Wild Love (Rose Hill Book 1)
Wild Love: Chapter 9

Rosie takes a deep breath before raising her hand to knock on the door to her parents’ house. I’m not sure why she’s knocking. Seems more like her to just barge in and announce herself. I reach out to squeeze her shoulder as reassurance, but years of practice kick in, and I force my hand back down while internally reminding myself that I’m her boss—not her boyfriend.

Still, it’s impossible to ignore that something is off with her. I just can’t figure out what. She’s herself, but also skittish. At least my eating a past-it protein bar made her laugh. That was worth it, even if I can’t get the taste of stale oats out of my mouth.

“Rosie, baby!” Greta Belmont shakes her head and blinks a few times, like her eyes might be fooling her. “What are you doing here?” She recovers enough to wrap her daughter in a tight hug.

“Hi, Mama.” Rosie hugs her back. Hard.

“What are you doing here?” Andy says from just behind his wife, a thread of suspicion weaving its way into his tone.

Greta turns around to smack him in the chest, one arm still looped over Rosie’s shoulders. “Give your daughter a better welcome than that when she shows up to surprise us!”

Andy arches a brow at his daughter. The man is all bark, no bite. He’s got a big, soft heart, but he isn’t known for being warm and fuzzy. “How are you, Rosie Posie?” he asks, eyeing her carefully before stepping up to give her a gentle hug. His blue eyes are just like Rosie’s, and his hair is thinning just a little on top.

“I’m good, Dad.” There’s a hitch in Rosie’s voice though. One she covers by clearing her throat and adding another, “I’m good,” before pulling away.

Her mom finally turns, catching sight of the rest of us who got dragged along on this expedition. “And you brought Ford and Cora with you!”

Greta looks happy to see me.

Andy looks confused as to why I’m here.

To be fair, I am too. Maybe it was the way Cora stared at her chipped nails when she announced, “I think Rosie is having a mental breakdown. Also, I’m gonna go to her parents’ house with her. See you later.”

I wasn’t about to let her have a mental breakdown alone. Rosie glances over her shoulder at me, cheeks pinking slightly before she turns back. “Yeah. I meant to just bring Cora, but Ford invited himself.” She brushes her hands down the front of her jeans like she’s wiping dust off her hands. “So here we are!”

“Well, come in. Come in. Let’s have some tea.” Greta hits me with a wink. “Or a beer? I seem to remember you and West getting into those when you were younger.”

Andy regards me carefully. He’s not quite scowling, but there’s nothing welcoming about his expression either. I suspect his spidey senses are tingling too—like he knows there’s something not quite right about his fiercely independent, by-the-book daughter showing up out of the blue.

“Tea is great.”

Greta smiles and slings an arm over Rosie, pressing her daughter tight against her side. “Perfect. Tea is Rosie Posie’s favorite.”

I bite the inside of my cheek as we move indoors. I guess Mrs. Belmont hasn’t seen her daughter sling back a gin and tonic like there’s about to be a worldwide shortage the way I have.

We follow Andy into the living room, and I can’t help but notice Cora taking in her surroundings. The Belmonts’ new home resembles a large concrete box, modern from top to bottom. Except their furniture.

They relocated their old farmhouse pieces straight into their new place. You’d think it would clash with the modern stainless-steel appliances and slate-gray walls, yet there’s a certain eclectic charm to the place. I don’t think it’s intentional, but it’s there all the same.

The furnishings have character. Each cushion on the floral-print velvet couches sags slightly in the middle. The coffee table has a glass slab on top of an ornate wrought iron base. Beneath it, the Persian rug exudes a relaxed vibe, its white base accented with pink and blue and a minty green. Even the bookcases have a sort of vintage-cottage style to them.

Greta settles into the flower-print love seat, close to her daughter. Cora and I take opposite ends of the couch facing them—the same couch I passed out on after too many beers as a teenager, I’m sure. And after setting a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of shortbread cookies in the center of the coffee table, Andy takes the navy-blue leather La-Z-Boy chair, possibly the only piece of furniture from this decade.

“No Ryan this trip?” Greta asks as she leans forward to pour the first cup.

“No,” Rosie says quickly, eyes flitting up to mine as Cora homes in on the cookies. “Not this time.”

