Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 8

I lean against the side of my car in front of Rose Hill Middle School. It’s not quite warm yet in early spring but leaning against black paint in a direct sunbeam is a fantastic way to fool myself into feeling like it is.

When Ford mentioned pickup time, I immediately offered to head out. That barn fucking stinks, and when I suggested he might want to hire a professional contractor to bring it into this century, he stopped talking to me. Like the sulky boy I remember. Even though he knows I’m right.

That’s why I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Too much tension. A knot in my stomach that’s making me second-guess my qualifications for this position. The memory of how my last job ended—that maybe I wasn’t hired for my capabilities at all. I needed some room to breathe. Away from Ford. Breathing is always harder around him. Which is also why I’m here early.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I pull it out to find Ryan’s name flashing across the screen. With a heavy sigh, I swipe to answer.

Maybe the warm sun will make this conversation feel better.

“Hey.”

“Babe. Hi. How’s the family visit?” he says, sounding totally distracted. I know he’s probably at work right now, scanning emails or reviewing his formal invitation to the Old Boys Club. Something crunches, and he’s clearly chewing. It shouldn’t annoy me—everyone needs to eat—but the sound is like nails on a chalkboard.

Probably because I took off on the heels of something that clearly upset me, and he seems completely nonplussed about the entire thing.

“Yeah. It’s good. Gonna head up to see my parents for dinner tonight.”

“Nice. Say hi to them for me.”

Yeah. ‘Cause that won’t be awkward. “Will do. So, listen⁠—”

“When are you thinking you’ll head back?”

“Right, so… that’s the thing. I sort of… I got a job here.”

The crunching finally stops.

“You got a job there?” He sounds floored, and I instantly feel guilty.

“Yeah.” My lips roll together, and I look out over the field where I grew up playing soccer. “Kinda just fell into my lap. And well, you know I’ve been trying to find a job.”

“Yeah. But there?” He says it with a scoff that rankles me. Has me standing up just a little bit taller. Feeling defensive of this place. I’m allowed to rag on Rose Hill—it’s not perfect, but it is mine. He’s not from here, though, and it rubs me all wrong that he thinks he’s allowed to shit-talk my town.

“Yeah. It’s a great opportunity. And I need the space.”

“Space?”

I wince. I can imagine him now. The air of boyish confusion on his face as he turns that word over in his head.

Space.

“Yeah. Space.”

I’m met by silence at first. “Is that figurative or literal?” he says, finally. “Like the space around you that you get out there? Or space from me?”

I swallow, regarding all the parents waiting to pick their children up. They chat happily, and I get the odd curious glance. I grew up here, sure. But I don’t come back often enough to register for most people.

“I think both,” I say in a hushed tone. More silence.

“I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m just… I want to be straight with you.”

“Is there someone else?”

I think of all the dirty looks Ford shot me this afternoon. And the way he tugged on my ponytail last night.

I shake my head. “No. There isn’t.”

His heavy sigh tells me he’s relieved. That flash of jealousy after him seeming so disinterested lately catches me off guard. Too little, too late.

“Okay, good. Listen. I—can I come visit you there? I’d love to just sit down and really talk this over. See what we can do to give this our best shot.”

I want to tell him no. I want to tell him I’m done. I want to say it’s not me, it’s him. I also want to ask him why he was so damn comfortable brushing the Stan situation under the rug.

But I also don’t want to talk about that at all—to anyone. And I don’t want to be mean like Ford told me I am. I don’t want to make such a final decision when I already feel so lost. And I don’t want to be the kind of grown woman who dumps a long-term boyfriend over the phone.

“Yeah, sure. Of course.”

“Okay, great.” I can hear the smile in his voice and the creak of his chair as he adjusts himself in it. “I’m looking at my calendar now. Would the second weekend of next month be all right for you?”

My mouth hangs open so wide that a fly and its entire family could move in. “Next month?”

“Yeah. I have some really important projects right now. Workload is impossible to get out from under.”

Really important.

His matter-of-factly scheduling to woo me four weeks from now strikes me silent. If the situation wasn’t so painfully lackluster, it might be funny. If I wasn’t so offended, I might laugh. He should be dropping everything and rushing here. To talk. To apologize for not rubbing my back when I told him about what happened to me at work. For not sharing my rage when HR served me with a bullshit dismissal letter detailing my subpar performance—which conveniently followed one of their company presidents sexually assaulting me.

The bell rings and I am saved by it, literally. Because with more peace and quiet and warm sunshine, I might have said something mean to him.

And I know I’m not perfect. I know I haven’t pulled my weight in making things work between us lately. But I can also see that neither of us wants to pull our weight. We’re just here because we’re comfortable. Safe.

The doors blast open, and the squeals of happy children fill the air.

“Sure. I’ll check my calendar,” I mumble.

And then I hang up. Agitation courses through me, followed by a deep sense of shame that I’ve never felt before.

Shame because I’m too embarrassed to do anything about Ryan and my old job. Shame because my boyfriend of two years feels no inclination to take up for me over the whole debacle. And shame because I shouldn’t be letting it bug me this much. I’m happy, funny, good-time girl, Rosie Belmont—but I feel like a dulled-down version of myself.

I feel how Cora looks as she trudges toward me in a pair of clunky Doc Martens with a deadly scowl on her face.

I almost laugh, because she looks just like Ford did this afternoon. Moody and temperamental—and wearing black from head to toe.

