Page 81 of Dirty Fighter

She doesn’t. She wouldn’t.

And it’s with gut-gnawing awareness that I realize not once this weekend has she said an unkind word about the doctor who spent the past year working at a clinic on the other side of the globe, doing good things for sick children. She doesn’t blame this utterly selfless, deeply decent asshole for falling in love with that place and the people he worked with there. Or even for upending her life so completely after she already gave up everything in Portland for him.

She hasn’t said she hates him. Or more importantly, that she was glad he was gone.

And now the most selfless, dedicated do-gooder on the planet has even more selflessly sacrificed his passion or calling or whatever driving factor it was… for her.

I can’t tell what she’s thinking. Can’t read anything past the stunned shock in her expression.

She blinks, and when she opens her eyes, they find me.

I look for the relief in the contact. The quiet promise that we’re okay, that nothing has changed. That our casual, see-how-things-play-out bullshit slow roll isn’t at stake.

But all I see staring back at me is distress, and it fucking wrecks me.

“Oh God!” Ron yelps, jerking back, hands flying up in defense like I was coming at him.

You’d know if I was, asshole. “Ron, right?”

The guy looks like he’s about to piss himself, and then Rowan has her hand lightly on his shoulder. And I hate him even more.

“Ron,” she urges, leaning into his field of view.

But then it must click because his brows nearly hit the ceiling, and then he’s rearing back, clutching his chest as he gives up a choked laugh. “Wait! The stepbrother, right?”

Rowan’s eyes cut between us. “Ed’s son.”

I give a tight nod, knowing her halfway clarification is the best she could probably come up with under the circumstances.

“The infamous Jason Stanvic. Static. Wowza, for a second there—” He cuts off with one of those whoowee noises that is every kind of relief I’m not feeling.

Because yeah, for a second there, before the power came back on, I’d thought that maybe I could ask her for more… that maybe she wanted me to.

But then… this guy.

And right now, it’s taking everything in me not to toss Rowan over my shoulder and carry her into the back so I can beg her to give us a chance.

Ron casts Rowan a meaningful look. “Marsha didn’t mention he was here.”

She swallows hard. “I— I didn’t want to upset her.”

It’s the truth the same way referring to me as Ed’s son is. It’s the truth. Just not all of it.

“Right. Copy on that.” He looks around, and I wonder if he’s going to ask Rowan for the tour. If he can talk to her privately in her room. But then his attention bounces to me. “Don’t have to tell you about getting on that woman’s bad side, right?”

“Right.” I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m intentionally standing back so I don’t intimidate this asshole. But I’m dying inside. I have no idea what to do or say, because none of what’s running through my head would be fair to Rowan.

I can’t ask this guy how he could leave her for a year. I can’t demand to know what he was thinking when he decided to do it again or how a guy like him could ever have caught Rowan’s attention.

I can’t ask him to stop looking at Rowan like she’s his. Because she might be, and I just don’t know it yet.

Rowan clears her throat and gives me an apologetic look. “Would you mind if we…” She gestures between her and Ron and… Shit.

Privacy. She wants them to have privacy.

Right. “Oh, yeah. I’m, umm. I should check my phone.”

A beat passes where neither of us looks away. And then she’s turning to Ron, giving him a soft smile as she suggests they talk outside.