“Oh my god. This cookie is so dry,” Cora whispers so only I can hear, holding it in front of her face like it could be a specimen in a lab.

“Is he doing well? That boy works too hard.”

Rosie’s lips roll together, and I can’t help but feel like she’s avoiding my gaze. “He definitely works a lot.”

“Too much?” Andy pipes up. He poses it as a question, but his eyes make it feel more like a statement. Like he knows something.

Greta sends him a silent reprimand while Rosie dives for a cookie and shoves it into her mouth, like it might keep her from having this conversation. “Probably,” she mumbles, quickly wiping a crumb from her lip.

“What?” Andy says, still looking at his wife. “She shows up out of nowhere, unannounced, with Ford at her side? We always expected this would happen.”

Rosie’s eyes go comically wide, and then she coughs like the dry-as-dust cookie she’s just thrown back has gone down the wrong tube. Her mom slaps her back, which does nothing but knock dry crumbs violently out of her mouth.

Fuck me, this is the world’s most awkward tea party.

With one hand on her throat and one on her mom’s knee—a silent plea for her to stop beating on her spine— Rosie struggles to catch her breath.

“Maybe you should give her the Heimlich,” Cora provides, unhelpfully, from her end of the couch.

Rosie shakes her head. “No, I’m fine.” She swipes the back of her hand over her mouth and then glares at her dad. “First, you always expected what would happen?” Then she looks at Greta. “And second, good god those cookies are so dry, they might as well be a mouthful of flour.”

Cora nods before blurting, “Accurate.”

Me? I lean forward, prop my elbows on my knees, and rub my fingers at my temples. Perhaps I can conjure up a strictly platonic reason I felt the need to accompany Rosie to this meeting like some sort of dickhead knight in shining armor.

Except all the reasons that pop up in my mind are ones that don’t belong there. Ones I could never give voice to. There’s nothing platonic about the way I feel when it comes to Rosie. And I’m happier than I have any right to be that she’s back in town.

“I mean, it’s the way the two of you always bicker⁠—”

“Dad, I’m going to stop you right there. There are three reasons you’re wrong. One, Ford is West’s best friend. Two, he’s my new boss⁠—”

“What?” Greta sounds shocked.

Andy appears more and more suspicious. “What about your fancy big-city job?”

With a defeated sigh, Rosie draws herself up and looks him in the eye. “It didn’t work out, Dad.”

They stare at each other for a few beats, like they’re having some sort of silent conversation.

Then Andy nods firmly.

Rosie offers the same back.

The rest of us just watch in confusion.

“So anyway,” Rosie carries on, waving in my direction with one hand. “I’ve taken a position as Ford’s personal assistant.”

Personal assistant. Is that what she thinks? I’ll admit, I wasn’t much of a conversationalist today. Something about having her in my space set me on edge. I felt like I was constantly orienting in her direction, like my gaze was pulled to her against my will.

It was unsettling.

And it kept me from telling her what I really imagined her doing for the business.

“No,” I say, and she starts at the one word that cuts through the room. “I’m hiring Rosalie as my business manager. Right after we have a formal interview tomorrow, where we lay out some ground rules, and I get a chance to view her résumé.”

“She has her MBA,” Andy says proudly.

I nod and look him in the eye. “I know, sir. I’ve seen her LinkedIn profile.” My eyes move back to Rosie, like they always do. She’s too stunned to say anything snippy, which is unusual, to say the least. “And she has a hell of a mind for business, I’m sure. That’s why I’ll have her help with getting Rose Hill Records up and running. Then I can focus on the creative side, knowing the numbers are in good hands.”

Rosie blinks, mouth slightly ajar.

“And what about when she goes back to the city?” Greta just comes up and kicks me in the hypothetical gut for no good reason. Hits me with what I know is probably true. My stomach drops hard and fast, just like it did when Rosie left town the first time.

She has a life in Vancouver. A boyfriend.

I know she’s not going to stay in Rose Hill for long.

But I also don’t like to think about that. I’ll never admit it to anyone, but I’m feeling awfully sentimental about having her so close again.

Rosie Belmont took off to start her life ten years ago and has barely been back. It crushed me then when she left.