“Cora!” I call out, raising my hand in a wave. “I’m your ride today!” I feel the weight of more than a few gazes on me, but I ignore them.

Her eyes roll and she hikes her thumbs beneath her backpack’s shoulder straps. “You don’t have to yell,” she grumbles as she approaches.

“Want me to dance next time so you can pick me out of the crowd?” I give her a teasing elbow nudge as she walks past me.

With a glance over her shoulder, she shakes her head and juts her chin out at some of the waiting parents. “No. These pervy small-town dads would like that way too much.”

Oh boy. I remember this phase. Thinking you’re all cool and grown-up, when in reality, you’re chock-full of teenaged angst and every mood known to man. A bittersweet pang hits me as I watch her climb into the front passenger seat. Maybe she and I aren’t so different after all.

Which is why I plaster on a grin and yank the driver’s side door open before sliding in next to her.

“I meant the chicken dance, not a striptease,” I say with mock disappointment as I crank the key in the ignition.

She doesn’t respond, but when I peek over at her, I swear I see her lips twitch.

“What are you doing?”

Parked in front of Ford’s shitty office, Cora stares at me with her forehead all scrunched up. She even looks like him when she does that.

“Thinking.” My hands twist on the steering wheel of my Subaru.

“You look like you’re going to pop a blood vessel,” she says casually, right as she pops a stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth.

“That’s an accurate depiction of how I feel inside too.”

“Is it Ford?”

I slump back in the seat, flattening my hands against the wheel. “It’s my entire life. You know?”

She nods, and I’m about to say something like, of course you don’t know, you’re a fucking twelve-year-old, but the look in her eye tells me perhaps she does.

“My job. My current living situation. My boyfriend. Having to tell my parents about all the above. A popped blood vessel would be a literal cherry on top.”

She perks up at the mention of boyfriend. It’s subtle, but it’s there. The way she leans incrementally forward and inspects me a tad more closely.

“You have a boyfriend?”

I huff out a breath and shake my head. “Great question. I keep asking myself the same thing.”

Disappointment fills her responding sigh.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

She scowls at me.

“What? It’s not like I’m going to run and tell your dad about it—or sorry, Ford. Fuck, sorry. What are we calling him?”

“Boss?”

I snort. She’s funny. “Personally, I’m partial to Junior.”

“I heard he really doesn’t like that.”

I lean close and give her a conspiratorial wink. “Exactly.”

Her eyes search my face like she’s not sure what to think of me. I’m positive I don’t give off the maternal vibe she’s probably used to from older women. I’m too much of a mess for that right now. And I’m too old to be her sister. Maybe more like a cool aunt. One who appreciates not having sticky freezie juice hands all over her.

Cora’s company is a breath of fresh air, and I’m not sure I’m ready to leave it yet. I’m also not above admitting she might make what I’m about to do next a little less tense.

“Hey, wanna come to my parents’ house with me instead of watching Junior storm around and clean up a building he could easily pay someone to clean up for him?”

She smirks, turning to look out the window. “Sure. Greta and Andy seem cool.”

“Oh, you’ve met them?”

“Briefly. Once. They definitely give off grandparent vibes.”

“Probably because that’s what they are.”

She gives me a sour glance, and my lips twitch. Let’s hope they continue to give off sweet grandparent vibes when they find out Rosie “the good girl” went off the rails and blew her chance at the job, the house, the guy, and the two-point-five kids in one fell swoop.

I hate letting people down.

Anxiety churns in my gut, but I force a thin smile in Cora’s direction. “Go tell Ford so he doesn’t worry about you. I’ll wait.”

Then she’s bounding out of the car, a little skip in her step that has her backpack bouncing. It makes her seem younger than the scowls and mouthiness would imply. I smile after her, hoping I get to pick her up from school more often.

Within moments, she’s back.

With Ford in tow.

She doesn’t spare him a backward glance, though, as she hurries back toward the car and into the front passenger seat.

“Why is he here?”

She shrugs. “Said he wanted to come with us.”

Ford draws up short, watching her buckle up with a look of confusion on his handsome face. His head turns slowly as he eyes the back seat, and I can barely keep from bursting out laughing. I doubt he remembers the last time he sat his fancy ass in the back of anything that wasn’t equipped with a privacy divider and a bucket of ice.

I hit the button to drop the back passenger window and call out, “Want me to come hold the door open for you, Junior?”

The way his head tilts. The way his arms cross. The way his eyes slice to mine from over the top of Cora’s headrest. It all drips with disdain.

And yet, I smile.

Without another word, Ford steps forward and tugs the back door open. When he folds his tall frame into the back seat, I almost feel bad. My Impreza hatchback is practical and fun to drive, but it’s not made for men of his stature to ride comfortably in the back seat.

“Don’t worry, sir. It’s not far. And if you’re feeling peckish, I suspect I’ve left a partially melted Clif Bar in the pocket behind that seat.”

He continues to give me his best bitchy look through the rearview mirror while Cora plays Pokémon GO on her phone, trying to pretend she doesn’t think I’m funny.

Then Ford reaches forward. He pulls out the Clif Bar, which has to be expired, rips it open, and takes a huge bite, all while holding my gaze. His square jaw moves, dark stubble drawing my eyes to his lips for just a beat before they tug back up. “Thank you, Rosalie,” he deadpans. “This is delicious.”