Rowan.
I can hardly believe it. What I thought was going to turn into an ugly, humiliating situation actually turned out the exact opposite. At least, I hope so. There’s always the chance I’ll screw this date that’s not a date up like I did the first one, and she’ll end the night by leaving me on the side of the road and taking a cab back to her apartment. That would be harder from some back road in the middle of nowhere; I have to admit.
I honestly haven’t had a date in ten years. Not since Amy broke up with me. I’m out of practice when it comes to this, and I don’t really count the forced ones I went on that Rowan arranged. This one is my idea, and this isn’t someone I don’t want to see. This isn’t a stranger.
This is Rowan.
I really hope I don’t mess this up. I don’t want to hurt Rowan. I don’t want to give her a reason to match me up with a profile from hell to get back at me for butchering this. Okay, no. That has nothing to do with it. I don’t want to mess this up because she’s Rowan, and I’m Cliff. She’s a nice person. A good person. A beautiful, witty, funny, smart, and incredible woman, while I’m just this guy who hasn’t been on a date in a decade and was so immature about the knife my first serious girlfriend stuck into me that my mom had to go to a dating agency to teach my ass a lesson and break a decade long funk.
And the barn I’m going to take her to is kind of my secret escape. It’s a place I’ve gone to since high school to think and be alone. It’s been my inspiration, my solitude, my spot, and I really don’t want it to be associated with some trash memories of how I messed everything up.
Before I have time to talk myself out of this, I jump off the couch and rush into the kitchen, where I snatch my keys and wallet off the counter.
Nearest gas station, here I come.
Chapter 10
Rowan
Maybe going into the middle of nowhere, late at night, with someone I don’t even truly know at all, isn’t really that great of an idea. I think it violates every single one of the privacy and safety rules that I always warn my clients about. I think it might also violate every ounce of common sense I have. I’m currently sitting in a confined space with a man who is seriously doing it on the over attractive factor.
He might be wearing a faded leather jacket over a black t-shirt and a pair of regular looking jeans, but still. Just because he’s not trying to be attractive doesn’t mean he’s not. I keep watching the way his hands flex on the wheel as he drives. I steal sidelong glances at Cliff’s profile whenever I can, which is every single time he has to pay attention to traffic. Oh, and he smells good. His scent is a mix of subtle cologne that could be aftershave or even deodorant or something, and a smell that I’m pretty sure is just Cliff.
By the time we reach the edge of the city, my entire body is a mess of goosebumps. The car isn’t cold, either. The heat is blasting, and the gas tank—which I checked when I got in—is full.
Cliff seems to have taken my advice to heart, which made me blush. He was at my front door after he texted me that he was there. He also showed me to the car and opened my door for me. He definitely improved since the last time. He’s upped his game, which is good news for me when it comes to keeping my job, but bad news for the suspiciously mushy spot in my chest.
I try to keep track of the route we take just in case. Just in case what, I’m not sure. It’s not like I’m going to have to run for my life or anything. Except for my heart, maybe.
It’s a disturbing thought. My heart is not getting involved. Attraction doesn’t have anything to do with the heart. Attraction is a biological function that involves brain signals, internal chemical reaction, the eyes, and other organs. Not the heart organ. You can be attracted to a person and not feel anything more than that, right? In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s how most of the world operates.
“We’re almost there.” Cliff breaks the silence that surrounds us. He doesn’t have any music playing, and he didn’t even attempt to make small talk. I like that. I like that the silence doesn’t feel strained.
Just as he informs me of this, Cliff turns off the freeway onto an exit. From there, he takes a series of turns that look like they’re going into the middle of nowhere. Pretty soon, we’re heading down a gravel road. The moon isn’t very bright tonight, and the road is wet enough that there isn’t a bunch of cloying dust filtering into the car or blocking the view.
I see the barn rising out of the field in the distance like an ancient sentinel. Finally, Cliff pulls the car over to the side of the road. He shuts off the lights and lets me drink my fill of the sagging building. I’m pretty sure it’s cedar, and that its grey boards are weathered with time. The roof has seen better days and is no longer holding up on the one side. It sags near the middle and doesn’t get any better. In fact, the whole right side of it is leaning. It’s beautiful but in a rustic decay kind of a way that is beautiful in photographs.
