She chuckled. “Actually, on Halloween.”
“Awesome.”
Her chuckle blossomed into a full laugh. “You would think that.”
“Hell yeah, I do. Don’t you?”
“I’m not too worried about it, because most people don’t deliver on their due dates. I just don’t want the kid to have a birthday on a holiday. I want it to be a special day for him. Or her.”
“You don’t know what you’re having?”
“Not yet. Hopefully on my next doctor visit.”
“So you are finding out.”
“Totally. We’re supposed to go for my ultrasound soon. At first everyone didn’t want to know, but they’ve change their minds. I told them I want to know, and there was no way I’d be able to keep it a secret for the rest of this pregnancy. Take this exit. I’m terrible at keeping secrets.” Especially when it came to her mother-in-law. The woman had a way of simply looking at her, and all of Rowan’s hidden truths wanted to pour out. Except for this one, tonight. She had absolutely no desire to tell Regina she was spending the evening with Mike Larson’s rock star younger brother.
“You can tell me, too,” Zane said, following the directions she’d given him in the middle of her nervous rambling, and Rowan marveled at the warmth that spread in her chest. “I want to know.”
“Really?”
“Of course I do.”
“Why?”
“Because I get the feeling you need someone else to talk to, and I would love to be that person.”
Such a simple statement, yet so enormous to her. “That’s nice of you,” she ventured, cringing inwardly at the lameness of it.
“Don’t go thinking it’s because I’m a nice guy,” he said, his lips curling in an almost serpentine grin. She looked at him for a long moment, the strong profile, his eyes shielded by his sunglasses. Everything since she’d met him had led her to think he was exactly that . . . a nice guy who’d finally had everything go right for him after so many years of it going wrong.
“I guess you have me fooled,” she said lightly.
He didn’t reply.
* * *
A surreal quality hung over dinner. Bringing someone so unfamiliar to such a familiar place had Rowan feeling disoriented, as if she were seeing everything for the first time. Zane was such a gentleman . . . something she hadn’t expected, but maybe she should have. He’d treated her with nothing but kindness ever since they first met, but it was still a thrill when he opened doors for her, kept his hand lightly on her back as they walked, pulled out her chair for her. Tommy had done things like that at first, but with the familiarity of marriage, his early habits had somewhat died away.
And there was always the possibility of him being recognized. While they ate, she kept her eye on the rest of the room, checking for anyone watching them too closely, a paranoia she couldn’t seem to shake. Zane didn’t seem bothered at all. His focus remained on her, something else she found disconcerting. Her nerves were so frazzled that she could hardly work up the appetite to finish her food, even while eating for two. That wasn’t a problem she usually had.
Zane’s celebrity, she decided, was only among a certain demographic, so she guessed she shouldn’t have worried so much. At this fairly early hour, mostly families with kids surrounded them, and middle-aged couples, and even a few older patrons who were enjoying their drinks and becoming more boisterous than some of the kids. None of them suspecting that a bona fide rock star sat casually in their midst.
He’d caused a bit of a riot at a nightclub in Houston a while back. So among that certain demographic, her fears might have been realized. When their conversation stalled a bit—having been a steady stream since their arrival—she decided to ask him about that incident.
“It wasn’t a riot, but it was all over TMZ anyway. That was my brother Damien’s club,” he said. “I was going to hang out with him. I didn’t do anything, but some dude’s girlfriend freaked out over seeing me and that guy got pissed and tried to take a swing. Jase didn’t let him get far.”
“Jase?”
He smirked. “It feels kinda stupid whenever I say he’s my bodyguard, but I guess that’s truer than not.”
“Why does it feel stupid? Obviously you need him. You couldn’t handle a mob on your own.” She glanced around the room, but didn’t see any bodyguard types hulking in the shadows of the restaurant. “Where is he now?”
“He was supposed to have stayed behind, because I didn’t expect any trouble tonight, and I didn’t want him tagging along with us. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he followed us and is skulking around somewhere.”
