Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 35

I wake up alone.

I reach for Ford before my eyes have even opened but find his side of the bed cool. I tell myself there’s a good reason for him being gone already.

Namely, that his daughter is at the other end of the hallway.

I let my hands trail over my deliciously sore body as I recall last night. My skin hums and I know I could get myself there just by recalling the feel of him and all the things he does to me—says to me.

I take a quick peek out the window to see the morning looks just as beautiful as I thought it would, based on last night’s sunset. A sunny morning always invigorates me. So I roll myself out of bed, feet landing on cold floorboards, and eyes finding the overnight bag that I thought I’d left in the guest room.

At the end of the bed, ripped jeans and a plain white tee with my long, caramel-colored cardigan are laid out—Ford clearly went to the guest room so I wouldn’t have to walk through the house wearing only his oversized T-shirt.

I get dressed and do a quick finger comb through my slightly wavy tresses and then head downstairs, ready to start my mission of finding Ford. I can smell bacon, and I decide that if Ford is making a full fried breakfast on a regular week day morning, I’ll definitely take up residence in that spare room.

Except I draw up short when I hear voices. Plural.

And when I peek into the updated farmhouse kitchen, I pause. Cora is still in her pajamas—black, of course—at the island with a sketchpad splayed out in front of her. Gemma is seated beside her, looking through it eagerly as she explains each page. And Senior is cooking up a breakfast that has me concerned about his future cholesterol levels.

It’s charming as hell. It makes my heart swell and my stomach growl.

“Good morning,” I singsong as I enter the kitchen. “Rosie!” Cora shoots up and runs to me, wrapping her arms around my waist in a hug that knocks the wind from me.

It’s not that I don’t like big hugs—I just wasn’t expecting it. Gemma smiles with a subtle warmth toward me, a look I return before dropping my gaze to Cora’s head. Where I’m taken aback once again. By a high ponytail wrapped up in my hot-pink scrunchie. No low braid. Just my hair tie and my go-to lazy style.

It makes my chest feel all warm, and I bend over to drop a kiss on the top of her head. “Good morning, my little storm cloud.”

“Morning, Rosalie,” Ford Senior says from over his shoulder. “Cup of coffee?”

“Oh, babe, don’t pretend.” Gemma scoffs as she sips from her own mug.

My eyes dart between them. “Pretend what?”

“Ford already went to the office to bring back your favorite tea. It’s right there.” His mom points at a pink travel mug that I’ve never seen before.

I decide it’s mine instantly. I also decide to play this off super casually in front of Ford’s parents because… awkward.

I can’t believe he nailed me like he did last night and took off before I woke up and left me in a house full of his family to do the walk of shame. But I bite down on my annoyance and put on a faux-happy face to maintain the façade.

“Cool, thanks.” I saunter across the kitchen, wearing a carefree smile, and pick up the mug. One flip of the stopper and the aromatic scent of sweet rose petals drifts up. I know exactly where Tabitha harvests them. On the other side of the mountain, there’s a stretch of wild rosebushes, and when they bloom, the perfume wafts throughout the valley.

It’s my favorite time of the year.

“So where’s Ford?”

“I’m right here, doll,” Senior teases as he flips the bacon.

“No, the moody one,” I volley back with a wink.

Gemma scoffs. “Oh, trust me. You spend forty years with that one and you’ll realize he’s no better.”

He turns around and grins at her. “You’d be bored without me, and you know it.” His wife tries to stifle her smile and goes back to flipping through Cora’s sketchpad.

Cora watches the interaction with a look of wonder on her face, and I think of how deflated Ford sounded last night at the prospect of her leaving. I desperately want her reunited with her mom. I desperately want her to be deliriously happy and well cared for.

But I hope she still comes around. Because Ford won’t be the only one who’s gutted when she’s gone.

I stand here, staring, realizing no one has answered my question.

Finally, Gemma takes note of my hovering and, with a roll of her eyes, says, “He’s at the office. We’re going to take Cora to school today, so he decided to get an early start. Cora, why don’t you go get dressed?”

I swallow, trying not to be annoyed by the fact he had me over and got the hell out of Dodge first thing in the morning. Leaving me to hang out with his parents.

My head bobs in a soft nod and I hold my cup in a toast. “Thanks. Have fun at drop-off.”

I turn to leave and stifle a laugh when I hear Cora mutter something about how all the perv dads will be disappointed. She sounds very satisfied, and it makes me smile.

But only for a beat, because then I’m shoving my feet into my Birks and stepping out into the crisp morning air. I take a deep whiff. Pine. Mineral. And I swear I can almost smell the roses.

The dew on the grass wets my toes as I make my way across the property toward the barn. I can hear music blasting, and I don’t know the song, but it sounds angry and frantic enough to be something emo-teen Ford would listen to.

When I step in, I come to a screeching halt. I don’t know what I was expecting to see, but it wasn’t this.

The muscles in Ford’s back flex and ripple as one toned shoulder moves up and down the wall with a roller in hand. His bare feet stand on a white cotton drop sheet, his jeans rolled up just enough to show the line of the tendons in his ankles.

He’s tossed his shirt over the back of his desk chair. Socks stuffed into the boots that sit by one of the wheels. Desk perfectly tidy. All proof of our clash yesterday erased. Unless you count the missing desktop.

It’s not like I expected him to leave the office messy, but something about how easily he made everything right again irritates me. Like nothing happened.

I take a few steps farther in and prop my ass against the edge of his desk, sipping my tea while I watch him work. He’s so tall that he doesn’t need a ladder to meet the lines where Scotty had already cut in. His hair is messy, and now that I’m looking closely, I notice streaks of auburn at the front from time spent in the sun.