I don’t even want to think about what it might do to me now.

“I’m sure she could work remotely.” I force a smile, then peek at Rosie before adding, “If that’s what she wants.”

Cold water sluices over my skin as I turn my head to suck in a harsh breath. My arms move in long, slow strokes while my brain runs wild. A swim usually helps clear my head, but today, on the heels of that tea party, it’s not working.

I think about Cora.

I think about the mold I found in one wall of the office today when I tried to replace a light switch.

I think about the artists who are filling my email, wanting to work with me.

I think about not having an opening date in sight.

But most of all, I think about Rosie.

Which is why her voice stops me dead in my tracks during my evening swim.

“Are you stalking me, Junior?”

I come to a screeching stop as I draw in a breath and use both palms to push my hair off my face.

At the end of the dock, Rosalie is snuggled up in a Navajo blanket, enjoying a bag of chips. Staring at me like I’m an idiot—as usual.

“What?”

“You keep swimming past my dock. I’ve been watching you. You just go back and forth between this post and that buoy, over and over again. Like a lion pacing in its cage. Or like a weirdo trying to catch sight of me.”

To be fair, I feel a bit like a lion pacing his cage. And I’d be a liar if I said I hadn’t considered catching sight of her.

“And it’s fucking cold out. You don’t win any sort of hero award for swimming in the lake before June.”

My legs kick and my arms trace the top of the water as I stare back at her. “I just like it. Clears my head. Tires me out. You should try it sometime. It might make you more agreeable.”

She pops another chip into her mouth, legs swinging off the end of the dock. “I’m good. Watching you exercise makes me feel like I’m almost experiencing it myself. Plus, we both know I’ll never be agreeable with you and that water is glacier-cold this time of year. It would just make things worse. No, thank you, sir.”

“It’s good for my metabolism,” I reply simply, treading water and staring back at her.

When her eyes wander over my shoulders, I look away, gooseflesh popping up on my skin, heart pounding just a bit harder.

“If you’re cold, I’ll let you sit on my dock. Might even share my chips with you. No point in having a good metabolism if you can’t eat fried potatoes whenever you feel like it.”

I smile. It’s a small one, but it’s a smile all the same. “Let me get this straight. You’re going to let me sit on your dock and eat your chips?”

She shrugs and grins back. “Yeah. I need to be somewhat nice to my new boss.”

I give my head a shake, but I also don’t say no. Instead, I swim to the shore, grab my towel and shrug on my robe, and walk along the dock toward Rosie, plunking down a safe distance from her.

Her head tilts. “I won’t bite, Junior. That’s too far to share chips. Or am I supposed to throw them at you? Because I’m not opposed to that plan. Open wide and I’ll pretend I’m aiming for your mouth.”

I grumble and push up on my palms, edging closer toward her. Close enough to eat chips but far enough to keep things professional. Or familial. Or whatever the fuck my best friend’s little sister is supposed to be to me.

She holds the bag out, still looking out over the water.

“Still only eat Old Dutch sour cream and onion?”

I’m met with a soft giggle. “I can’t believe you remember that. But yeah. They’re getting harder and harder to find in the box though. Sometimes I have to settle for the bag.” She sneers at her snack.

“Does it matter?”

“The box is more charming. Tastes better too, I think.”

“You think so?” I pop one into my mouth and it’s like instant déjà vu. While Rosie has been eating these chips her entire life, I’ve never eaten them with anyone other than her. Sunburnt shoulders, freckles on our noses, wet towels, an entire pack of kids here for the summer pushing each other off the dock.

“Yeah, it’s like Coke out of a glass bottle—superior in every way.”

I wobble my head as I reach for another chip. “You’re not wrong.”

She smiles, satisfaction painting her features. “Music to my ears, Junior. Haven’t heard how right I am in a while.”

The comment is offhanded enough, but it still gets my gears turning. Rosie is studious and bright, and even though she’s a grade A shit-talker, she’s an exceptional human. I know she is. Who the fuck has been telling her she’s anything other than right?

“Where’s Cora?” she asks between crunches, clearly not giving a shit about looking prim or polite in front of me. And that’s special—someone who treats me like I’m me. She treats me like I’m just a regular dude and not the planet’s sexiest bajillionaire or whatever the fuck that stupid article was called.

