Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(100)

This is also very… West.

The man could charm the pants off anyone.

“Weston,” I say as I approach, tilting my head when I see the way his knuckles are split.

When my friend of twenty years turns and hits me with his most mischievous grin, I know he’s not seeing this the way Rosie is. Or maybe he is, and he doesn’t care.

I tap a finger against my knuckles, a silent question about his bloodied ones.

He chuckles and gives me a wink. One I’ve seen him use to get himself out of trouble—or into it—for years now. “Nah, dude. You should see the other guy.”

The cop shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m assuming you’re Mr. Grant?”

I swipe my tongue over my teeth as I reach a hand toward the cop. If identifying myself helps West get out of this, I’ll do it. So, it’s with a wince that I correct him. “Ford Grant Junior. Pleasure to meet you…” I glance at his name tag. “Constable Rollins.”

The man takes my hand firmly, his shrewd eyes narrowing. “Ford Grant as in…”

West laughs. “Oh, right. I forgot to mention he’s a nepo baby, as his daughter would say.”

My eyes roll, but I don’t respond.

Recognize it. Own it.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. Big fan of your father.”

I smile and say thank you. This doesn’t surprise me at all. Pretty much any middle-aged man is a fan of my dad and his band.

“You can take your friend here.”

My eyebrows pop up. “That’s it?”

West slaps my shoulder as he stands from his chair. “Yeah, just been hanging out and chatting here. First thing I did when they gave me my phone back was order a big box of donuts for these fellas for being so great to me.”

My eyebrows scrunch. “You ordered cops donuts?”

West fires a finger gun at the man across from him and grins. “Funny, right? They loved them, though, so the stereotype’s not wrong. The science is all here to back it up.”

I stand staring, slack-jawed. Only West Belmont would get arrested and turn it into a jolly good time where he makes new friends by testing out an age-old stereotype.

Constable Rollins laughs softly, shoulders rising and falling as he stares at his donut—laid out on a napkin on his desk. “Please, I’ll never get any work done with this clown hanging around. Take him. He’s yours.” The man waves a hand, shooing us away.

“That’s it? No charges?”

He nudges his chin in West’s direction. “Your friend here can show you the footage we just got maybe an hour ago. No charges.”

I sigh in relief. But then the man pipes up again, “Well, except the ones he’s pressing.”

I arch a brow at West, and he just starts walking through the open station, boots clunking on the thinly carpeted floor as he makes his way toward the front door.

He smiles and gives another finger gun to the disheveled guy sitting on a bench by the front door.

The man sneers back at West. And that’s when I recognize him.

Stan Cumberland.

I’ve researched him enough online to recognize him anywhere. Even beneath the purple eye that’s swollen shut.

It appears that his wife is talking to the woman at the front desk. She turns to look at me, her face drawn and tired. From head to toe, her attire screams wealth and luxury, and I have no doubt she never saw her Saturday morning playing out this way.

I feel bad for her, but not bad enough to stop me from walking right up to Stan, kicking the toe of his dress shoe with my “stupid expensive boots” as Rosie called them, and towering over him. “You touched the woman I love without her permission. That was a very. Poor. Choice.” I bite the words out and don’t bother lowering my voice.

His wife gasps from behind me, but Stan just scowls.

I turn to walk away but then stop to face him again as I lean against the push bar of the door. “The next time you consider laying your greasy hands on someone without consent, remember my face. Because I can afford to keep fucking with you for the rest of my life. And I’m just petty enough to do it.”

And with that, I turn on my heel and leave the building before they can arrest me for uttering threats.





We’re seated in the back seat of the town car I booked when I finally turn to my best friend, eyes fixed on his split knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” West asks, confusion lacing his voice.

I flop back against the black leather. “For sending you out to do this shit.”

From my periphery, I see West nodding. It’s several seconds before he responds.

“I know you fancy yourself really smart—but, Ford, I don’t work for you, and you didn’t send me to do shit.”

“I told you something I shouldn’t have and was well aware of how you’d react. I wanted a partner in crime, and I knew you wouldn’t turn me down. You never do.”

He laughs dryly, stubble rasping beneath his fingers. “That’s because we’re friends, not because I’m stupid. If you asked me to do something I wasn’t prepared to do, I wouldn’t have done it. And I think you might be underestimating how much I’ve grown since I was twenty. I didn’t attack that weasel-faced motherfucker. He attacked me.”