Rowan sets his coffee on the counter. His blue eyes hold mine, the shade of the deep sea beneath the sun. There’s no teasing smile to light his skin, no amused smirk that dances across his lips when steps closer and stops in front of me. He watches the motion of his fingers as they trace the contours of my cheek. The rest of the world falls away. “No, Sloane,” he says. “I’m taking you home. To Boston.”
