’m gonna take a hot bath.” Rowan announced.
“A hot bath? After a day like this?” J.B. looked at her like she’d lost her mind
“Yeah, it relaxes me. And right now, I really need to relax. And think.”
She put the tea cup aside and pushed herself out of the rocker. She grabbed her bag and walked towards the stairs. Without turning back, she said “Thank you. Have a good night J.B.”
He watched her walk away and couldn’t help but think, Oh girl… maybe that’s exactly what you need. A little uneasiness. A little not knowing.
What he said was “You too. And girl, text him.”
Rowan opened the door and stepped into her cottage. The moment she closed it behind her, the stillness wrapped around her like a warm blanket. Here, the world didn’t demand anything. It just let her be.
She slipped off her shoes, tossed her keys in the bowl by the door, and shrugged her shoulders out of the day like it was a heavy coat.
The silence wasn’t lonely. Not here. It was the kind of quiet that knew her name.
She padded to the kitchen, filled the kettle out of habit, and flicked it on. A faint scent of citrus lingered in the air from the bowl of citrons she kept on the counter.
She took down her favorite mug and readied the little tea infuser with black tea and orange peel.
Following the familiar motions, she felt the tension begin to slip from her shoulders. She couldn’t wait to wash the rest of it away.
Letting the kettle heat up, she climbed the stairs to fill the bathtub. She watched the water stream into the tub for a moment, letting the sound and rising steam slow her thoughts. Then she padded into her bedroom.
She loved this room.
Of all the spaces in the cottage, this one felt the most like her. Quiet. Private. Intimate. When she’d decided to stay longer than a few days, redecorating had been her first step in making the place her own.
The big ironcast bed had been the first thing she bought—solid, comforting, slightly dramatic. It grounded the room. It grounded her.
She peeled off her clothes and tossed them onto the dusty rose armchair in the corner. She’d bought that chair for this exact purpose. That, the tall standing mirror beside it and a little round table she used as a night stand, were the only things she kept in here.
Well—those, and the bed.
Completely naked, she padded back downstairs to fetch her tea. Upstairs, the old tub creaked as it filled, the smell of lavender-infused bathwater slowly beginning to drift through the cottage.
Tea in hand, she climbed the stairs again.
Back in her bedroom, she reached for the book lying at the corner of the bed—then noticed the note that had slipped out of her pants pocket.
She picked it up, took the book, and with the tea still in hand, made her way to the bathroom. She placed everything on the little table she’d set next to the bathtub for exactly this kind of evening.
With a sigh, she glanced at the note. Still unsure whether to text him.
Or call…
Resigned, she padded back downstairs to grab her phone.
She wasn’t ready to decide just yet.
But at least now, she couldn’t use the ‘my phone’s downstairs’ excuse anymore.
Back upstairs, she set the phone beside the note on the table, stepped into the bath, and with a low groan, sank into the hot water.
The hot water curled around her like a soft, comforting hug, easing the tension from her body. Her head tipped back, eyes closed, the gentle steam rising and mingling with the faint scent of lavender. For a moment, she allowed herself to just float in the quiet, letting the weight of the day slip away.
But even in this stillness, the note and the phone lingered in her mind.
She let out a slow breath, almost frustrated with herself. The damn things were calling to her,
even if she tried to ignore them. The note, with its reminder of him—of what she hadn’t said yet. The phone, sitting there like it was waiting for her to finally make up her mind.
She shifted slightly, the water rippling around her. She should just enjoy this moment, shouldn’t she?
But that damn note… It was almost like it had a magnet in it, pulling her attention, even as she tried to drift.
Her fingers toyed with the edge of the note, rereading the words again as if they might somehow rearrange themselves into something clearer. “You might want to watch where you’re running next time—though I wouldn’t mind catching you again. – Chest Guy 555-435-2906.”
A small, amused smile tugged at her lips. She could almost hear the cocky tone in his voice. She took a slow breath, thinking for a moment, then grabbed her phone from the table.
She typed quickly, forcing herself not to overthink it.
“You might want to keep your hands to yourself next time—though I wouldn’t mind running into you again. – ‘Not Interested’ Girl”
She hit send before she could second guess herself. The phone buzzed in her hand as the message shot off, and she leaned back into the warm water, her mind still buzzing.
Kian nudged the door open with his foot, arms full and body heavy from a day on the road. All he wanted now was a hot shower and the comfort of his couch.
He walked into the kitchen, dropped his keys and phone onto the counter, and his bag on the floor next to it. He let out a slow breath. For a moment, he just stood there, taking it in.
The loft was quiet, open, and still—exactly how he liked it. The wall of windows at the back framed an unbroken view of the city, sprawling and silent beneath the evening sky.
He walked toward the couch, grabbing the remote and his controller on the way. He turned on the TV and console without thinking—muscle memory by now. Gaming helped clear the fog of the day, especially after hours on the road. A shower could wait.
A yellow Post-it was stuck to the controller—one from the stack on his desk. His brother. Of course. He knew this would be one of the first things Kian reached for when he got home.
“Brother,
The Wife made me bring you some food. It’s in the fridge. She also threatened me with bodily harm if you don’t eat something that didn’t come from a truck stop.
She’s serious, bro. So please, eat.
P.S. The kids miss their uncle. Come by soon… before they start asking why you’re still hiding in your cave.”
Kian chuckled, shaking his head.
Yeah. Food it is.
He headed back to the kitchen and opened the fridge to see what his brother had dropped off.
Another chuckle escaped him. From the looks of it, his sister-in-law had sent enough food to feed him for a week. Six containers sat neatly stacked in his otherwise mostly empty fridge.
He didn’t bother checking them all—he trusted her cooking—and grabbed the one on top. Popping the lid open just enough to catch a whiff, he smiled.
Stew. Just what he needed.
He slid the container into the microwave, then reached back into the fridge for a can of Coke.
When the microwave dinged, he opened it and carefully pulled the container out—fingers gingerly pinching the hot plastic—and set it down on the counter.
He decided not to bother with a plate and just grabbed a fork. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until now. Still standing, he started to dig in.
Kian was halfway through his stew when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, not expecting much—then paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he read the message that popped up:
“You might want to keep your hands to yourself next time—though I wouldn’t mind running into you again. – ‘Not Interested’ Girl”
A low chuckle escaped him as he shook his head. There she was. He’d almost given up on hearing from her, and yet he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her during the four-hour drive home. She definitely had a knack for keeping things interesting.
And as for the part about running into him again? He wouldn’t mind that either.
He slid the phone aside, took another bite, and let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. No way was he letting her have the last word.
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