Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 13

“I had fun last night,” Cora announces in the quiet car.

“Me too.”

“Can we do it again? Cook on the fire?” She peeks up at me, almost shyly. Like she’s not used to asking for what she wants. Or like she thinks I might say no.

“Of course.”

“Would you show me how to build the little pyramid thing with the paper and sticks?”

“Should I be at all concerned about your sudden interest in lighting fires?”

She scoffs and looks out the window. “It was nice. Cozy. It felt very… I don’t know. Country?”

I turn into town, heading toward the junior high school. I know exactly what she means. Surrounded by wilderness. Water. Stars. You can have a fire in the city, but it just isn’t the same. Too tidy, too sanitized. “I love that feeling too.”

“Can we try my mom again today?”

“Of course,” I say, resolving to call the facility first and make sure we call at a time that guarantees success.

She nods. And then I nod. But today, the silence isn’t awkward. In fact, I feel like I made some headway last night. That we forged a small connection in what is otherwise a really fucking weird arrangement.

“How late did you and Rosie stay up last night?”

Rosie. Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about whatever that moment was last night. The tortured expression on her face as she watched my lips while telling me I shouldn’t be looking at her like that.

Cora asks me the question casually enough, but I see her fingers fiddling with the straps of her backpack as she stares out the window.

“Not for much longer. She headed home. Work night or whatever. You’ll see her after school.”

She turns now, casting a suspicious glare my way. “Good. I like her.”

“Me too.”

“It’s possible I like her more than you.”

I bark out a laugh. “I don’t blame you. She is far more likable than me.”

“Pretty too.”

Good lord. We’re edging into dangerous territory. And all it takes is one quick glance to know that Cora is staring at me too hard for the comment to be offhanded.

I shrug. “She’s Rosie Belmont,” I say, like that explains the way she looks. The way she is. The way she always has been. “And my best friend’s baby sister.”

Then I change the subject right as we pull into the drop-off line. “Wanna listen to some samples with me this weekend? I’ve had a bunch sent to me since I announced the new company.”

I can tell I’ve shocked her. But I can also tell that Rosie was right—a spark of interest flares in her hazel eyes.

Her oversized black hoodie has holes where she’s pushed her thumbs through. She points at me and then at herself. “You want to listen to music with me?”

“Yeah. Thought it might be fun.”

“Yes, please,” she says simply. And then she opens the door and steps out, but before she goes, she swings her backpack over one shoulder and turns back to me with a smug smirk on her lips. “And just so you know, all the perv dads at pickup have noticed she’s”—her fingers curl into sarcastic air quotes—“Rosie Belmont, too.”

She smiles and slams the door in my face.

Leaving me stewing over the fact I now feel the need to accompany Rosie to the school for daily pickup.

“Pleeease,” Rosie whines as she spins in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. There’s something childish about the entire scene. The tone of her voice, her dramatic begging. But it’s the way her hair trails behind her that has me staring. Brown, gold, silver—it’s like every strand is a different color, and all darker at the root. Some come from the salon, no doubt, while others have probably changed in the sun.

I dated a girl who wouldn’t go out in the sun without a hat because she swore it ruined her color. I couldn’t tell. But I liked her for more than her hair.

Too bad she liked me for my money.

“No, listen. The pay will be solid. Just come look at the place. You did a terrific job with my parents’ house. On time, under budget, the whole thing. You’re the cream of the crop for contractors.”

She continues spinning, and I can just make out the dull, deep voice of someone on the line.

“I know there are other contractors in the area, but you beat them by a country mile. No comparison. You’re a cut above.”

Another turn in the office chair.

Rather than watching her, I really should work my way out from under the pile of emails I need to respond to. And I’ve got a metric fuck ton of sound equipment to order.

“I am not full of shit. Ask West—he’ll tell you this is a great gig. And if you get called out for a fire, that’s fine. We’ll make do.”