“God. That must be so weird.”
Zane shrugged, absently giving his water glass a twirl. “Part of it. Though it’s not something you ever get used to.”
“Damien doesn’t have a VIP entrance or something where no one would see you?”
“I could have gone through the back, yeah, but sometimes I just want to be fucking normal, you know? Walk through a nightclub if I want to. Be around people.”
“I get that,” she said softly, dragging her fork through her shrimp scampi. She wished she could have indulged in a glass of wine, but of course, that couldn’t happen. She’d ordered sweet tea; Zane had ordered water, something she’d been happy to see. The stories of him being clean and sober must all be true. Or else he was on his best behavior for her, but everything about him seemed to suggest he had indeed kicked all that stuff. She would’ve thought it would be difficult for him to be around people who were drinking and partying, like in a nightclub, but then again, he was a famous musician. He was probably around that stuff all the time and still managed to abstain.
What incredible willpower he must have. It made Rowan respect him all the more to think of him struggling through that day after day. When she’d lived with her aunt, she’d watched a cousin go through addiction with nowhere near the same amount of success. It was one of the reasons Rowan felt she and her aunt Maureen had never had a real chance to connect; Aunt Mo had always been so concerned for her son’s battles that she’d had little time for a grieving niece. Rowan had understood, and kept mostly to herself, trying to cause as few problems as possible.
Tentatively, she revealed all of this to Zane as they finished dinner, watching all the while for any indications that it was a topic he didn’t want to broach. But she wanted him to know how much she admired him for conquering that particular demon.
“Rowan,” he said gravely, crossing his forearms on the table and leaning slightly forward. “If I hadn’t made it in music, I honestly don’t know where the fuck I’d be right now. I had people looking out for me. Don’t give me too much credit.”
“You chased your dreams, though. So few people have the courage.”
“I could sing. That was something I was blessed with. I didn’t work hard at it, I was privileged. And I know that. I was a fuckup who found the right group of other fuckups and managed by some divine intervention to make music with them that people actually want to listen to. Fully realizing that it could all be gone tomorrow, that in a decade or so, people will be wondering, ‘Whatever happened to those guys?’”
“I’m no stranger to that thinking,” she told him, remembering Tommy’s insecurities about his fighting career. Things only she heard, worries spoken in the depths of sleepless nights. “If you’re anything like my husband was, it keeps you up at night sometimes.”
“A lot,” he admitted, holding her gaze intently. “It keeps me up a lot.”
She shifted in her seat, transfixed by those dark eyes, unwilling or unable to look away. She’d never seen such haunted eyes. Not even when she looked in the mirror.
His was a face she had seen a thousand times through the filter of a camera lens, but gazing at him on a computer monitor or a TV screen had nothing on seeing him up close. Actually witnessing the sheen of the restaurant’s dim light on his black hair. The fringe of his eyelashes, the depth and dimension of his eyes, the shadows acro
ss his features. His face seemed leaner, somehow fiercer, even more compelling. She hadn’t thought it possible. He also had the same easy manner she’d observed in interviews, as if he’d been born to be in front of the camera. Talking to him was refreshing; he made her feel good somehow, even among so much bad, so much pain. It would be so easy to grow attached to this feeling. Rowan had to accept that as she peeled these layers back from him, he might only become more compelling. Keep looking for something bad. You can’t be too perfect, Zane. You just can’t.
Taking a breath through her nose, Rowan reached for her tea glass with a trembling hand, managing to tear her gaze away from him. His quiet assessment must have continued, because she felt it all the way to her toes as she brought the glass to her lips. Her mouth had run so dry she felt that drink travel all the way to her stomach . . .
“You are incredibly beautiful, Rowan.”
. . . and she nearly choked, a hand flying to her mouth in case any of the tea tried to shoot out through her nose.