I don’t want to be him, and with Rosie I don’t need to be.

“Writing frantically in her journal. I asked her if she wanted to come down to the lake with me, and she shot me a dirty look.”

“Ugh. I should really start writing in a diary again. So cathartic. Probably will need to if I’m going to work with you all day, every day.”

I scoff and run a hand through my hair, watching the water ripple beneath the spring breeze. “I don’t know what I’m doing with her. I mean, I’ve got a roof over her head and food for her to eat, but we’re strangers. I don’t know how to be a dad.”

“I don’t think she needs you to be her dad. She has one of those—or had. She just needs you to be there for her in whatever way works for the two of you.”

“This whole thing is fucking weird, and we both know it.”

Rosie nods, lost in thought, still kicking her feet in an almost childlike way. “Yeah. It is. But sometimes we’re just doing the best we can, ya know? Like this is brand-new for both of you. There’s going to be an adjustment period. And I remember being her age, so full of angst and hormones and thinking I knew so much more than I did. You need to find a common ground with her, something you can do together that doesn’t feel like… like homework or something. Clearly, she doesn’t enjoy swimming, but what does she like?”

I snort. “The color black.”

“Black is a great color.”

“Rosie, black isn’t a color. It’s a shade. And that’s rich coming from the girl who’s been wearing pink almost exclusively since I first met her at nine years old.”

She laughs. “You’re such a nerd. And I don’t only wear pink. Currently my bra and panties are bright red.”

I freeze for a beat and then wipe my face with an open palm. I huff out a beleaguered sigh, pretending like I’m exasperated by her when I really just need a moment to regain my composure.

And to keep myself from imagining Rosalie Belmont in bright red lingerie.

A soft laugh filters over from her. “Calm your tits, Junior. It was a joke.”

With that, she… throws a chip at my face.

Her eyes widen like she can’t believe what she just did, and then she laughs with a subtle shake of her head. “I swear I revert to a bratty twelve-year-old when I’m around you.”

I chuckle, look down at my hands, and… throw my chip at her face.

“Ford Grant. I know you did not just do that.” She gasps the words out, struggling to keep it together. Her cheeks pull up into round, rose-colored apples. If I have to throw chips at her to make her laugh like this—the kind of laughter that hurts your stomach and gets you kicked out of class—so be it.

I’ll throw chips at Rosie Belmont every damn day.

All I do is shoot her a wink and toss another one, which hits the bow of her top lip, leaving a dusting of sour cream and onion powder in its path.

She throws her head back and laughs, that long ponytail cascading farther down her back. A little moisture leaks from the corner of her eye as she pulls a chip from the bag, but before she can throw it at me, my hand whips out. I’m laughing too when my fingers curl around her dainty wrist.

We’re both laughing when I playfully tug her closer and reach for the chip gripped between her fingers. She tumbles into me, and it crumbles all over us as we fall and fight over it like two children over a toy. The bag of chips gets discarded on the other side of her.

Her free palm lands between the thick lapels of my terry cloth bathrobe, on my bare chest.

And that’s when the laughter stops.

Her eyes fall to where her skin presses against mine. All the immature playfulness between us bleeds away, dripping between the boards of the dock and washing away in the lake.

When my eyes snap back up to hers, I get the full experience of watching Rosalie Belmont lick her lips while the tips of her fingers curve lightly into the indent just below my collarbone. She’s taking a good, long, blatant look.

And I’m too stunned to move. Too weak to stop her.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” West’s voice, cutting through the golden twilight air, has her gaze flying up to meet my own.

We both shoot up to a sitting position as if we’ve been caught doing something wrong.

I’ve barely gotten my bearings when she pats my shoulder like she’s consoling a child and whispers, “Sorry.”

With no warning, she shoves me off the end of the dock and into the lake to the sound of her brother’s laughter. I only drop below the water for a moment before I burst back above the surface.

“Taking a walk down memory lane,” she calls back to West as he strolls down the dock in heavy boots.

Both Belmonts laugh while I wipe the water from my eyes and look up. I point at Rosie, not sure what just happened, but certain of one thing for sure…

“You’re going to pay for that one, Rosie Posie.”