She finally catches sight of me, my shoulder propped against the doorway, and stops twirling. Her eyes move down and back up, taking me in with no shame. Likely as payback for what I said to her last night. “Yeah, I know West thinks that’s a good idea. But West also thinks racing on a road with no guardrails and a cliff on one side is a smart idea. And you should see this guy. He’s wearing a Rolex. And he styled his hair to look like it’s mussed when it’s not. He isn’t going to join your bowling team. You wouldn’t want him.”

With a quick glance down at my wrist, I catch the glint of my Rolex. The one I bought to celebrate having a million dollars in my investment account. All money I earned myself. It was the first stupid, frivolous thing I bought with my own cash.

I fucking love this watch.

And my hair is mussed because I was stressed while driving back here, worried what kind of footing I’d be on with Rosie after my moment of insanity last night.

I’ve really gotta stop pulling this girl’s hair.

I jut my chin at her. “That’s the contractor?”

“Yes, the contractor I like and trust,” she says, raising her voice pointedly for the contractor’s benefit.

I hear the guy mumbling something through the receiver on her cell.

“He says he’ll do your office if you join the bowling team.”

“Jesus. What is with these guys and their stupid bowling team?”

Her hand snaps up to cover the phone like I’ve said something downright sacrilegious. “Ford, that bowling team is like Fight Club or something. Invite only. Other dads don’t get invited. It’s prestigious.” She sighs heavily and whispers, “I don’t know why, but they take it seriously, so you’d better get your game face on if you’re planning to join.”

I’ve been mocking West’s bowling team for almost two years now. And not being a dad has kept me safe from any invites. But now?

Now I don’t have an excuse. I live here. And technically, I’m a dad.

I rake a hand through my hair, mussing it further. “Okay, tell him fine. Tell him that⁠—”

Rosie opens her mouth to speak, but then pulls her phone away from her ear to look at the screen. “He said, ‘See you tonight at seven,’ and then hung up on me.”

“Who is he?”

“Sebastian Rousseau.”

“Do I know him?”

“Nah. He moved here a while back. He’s an airtanker pilot. Came to town to fight a bushfire and loved it too much to leave. He works summers and picks up construction gigs when it’s not fire season. He’s kinda scary. But also nice.”

“Why’s he scary?”

“Cause he’s a grumpy asshole.”

“You tell me I’m a grumpy asshole.”

“Well, next to Bash, you’re a teddy bear.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, call him back and tell him I can’t do it tonight. I need time to find someone to watch Cora. I’m not leaving her alone when she just got here.”

Rosie tosses her phone down on her desk. “I’ll hang with her.”

“You’re going to spend a Thursday night hanging out with a twelve-year-old?”

“Why not? Is it somehow more badass when you do it?”

I bristle. I’m trying to play it cool, but I was looking forward to hanging out with her tonight. While stressing about Rosie on my drive back, I was also brainstorming dinner options.

“I told her we’d cook over the fire again.”

“I’ll ply her with pizza and a chick flick. She’s young. She’ll bounce back. Take one for the team, so we don’t have to work in a place that smells like mold. You’re not in the city anymore, Dorothy. Good contractors are not a dime a dozen. You can click your five-hundred-dollar Frye boots together all you want—these guys don’t just pop up out of nowhere.”

I give her a dry glare and walk over to my desk. As I toss my phone and planner down, a sheet lifts as the air wafts beneath it.

I pick it up and note the messy, loopy scrawl that fills the page. When my eyes catch on the date, I realize what I’m holding. The torn edge, the pale gray lines. Eighteen-year-old Rosie sat in my passenger seat writing on this exact page.

I turn to look at her, and her eyes are already on me.

Amusement twists her lips.

“Did you rip this out of your journal?”

“Sure did.” She crosses her legs, tall, black leather boots ending just below her knee.

“Why?”

“Because we touched on this exact entry the other night. You gonna read it? Or just stand here looking for something to disagree with me about? You’ll love it. I was horribly malicious and judgmental as a teenager. Like, even I’m horrified by my own word choices.”