“Well,” she managed, sounding half strangled as she carefully set her glass back down. “Thank you. Although you’re probably rethinking that.” She coughed into her fist, trying to be as ladylike as possible, but she sounded like an eighty-year-old smoker.
With a crooked grin somewhere between sweet and cocky as hell, he passed a napkin over to her. “Not at all.”
She wiped her lips with his napkin, mourning the loss of any lipstick that might have remained through dinner and hoping she hadn’t smeared it halfway down her chin. Her heart throbbed wildly in her chest. Zane Larson had told her she was beautiful. Incredibly so. Oh, God, what was happening?
“You’re not, um . . .” She sucked in a gulp of air, trying to breathe courage into her words. “You’re not seeing anyone?”
“No.”
She knew she hadn’t seen him publicly hooked up with anyone, but still, no models or actresses or even porn stars? Wasn’t that the norm? He could have any one of those women, and he was sitting here telling her she was beautiful? “How is that even possible?” she asked, more to herself than to him, but he answered all the same.
“I make music and I tour. That’s life right now, and we’re in our prime. Mixing up someone else in it hasn’t really been on my radar.”
“Any opportunities?” She was genuinely curious who he might have crossed paths with.
His grin reappeared. “A few.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Probably.”
“You’re locked down on it, huh?”
“Yep.”
Chuckling, feeling a little relieved to move beyond the awkwardness of a few minutes ago, Rowan relaxed in her chair a bit. “I mean, I didn’t figure you would be here if you were, you know, attached.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” he said, not meeting her eyes now but focusing on running his finger around the rim of his water glass. “If I wanted to see you, then I would see you.” He glanced up at her again, the light catching on his silver eyebrow ring.
“Oh,” she said, a little breathless. “Even if she would be mad?”
“She doesn’t exist.”
“I just mean . . . if it were me? I would . . . I wouldn’t let you go out with another woman.”
“You’d put your foot down, huh?” The corner of his mouth tugged upward. She found herself wondering how his beard would feel against the palm of her hand. Soft? Bristly? But her thoughts couldn’t run that way. They simply could not.
“I would,” she said confidently, shoving all fantasies of such a scenario aside and focusing on the here and now. And here and now, all they were doing was having a friendly conversation. Even if his damn fingertip sliding along the rim of that glass was making her a little crazy. Finally he drew it away and sat back, surveying the scene around them. Rowan blinked as if a spell had been lifted.
“No one has come by to hound you yet,” she said lightly. “What kind of celebrity are you?”
He laughed, a sound as familiar as the sight of him, but still ten times more musical when it flowed directly from his lips to her ears. She’d watched him in interviews, she’d watched him horse around with his band members in online clips and on the DVD she used to watch religiously when she lived with her aunt. The first time she’d heard that laughter face-to-face, when she’d met him backstage at his concert, her heart had melted right down to her feet.
“I’m not complaining,” he told her. “At all.”
“I understand. Do you handle it well? If someone came up right now, what would you do?”
“The fans we have are the reason I’m here today. So I’m accommodating. Now, if someone approaches me being an asshole—and it happens—that might be a little different.”
“People can be so pushy, I bet.”
“You have no idea. I expect them to respect my boundaries. I wouldn’t mind giving out a handshake and an autograph right now at all. If they started insisting on pictures and shit like that, nah, I wouldn’t go for it.”
“Do the paps harass you a lot?”
“Depends on where I am. I’m not that big yet.”
“Oh, yet, he says.” She giggled. “I’m only teasing.”
“Tease all you like, Rowan.”
God, something about him saying her name . . . her name, a normal girl from New Orleans. Every time he did it, a little jolt of joy flickered though her heart. She had to be beaming at him like an idiot.
“Do you want dessert?” he asked.
Oh yes. She didn’t need it; she was stuffed. But . . . “The crème brûlée is to die for here.”
