Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 32

Hating you is downright impossible.

The sentence plays on repeat in my mind as I carefully replace every single piece of Rosie’s clothing. Putting them back on her is almost as erotic as taking them off.

My cum drips from her as I slide her panties back into place, and I take a base sort of satisfaction in swiping it up over her clit. Making her gasp.

Then comes the skirt.

The gentle hum of the hidden zipper that seals the tight, plum-colored fabric around her waist.

The way she holds my stare as I tuck her blouse back into the waistline.

The graze of my knuckles over the swells of her breasts as I rebutton her blazer.

She tries to toe her shoe back on, but I crouch and gently slap her foot away. Sliding the soft leather over each foot myself. Running a hand up the back of her calf and pressing a kiss to her knee before looking back up at her.

Her hand reaches for me, the tips of her nails trailing through the lock of hair that has fallen over my forehead.

“I’m sorry about your computer,” she says softly, with a little twist to her mouth, like she’s not sorry at all.

My eyes slice to the floor where my Mac lies, its screen hopelessly shattered. I grin back up at her. “Worth it.”

Her cheeks flush pink, and she turns her head away, almost shy. “You’re the first person I’ve ever had sex with without using a condom, so I should be all clear in that department. I’ll get checked to be sure.”

I suppose someone as allegedly intelligent as me should have been concerned about that. But she’s turned me into a caveman, because all I hear in that sentence is that I’m the first man to fuck her bare.

“Same,” I grit out, feeling my cock go hard for her all over again.

“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to trap you with a baby, so I should also tell you I have an IUD.” Her brow wrinkles. “Probably should have told you that before too.”

I stare back at her. “I wouldn’t feel trapped with you.”

Her cheeks go even darker, and a heavy silence descends between us.

It’s then that I hear the slamming of a car door from the driveway out front. My head flips in that direction and so does Rosie’s.

Déjà vu.

She tugs at the bottom of her blazer, smoothing her hands over her hair.

“Who the hell would be here?” I try to straighten myself, but I don’t especially care about anyone seeing me a bit disheveled. Instead, I look at my desk and everything scattered around on the floor.

“Maybe Scotty came back,” she quips, the way she does when she’s trying to smooth out any awkwardness or intensity. She’s been doing that since she was a kid. West would get in trouble, and there would be Rosie, sitting at the dinner table, trying to lighten the mood while everyone else ate anxiously.

“Maybe he wanted lessons in how to properly⁠—”

“Ford?”

I freeze and so does Rosie. Our gazes meet and now it’s my turn to flush pink. Because that is not Scotty.

Rosie recovers first, slipping her professional mask back on. “Senior! Is that you?”

She strides away, down the hall toward the front door, and out of sight, still smoothing her clothes. She’s walking a little gingerly and maybe a nicer guy would feel bad about that.

But I’m not a nicer guy, and I get off on knowing she’s sore after what we just did.

“Rosie?”

Oh god. My mom too? I prop my hands on my hips and stare up at the ceiling’s wooden beams. My dad will be oblivious to the mess in here.

But my mom?

Dr. Gemma Grant, Sex Therapist, is going to know exactly what went down in this office.

“Gemma! Hi! It is so good to see you two.”

I can hear the heavy whooshes of hugs being exchanged. I should walk over there and greet my parents, but I’m stuck staring at the ceiling. Wondering how I got to where I am.

A kid I never saw coming.

A girl I’ve never been able to forget.

My parents showing up at the worst possible moment.

“Wow, it looks incredible,” my mom says, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Ford has been hard at work,” Rosie replies breezily. Not the least bit out of step. Like she greets parents with cum in her panties every day. “And Scotty too, his favorite tradesman.”

Of course my mom picks up on that. “Does that mean he hates him?”

Rosie laughs, and I hear three sets of footsteps as they make their way down the short hallway to the main office area.

They stop short when they see it looks like a bomb went off, and I’m standing in the middle of it all.

My dad looks how he always does—silver-haired and suave. His hair color and a few extra lines beside his eyes might be the only giveaway for his age. Otherwise, he’s still rolling around in jeans and fitted T-shirt with a long necklace like he and I are the same age.

My mom’s hair is still bright red, just like Willa’s, though I suspect she gets a little help in that department these days. It’s chopped at her chin but styled a little wild and wavy. She’s tall and lean, like she always has been. And is wearing an— admittedly—really cool jean jacket with floral embroidery up the sleeve.

She’s also wearing a smirk.

“Son, the fuck you doing?” My dad says it with a deep chuckle, head pivoting to take it all in.

I shoot him a temperamental glare because I’m having a hard time believing that the last thirty minutes actually happened.

But not Rosie.

Rosie pats my dad on the shoulder and renders a light laugh. “You showed up on the heels of a temper tantrum.”

Oh, I’m going to kill her.

My dad’s brows furrow, and Rosie pins me with a wink. “You know how billionaires are. Something doesn’t go their way, and suddenly they’re pitching a fit. Stomping around. Breaking shit.”