I drop my eyes to the paper and read the first lines.

Dear Diary,

Travis Lynch is a piece of human garbage.

I glance at Rosie. “You sure I’m allowed to read it?”

She crosses her arms and her loose knit sweater stretches over her breasts in a way I should not be noticing. “Would be weird to put it on your desk if you weren’t.”

This is so us. We try to be nice to each other, and just end up exchanging verbal jabs. I shake my head in frustration and gaze down at the page.

Dear Diary,

Travis Lynch is a piece of human garbage. Tonight, I showed up to the party at his place unexpectedly, and I walked in to find him with his dick down the throat of some summer vacation slut. I heard that broccoli makes cum taste bad, so I hope Travis has been eating all those greens he loves so much.

I stop to peek up at Rosie, who is watching me raptly. “Does broccoli really make semen taste bad?”

With a light laugh, she shrugs. “Dunno. Never put that theory to the test.”

I chuckle and keep reading.

Ford (who is usually a total dickhead) drove to pick me up when I called him crying. The drive should have taken him twenty minutes, but he was here in ten. Means he must have been out already, so I feel less bad about ruining his Friday night. Based on the way he won’t look at me right now, I think he’s pretty pissed. I should feel bad, but I kind of like pissing him off. So, it actually feels like a bright spot for tonight.

I glance at Rosie, shaking my head. “Some things never change. Huh, Rosalie?”

“Rosalie. So formal,” she teases back.

I scoff, about to go back to reading, when I decide this might be the perfect moment to create some distance between us after last night. Lay down some ground rules. Formality isn’t a bad thing between a boss and his employee. Especially when my control around her is shit, and she doesn’t know if she has a boyfriend.

So, I focus on the journal page while the words tumble out, almost unbidden. “We’re at work, and I’m technically your boss. We should keep things professional. If we were going to fuck, I’d call you Rosie. But we’re not, so let’s stick to Rosalie around the office and at any future business functions.”

From the corner of my eye, I see her flinch. Unfortunately, I’ve always been awkward and abrupt around her—that’s another thing that hasn’t changed.

“Oh good, you’re still a total dickhead,” she mutters with a scoff.

My stomach turns, and I know what I said came out harsh. Way too fucking harsh. But I’m too chicken to look at her. If I look at her, I’ll take it back. I’ll look at her like I did last night. I’ll tell her things I shouldn’t. Reveal the thoughts and feelings I keep a padlock on. So I let the charged silence hang between us and keep my eyes latched onto the page as I finish the journal entry.

Cutting off Travis’s dick for embarrassing me like that could also be a bright spot. Or his balls. I wonder which would be worse. If I cut off his dick, he’d be dickless. But I think losing the balls would make his dick not work, and that’s probably worse.

Anyway, this is pretty incriminating. I wonder if Ford will bail me out.

That’s where it ends. That’s where she growled and tossed the diary out the window. When I chance a peek back up at her from across the office, she’s glaring at me. I know the expression well. That’s the thing about Rosie—I can be a total prick and she just gives it right back.

“Did I offend you?”

Her brow arches. “You’ve been offending me for years. If you were too nice to me, I’d worry one of us was terminal or something.”

That makes my lips twitch.

“Plus, I’d never fuck you. I hate you too much.” Ah. There it is.

It shouldn’t make me smile. But it does. She knows exactly how to get under my skin, bring out the worst in me.

I slide the page back across the desk toward her. “I like this one. It shows how truly unhinged you were.”

“I still am. Better watch your back, Mr. Ford Grant Junior.”

Oh yeah. I’ve pissed her off all right. But the thing about knowing how to piss each other off is that we also know how to confuse each other.

That’s what last night by the fire was. Mutual confusion.

And I must want more of it because I flip open my laptop and toss out, “That journal entry is fascinating, but all wrong. I was at home when you called that night. And I broke every speed limit to get to you.”