“You need to sit over there.” I pointed to the pink barstool. Rowan did not look to where I was pointing. He continued to look at me. Which just wouldn’t do. “Why do I need to sit over there?” he asked, his tone smooth. Deep. I swallowed, battling both arousal and discomfort. “Because this is my kitchen, and I can’t have a man in my kitchen.” He raised his brow. “Not very progressive of you.”