My dad laughs at that, hugging Rosie to his side. “You’re a firecracker, Rosalie. I’ve missed ya.”

But it’s my mom who’s staring at me with that knowing smirk on her face and a slightly arched brow. Because my mom knows I’ll stew and pout and snipe when I’m pissed off, but not break shit. That’s a Willa move. “How fortunate that Rosie knows how to handle Ford’s newfound temper.”

My dad is still chuckling good-naturedly when he steps forward to wrap me in a hug. And as I look over his shoulder at Rosie, my mom bumps the little vixen’s shoulder with her own and quietly says, “Peeing afterward helps prevent infection.”

And now I smile, because Rosie, who thought the tantrum joke was real fucking funny, is now staring at me.

Red as a beet.

When the doorbell rings at three o’clock sharp, I know my parents mean business. I told them I needed to get Cora from school and give her a heads-up they were here. I told them we wouldn’t be home until three and that I’d call them.

I swing the door open, and sure enough, there stand my parents. I hold the frame in one hand and the door in the other, blocking them from waltzing in like they own the place.

“I told you I’d call you.”

My dad scoffs. “You don’t have a great track record in that department these days.”

“Well, Dad, your track record for going overboard is still firmly intact, so I guess we’re both consistent.”

His brows drop low and my mom presses her lips together to stifle a laugh. She always gets a kick out of watching the two Fords butt heads.

“Kid, you have no idea. I’ve got my World’s Best Grandpa T-shirt on under this button down.”

“You do not.”

“I do.” He grins and lifts his shirt to unveil the tee that Willa bought him when her daughter was born.

“I told him he was coming on a little strong and needed to cover it up until we got a feel for Cora.”

My gaze bounces between my parents. I can feel the excited energy wafting off of them. And truth be told, I’m not sure how Cora will react to their presence—to their enthusiasm. They’re a lot to take in sometimes. I’ve overheard her conversation with her mom. They’re calm and mature, and there’s no mention of peeing after sex or only fucking guys who read.

“Okay, listen. We need to lay down some ground rules first.” I tug the door closer in behind me and watch my mom’s eyes widen as my dad’s roll.

“She has a mom, and she has a dad. Just because they’re not here doesn’t mean you can barge in and act like we’re some sort of replacement family. If she wants to call you by your first names, deal with it.”

My dad nods and my mom smiles.

“I also don’t want to hear a single word about that time a woman made up a paternity story to scam you. It’s in the past and has no bearing on Cora. Talking about that will just make her uncomfortable.”

I’m met with murmured responses of “Yes” and “Of course.”

I rake a hand through my hair. “And just… be cool. Okay?”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” My dad salutes me and I go back to glaring at him. “Any further directives?”

“Yes, Dad. She likes music, but please don’t spend the entire time talking about your washed-up band. No one enjoys that as much as you do.”

He chuckles, pinching my cheek like he did when I was a boy and forcing me to turn away while tamping down a smile. “You’re a mouthy little shithead, you know that?” he adds, breezing past me. And only now do I notice he has a guitar case in hand.

My mom passes next, patting me on the chest. “It’s adorable to see you so paternal. Whatever role you plan to play in her life, she’s lucky to have you.”

I turn and watch my parents waltz into my house, marveling at the updates and discussing their favorite touches. They don’t notice Cora observing them from the landing on the stairs. I can see her clearly—peering from around the corner. Our eyes meet and she gives me a tentative smile. A subtle tilt of her head.

I wink back at her, tipping my chin toward my parents.

Which is all it takes for her to come all the way downstairs and bravely announce herself. “Hi, I’m Cora.”

They both turn to take her in and much like Willa, they stop for a moment, eyes wide, mouths dropped open. I guess we do kind of look like each other.

“Hi, Cora. I’m Gemma,” my mom rushes out, stepping closer with a friendly smile.

“And I’m⁠—”

“Ford Grant Senior. Guitarist from Full Stop.”

His lips twitch as Cora’s eyes drop to the guitar case at his side.

“You still know how to play that?” I cover my mouth with my fist to keep from laughing.

He scoffs at her question. “Of course. But do you?”

Her eyes go comically wide as she shakes her head. I close the door and walk into the open living space to stand near my dad.

“Thought it might be fun to show you. Taught Willa myself too.”

“You’re going to let me play your guitar?”

He shrugs. “I mean, yeah. Why not?”

“I just… that feels like it belongs in a museum or something.”

I lean close, give him a nudge with my elbow and stage whisper, “She means because you’re old.”

“No,” Cora says almost breathlessly. “I mean because that guitar is iconic.”

Dad turns an obnoxiously pleased smirk in my direction. “Ah, Cora. You and I are going to get along famously. I bet even my World’s Best Grandpa T-shirt won’t lose me cool points.”

A starstruck laugh bubbles up from her throat as my dad pats her on the back and leads her into the living room.

That expression doesn’t leave her face all day long. In fact, it only intensifies when she learns a simple tune and my dad gifts her a pick.

I wish Rosie were here to see her.