Sonia M. Rompoti, MSc, Bsc

The worst thing about Rowan Blackwood was not his scowl, which was impressive, or his silences, which could fill a room, or his absolute refusal to participate in office small talk, which Lily had documented across fourteen failed attempts. The worst thing about Rowan Blackwood was that when he smiled — which was rare, which was almost never, which was like a solar eclipse in that you weren’t sure if you were supposed to look — it changed his entire face into something that had no right to exist in a place where she had to function.

He smiled now, at the dog.

The dog had shown up at the office this morning, trotted directly past reception, and parked itself under Rowan’s desk. Security had called. The dog ignored them. Rowan, who’d told the dog in no uncertain terms to leave in a tone he usually reserved for junior analysts, was now feeding it biscuits from his jacket pocket.

He had biscuits in his jacket pocket.

Lily leaned in the doorway.

“You have a dog.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“The dog seems to think differently.”

“The dog is confused.” He gave it another biscuit.

“Rowan. Those are your biscuits.”

“I always carry biscuits.”

“For the dogs?”

He looked up. “For emergencies.”

She pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. It worked for approximately one second.

“This is not funny,” he said.

“It’s extremely funny.”

“Lily.”

“You have a secret biscuit pocket.”

He looked at her for a long moment. The dog looked at her too, biscuit crumbs on its nose.

“Come in and close the door,” he said.

She did. She shouldn’t have, but she did.

They sat on either side of his desk with the stray between them, and she found out his name was Rex — she named him on the spot; Rowan objected — and that Rowan had grown up with dogs, that his parents had a spaniel called Diplomat who was, in his assessment, the best-run member of the family, and that he’d wanted a dog for years but his flat had a stupid no-pets clause.

He talked about his childhood home in a way he’d never talked about anything at work, and she sat across from him and thought: ‘he’s just lonely‘. Not cold. Not difficult. Lonely in the very specific way of people who have taught themselves to need very little.

She knew that particular loneliness well.

“He’ll have to go to a shelter,” Rowan said, not looking at her.

“Or,” she said, “I could take him. My building allows dogs.”

He looked up sharply. “You would do that?”

“On one condition.”

“Name it.”

She leaned forward. “You get visitation rights. Official ones. Which means you come over, which means I get to feed you something that is not biscuits from a jacket pocket.”

He was very still. The dog put its chin on the desk.

“That’s a lot of conditions,” he said.

“One condition with sub-clauses.”

“Lily.”

“Rowan.”

He looked at her like he was making a calculation. Like he was doing the math on something he’d been deliberately not doing the math on.

“Tuesday,” he said finally. “I can do Tuesday.”

“Tuesday,” she said.

Rex wagged his tail.

Rowan reached across the desk and very deliberately, very gently, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was the smallest possible version of what it was, and they both knew it, and she felt it everywhere.

“Tuesday,” he said again, quietly.

She smiled, and this time he let himself watch her do it.

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So you made it to the end… which probably means you’re the kind of person who enjoys a little romance with their coffee. If you’re in the mood for more stories about messy feelings, stubborn attraction, and women who absolutely refuse to settle for boring love, you can find all my books here.

Fair warning though. One story tends to lead to another. I’ve seen it happen. Repeatedly.