Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(12)

“I know. You showed me already.”

I’m pretty sure I’m failing.

I give myself a silent pep talk to pull it together. I’m a grown-ass man. I shouldn’t be this nervous around her. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, but I should at least be equipped to fake feeling prepared for this.

“Right, well, I was just about to say that there is also a guest room on the main floor if you’d rather not stay on the same floor as me. But it doesn’t have an en suite bathroom, and I wake up early, so it might just be disruptive.”

“Why would I care about staying on the same floor as you?”

I grimace. “Just want to make sure you’re comfortable.” She doesn’t move. Her arms are crossed, but her eyes slice over in my direction. She’s full-on side-eyeing me. “You know, my mom may be out of it, but she ran every criminal check she could on you.”

“Fair. I don’t blame her.”

“I wish I hadn’t told you I have no family left. The threat of a long-lost uncle in the mafia might have been good safety insurance.”

I snort. She’s funny. “We can pretend if you want.”

Now she snorts too, and I feel a flicker of success at having almost made her laugh.

Quiet footfalls lead her into the center of the room. I watch her turn in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. It’s pretty much her color palette—pale gray walls, and a bedframe made of black wrought iron.

“Is the room okay? I went ahead and got you the basics. But we can… decorate or something? If you want? Art? Bedding? Books?”

“I really want black sheets.”

My brows furrow as I take in the simple, dark purple bedding I opted for. I thought dark purple would be dark enough.

Apparently, I thought wrong.

“Okay. I’ll see what I can find.” I run a hand through my hair, internally chiding myself. I don’t know how to talk to a twelve-year-old. Plus, she feels more like twelve going on twenty.

“Are you hungry? Are there specific snacks you like? I didn’t know what to get, so I figured I’d wait and see what your favorites are. But the house is stocked. I want you to… make yourself at home.”

She nods, finally glancing back my way.

“I can get you a boiled egg.”

Now it’s her turn to scrunch her nose up. “A boiled egg?” I never thought I could feel so judged by a child. But here I am. Justifying the nutritional merits of boiled eggs. “It’s a great snack. High in protein. Helps you sleep well.”

Cora looks full-on disgusted.

“There’s also cereal.”

I get a quirked brow for that one. “What kind?”

“Oatmeal?”

Her lips pull back in a teasing expression as she shakes her head.

“Lucky Charms?” I try again. I bought them against my better judgement. The sugar content is terrible, but they seemed like something a child would like based on what I’ve seen with West and his kids.

For that suggestion I get double finger guns, an almost smile, and a “Now we’re talking.”

We head downstairs, and I watch Cora eat her cereal at the kitchen island while I’m hit with the full impact of what I’ve agreed to do. Nerves creep in. Doubt creeps in. And later, when she says goodnight and shuts her door, I decide to go online and find some black sheets so I don’t totally blow this entire thing.





CHAPTER SIX


FORD





“What are you doing here?”

Rosie flips her head around from where she sits at the end of the dock, clearly startled by my arrival. “Enjoying the view.”

I wanted peace and quiet to clear my head tonight. I know that with Rosie here I’ll get neither. I look beyond her at the darkened lake. Without the scattered glow from the solar lights dotting the pillars, it would be pitch black out over the water. But I know the view well, given that this dock sits near the property line between my and West’s houses. Even though there’s nothing visible on the horizon right now, I can envision it almost perfectly.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

I stay standing, not sure how to act around her. Still. Even though I’m now a perfectly successful and independent thirty-two-year-old. “I came to sit on my dock and escape the new realities of my life in the dark, by the water, where it’s quiet. Except you’re here, and it’s never quiet where you are unless you’re plotting someone’s death.”

She snorts, but it’s half-hearted. Then she turns back to the still body of water again. “First, this isn’t your dock. It’s my family’s. I would know, because I’ve been coming here for years. Second, I don’t plot people’s deaths.”

I stride toward her and opt not to tell her that, according to the land survey, this dock does, in fact, fall on my property. “Fair, you’re more of a crime-of-passion type. But I’ve spent years thinking you planned Travis Lynch’s death out in detail on the pages of that diary.”

She laughs, but it’s not light and airy like I remember. There’s a heaviness to Rosie now that doesn’t match my memories of her. She may be three years younger, but she always kept up with us through her teen years. West never excluded her, and she was always the “it” girl in Rose Hill— popular to the point of being beloved—if that’s a thing.