It did that when he was younger too. Would be a deep chocolate brown at the roots and gradually trend lighter and slightly redder as the summer wore on.

But his build is all different now. I can’t help but appreciate the way he’s filled out. The way he went from all limbs to all… this.

I savor my tea and follow his motions with my eyes, each stroke matching the beat of the music. It’s like my own personal striptease. A manly one, where he fixes shit.

And when I tire of him not paying attention to me, I knock the little metal cup that holds all his identical blue, felt-tipped pens onto the floor.

He starts and spins, clearly startled by the sound. A thin line of paint follows his arc as it sprays across the floor.

“Rosie.” He scowls. “What the fuck?”

I smile. “Good morning, boss.”

He lets out a beleaguered sigh, eyes tracing the paint splatter, but he says nothing about it.

“Thanks for the tea,” I shout over the music, walking over to the record player to drop the volume to a more reasonable level.

Ford keeps a close eye on me as I do it, then grumbles, “You’re welcome,” before turning back to the wall.

“Whatcha doin’?”

“Painting.”

I snort. “Oh my god, really?”

“I’m starting to agree with Cora about the perv dads. If I can’t find someone who isn’t a perv painter, I’ll just do it myself.”

“Very manly. You talk a big, tough game for a guy who slunk out this morning before I even woke up.”

He continues giving me his back, like a dog I’ve pissed off or something.

“I’d have gone again if you’d been there. Almost just did the job myself,” I add, layering a teasing tone into my voice. “You chicken, Junior?”

His free shoulder rises and falls in a shrug. “I don’t know where we stand with everyone knowing or being public. Or whatever. West is completely in the dark. And then they showed up and I… I’m trying to respect your wishes to keep things professional.”

I roll my eyes and drop my head back before making my way closer to him. “Ford, you’ve been riding my ass for years. You fucked my brains out last night.” I smirk as I say the words, knowing they’ll get under his skin, and I’m rewarded with a sour scowl from over his shoulder. “You really gonna get all respectful on me now?”

“I’ve always respected you.” He crouches to glide the roller back and forth over the paint tray.

“Fine, but you’ve never tiptoed around me. We’ve always gotten in each other’s faces. What’s with the”—I step closer, my wet sandals crowding the space near the paint as I wave a hand over him—“weird pacifist approach? It doesn’t suit you.”

“I told you. I’m just trying to respect your⁠—”

I use my toe and upend the tray, watching the palest blue ooze out over the drop sheet. “Respect my wishes a little less.”

“What the fuck, Rosie?” He shoots up, towering above me. “That’s going to soak right through this sheet and stain the floor.”

“Good. It will give you something to do while you live out this new World’s Handiest Billionaire era of yours.”

“I had a plan for my life. You—” His jaw pops and his hand flexes tight on his narrow hip.

“Take all your plans, tear them up, and scatter them to the wind?” I ask as I lift each foot to take my sandals off. Unlike his neatly stowed boots, I toss mine across the office, making him flinch. Then he nods tightly, agreeing with my assessment.

I step right into the pooling paint and it squishes between my toes as I shift my feet back and forth. I give him one raised brow.

“Guess what, Ford. Sometimes life gives you lemons, even when you didn’t order them. And you can either make lemonade, or storm around stressing about how yellow isn’t your color.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“I’m not lemons?”

“No, you’re…” His hand swipes through his hair, but his eyes stay trained on my toes. The pink polish on my nails disappears beneath the thick blue liquid. “I had come to terms with the idea that you would never happen for me. You were a memory, not a goal.”

My head tilts as I absorb his answer. The longing in those two sentences hits me right in the chest. I reach for him, fingers hooking around the brown leather belt that props his jeans up, pulling his bare feet into the spreading paint.

“Ford, what if you stopped trying to control everything for a minute?”

I take the roller from him and drop it at our feet right as I slide a hand up his chest, over the warm, firm skin and a smattering of hair. My fingers wrap around my key and give the chain a firm tug. The clasp gives way, and now I’m holding this little piece of us in my hand.

This little piece he’s held on to, an ode to the girl I once was.

I drop it into the paint at our feet, and he sucks in a hissing breath.

“What if you stopped worrying about the girl I used to be and started seeing me for the woman I am instead?”

“Rosie—”

“No. I’m not a memory. I’m not a goal. I’m not out of reach. I’m not the same girl who threw that diary out your car window. And I’m not going anywhere.” I point at the silver glinting between our feet. “That was us then.” I tug at his belt.

First the buckle. Then the leather.

“This is us now,” I murmur as I work the button on his jeans. The zipper.

I don’t know who needs to hear it more. Him, the man who’s stuck in the past where I’m concerned. Or me, the girl who finally feels sure of herself and her choices—because they feel right and not because they feel mandatory.

A girl who knows what she wants for herself.

His jeans fall to the floor, and I fall to my knees. Right at his feet. Right in the paint.

I lift my chin high to meet his bright green gaze. So wild. So unusual. I can’t help but marvel at the way he looks towering over me, all man, radiating so much tension.

“We’re messy. And we challenge each other. And let’s be honest, who the hell else in the world would ever tolerate us? Keep up with us?”

My fingers wrap under the wide elastic of his boxers, and I tug roughly. His cock springs free right before me. Big and perfect and hard.

I lick my lips.

“Rosie, what are you doing?”

His palm strokes the top of my head, and I grin up at him. “Playing in the paint.” My eyes drop to the head of his cock, mere inches from my lips.

“Yeah?”

Fuck. He’s so beautiful. I want to leave my mark all over him. I want him to play with me.

“Yeah,” I murmur, my breath becoming choppy. I crouch slightly to plant my hands in the paint.

Then I reach up and grip his thighs hard.

Leaving my handprints all over him.