Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(107)
And she says it like it’s the most casual thing in the world. My dad. We don’t have a conversation or get all mushy about it—it’s not her style. She’s practical, and she’s settling into a new phase of life like Marilyn just said. I don’t think she’s replacing her dad—and I wouldn’t want her to—but it’s nice to feel like she might be open to adding another.
I stare at her for a few beats, soaking the moment in, then clear my throat. Rosie’s watery eyes meet mine from across the room, and I smile back at her as I say, “I’ll get the tubes hooked up. You guys get changed.”
Then I take my daughter and her friends tubing for the very first time.
Once the end-of-the-year party has wrapped up, Rosie leads me back to the office. Her fingers link with mine, our soft footsteps on the grass turning to dull thuds on the wooden deck.
“You know we don’t work on Sundays,” I grumble. Because where I really want to go with Rosie is to bed.
She grins back at me over her shoulder, chin brushing over the thin spaghetti strap of her rose-pink sundress. Her hair falls in loose waves and flies out like a fringe as she spins on the spot. The look on her face is all trouble and whimsy and I’m gonna be a brat now.
It’s a look I know well.
A look I’ve come to love.
And as she basks in the sun’s warm rays, framed by the mountains behind her and a bed of brown-eyed Susans at her side, I’m struck by the overwhelming need to kiss her.
I stop in my tracks and tug her toward me. Her hand lands on my chest and I cover it with my own, wrapping the other around her body and gripping the back of her neck.
“That fucking look, Rosalie,” I grumble, searching her face.
Her eyes are twinkling, and her smile is soft. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
It’s with a frustrated groan and zero restraint that I drop my mouth to hers and kiss her. It’s thrilling and consuming and what I’ve always dreamed of.
Kissing Rosalie Belmont whenever and wherever I want.
She whimpers into my mouth as I deepen the kiss, fingers gripping tightly at my shirt before she pulls back.
“Come on.” Her voice is breathless. “I want to show you this. I think you’re going to love it.”
“Is it you naked and bent over my desk?”
She rolls her eyes and laughs lightly. “You may want to spank me for this first, but after that… yes.” With a wink, she turns and swaggers into the office, looking so pleased with herself that I feel concerned. She leads me over the floorboards until we’re standing right over the blue paint disaster.
“So, it turns out the trophy and awards store is open on Sundays. I grabbed it while I was waiting for pizza. Which reminds me, we need to take Scotty a leftover piece.”
I’m about to complain about her attachment to the mouse when she points at the wall, and sure enough, there is an engraved gold plaque mounted right next to the floor.
It reads:
Wild Love
Paint on lumber
By Rosalie Belmont and Ford Grant
I stand staring at it for I don’t know how long. I like things orderly. I like them precise and tidy. I’m exacting, and I’m sure my sister would call me uptight and neurotic.
And yet, I’ve never loved a mess more.
I have no words, so I pull Rosie into a rough hug, breathing in the sugary scent of her hair, savoring the smooth skin of her neck against my lips.
She nuzzles into me, and I don’t know how long we stand like that, only that I eventually pull away, put my favorite Allah-Las album on the record player, and pull her down onto the deep leather couch.
We spend all evening wrapped up in each other, listening to music, just like I’ve wanted to—since the morning after I first kissed her and found her sleeping here.
Just like I dreamed of before I even realized she was the dream.
EPILOGUE
ROSIE
“What are you humming?” Cora asks as I put fresh towels on the shelf in the first-floor bathroom.
My brows scrunch. “I don’t know.”
“Was that ‘Pumped Up Kicks’?”
I shrug. “Maybe? You and your dad are the ones with ears for music in this house.”
It’s been a month since the end of school. A month of us all living together.
It feels like playing house.
It feels too good to be true.
“You know that song is about a school shooting,” Cora deadpans, her black bangs dead straight across her forehead.
I stop. Sometimes she’s so abrupt and morbid that I need a second to catch up.
“Really?”
She nods soberly.
“But it sounds so happy. I was humming it happily!”
“Shaking your ass too.”
I flush but refuse to be embarrassed. I’m the one doing chores after dark.
“Did your dad teach you this?”
She nods. “Just came from the office. Listened to a bunch of new stuff.”
A slow smile spreads across my face. That has become a favorite pastime for them. They sit on that leather couch, drink root beer, listen to music, and talk about it. In depth.
Upcoming tours.
Synthesizers.
Auto-tune.