“Say no more.” He signaled to their waiter, who bounded over eagerly to take his order. Rowan suspected the guy might know who Zane was, but was too starstruck to say anything. Neither of their drinks had been less than half empty all night; he’d seemed to keep one eye on them ever since he’d introduced himself as their server. Then again, maybe the guy was just that good. Rowan had waited more than her share of tables in her life. She didn’t miss it a bit.
“So your new album is coming along?” she asked him as they waited for their decadence to be delivered to them. As a mega-fan, she would kick herself later if she didn’t get the inside scoop on the new songs.
“Awesome. I’m really proud of this one. When I left the house earlier today, Ava Marks was there in my studio finishing up some guest vocals. She fucking killed it.”
Wow. Ava Marks. From Decider. At his house. Rowan prayed the sharp little twinge that went through her chest didn’t mean what she thought it did. “I can’t wait to hear that,” she said lightly, hoping none of the thoughts flitting through her head showed on her face.
“I think you’ll love it,” he said, seeming not to notice anything amiss, “since you’ve been a fan from the start, and this definitely goes back to our roots. There’s a really stripped down, brutal edge on a lot of the songs.”
As he continued to talk, the enthusiasm in his voice and the light in his eyes were infectious, and she followed every word, eagerly swallowing each detail he was willing to share. The waiter came by and brought their dessert, but as she stared at the sweet indulgence before her, she wondered what she’d been thinking. One more bite and she might explode. Or not be able to fit into what few clothes she could wear tomorrow. But she dug in anyway, finding a unique sort of pleasure in watching Zane’s mouth close around his fork. That mouth that belted out her favorite songs.
Just when she thought she might be sick from her gluttony, the waiter swept by to drop off the check. Zane slipped an elite-looking credit card in the leather folder without so much as a glance at the amount. “Where to now?” he asked once his eyes settled back on her face. “I hope you’re not ready to go home yet.”
“Oh? No . . . I’m not, actually.” Suddenly, the thought of home filled her with dread and sadness. Emptiness and loneliness. A home still full of Tommy’s things, but no Tommy. Uneasiness churned in her stomach, a mixture of guilt and remorse that it was another man w
ho had taken her out and given her a reason to smile again. Maybe it really had been too early to do this.
“Good.” He gave a single nod. “This was a great place, by the way. Thanks for bringing me.”
“You brought me.”
“You picked it.”
“I knew it was you.” Their waiter’s voice cut in as he reappeared and laid the folder back on the table. That hadn’t taken long. Rowan caught Zane’s eye and sent him a little grin, which he returned a little sheepishly. “I didn’t want to say anything in case I was wrong, and I thought maybe I was crazy, but then I noticed your name and—wow, man, it’s an honor. My friends won’t believe this.”
Zane offered a handshake and obliged the guy with an autograph while Rowan swept a glance around the room, hoping they weren’t attracting attention. None so far, but the recognition had set Zane on edge; he signed off on the check and escorted Rowan out of the restaurant with a swiftness that hadn’t been evident during their leisurely dinner.
“You never did tell me what you want to do now,” he said once they were safely ensconced inside the SUV.
She was the local; she should have a million ideas. But she didn’t. Most of the things she’d liked to do were still too tied to Tommy’s memory, still too painful for her to contemplate right now. Her once-familiar world was entirely new to her now, and built of pain and memories. After a moment, she explained that to him, hoping she wouldn’t see a flash of pity in his eyes.
She saw nothing there but understanding.
“It just so happens I have an idea,” he said slowly, “but you’ll have to shoot it down if it’s too fucking pretentious.”
Rowan laughed. “Okay. Deal.”
“I never go anywhere without my music, especially when I’m in the creating process. If you want to come back to my hotel, I can let you have a listen to some of the stuff we’ve been working on.”
She could have sworn fingers walked up her spine. His hotel room.
That would certainly be a whole new unfamiliar world.
She couldn’t.
But . . . but . . . new August on Fire. How could she turn that down?