Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(2)

But what will all my successes from here on out be chalked up to?

Money. Connections. Luck. And I don’t believe in luck.

“What even is this picture of you?” West holds the magazine up from across the room. “You look like you’re hiding behind the popped collar of your jacket.”

“I was.”

“Why?”

Bless him. His furrowed brow and tilted head betray his genuine confusion. To someone like him, it makes no sense why I wouldn’t bask in the notice. He’s larger-than-life, fun, a big fucking showboat—and I love all of that about him. West also has a good heart and is trustworthy as all get-out. He’s genuine in a world of so many people who aren’t. He found me reading by the lake as a kid and started talking to me like he knew me. Hasn’t stopped since then, unlikely of friends as we might be. There’s something about us that has just… stuck.

For twenty years we’ve stuck.

“Because I didn’t want my picture taken. Don’t like it.”

“Why? Do you need me to tell you how handsome you are?”

I scoff. “Because I was walking down the street to meet my sister for coffee, not at a photo shoot.”

He chuckles. “I mean, would it have killed you to smile?”

“Yes.” I stare at the fireplace, duster in hand, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to do everything on my list.

“You’re gonna need a shovel for that oven. Not a duster.”

“Thank you, West. I’m so glad you’re nearby to lend your opinion.”

He lets out an exaggerated sigh. “It’s gonna be like the old days. Just you and me getting into trouble.”

“You got into trouble. I watched.”

“I remember Rosie tagging along, just fucking shit-talking you the entire time. God, nothing made me prouder of her.” My body stills at the mention of his sister. Rosalie. I haven’t laid eyes on her in a decade, but my shoulders get tense all the same.

I turn to face West. “Doesn’t she have her master’s and some fancy job in Vancouver now?”

I already know she does. I look her up from time to time—just to make sure she’s happy, of course. West mentions her when we talk, but never in detail. It’s all generalities, surface-level updates. But then, why would he tell his best friend anything more in-depth about his baby sister, who took off to live in the city?

It’s better I don’t ask.

He waves a hand, like Rosie slinging jabs as a teenager is the most impressive feat to him. “Those were the best summers. I was always such a sad fucking panda when you went back to the city for school.”

I hated it too. Back to the city, back to school with kids who—unlike West—treated me like I was different from them. Back to the pressure of being the son of one of the world’s most recognizable guitarists. Rose Hill was my favorite escape as a child, and it would seem nothing has changed for me as a thirty-two-year-old man. It’s like time stands still here. No one here treats you like you’re rich or famous or even particularly special. Everyone just goes about their business. That fresh mountain air must give everyone the perspective that city people seem to lack.

But my attachment to this area is more than just that. I’m drawn back to this place on a much deeper level. To the memories it holds.

“Well, this year you won’t have to cry about it, West. You’re officially stuck with me.”

I toss the duster back into the box, coming to terms with the fact I might need to hire someone to help get this place up and running if I want to record here anytime soon. The main house is now livable—fully updated it myself over the winter—but this building is so much worse.

“Fuck yeah. I’m going to get you on my bowling team.”

“No. Absolutely not. You told me it’s dads’ night out, and I’m not a dad.” I kick my toe at what I thought was a dead bug but am now certain is mouse droppings. “Except to maybe an entire herd of mice.”

“I don’t think mice roam in herds.”

“Whatever they are, I don’t think they qualify me as a dad.”

“That’s fine. It’s really just Sebastian and me, assuming he’s in town, and then we’ve got you?—”

“You haven’t got me?—”

“And then we’ve got Crazy Clyde.”

“Who’s Crazy Clyde? I don’t think you can just roll around calling people crazy anymore.”

“He’s the dude who lives on the other side of the mountain—pretty much a hermit—because he believes in every conspiracy theory known to man. His stories are my favorite. And he’ll introduce himself as Crazy Clyde, so I’ll let you be the one to correct him.”

I blink at my friend. This sounds like my nightmare.

“I’m not fucking bowling with you, West.”

He scoffs and dismisses my words with a hand flick. “You say that now. But you always said no to my shenanigans as a kid too. And then you’d be there. Emo hair in your eyes, pushing those oversized glasses up the bridge of your nose.” He grins at me, perfect white teeth flashing bright next to his rough stubble. “Moody scowl on your face. Probably some obscure book of poetry clutched under your arm.”

I can’t help but snort out a laugh at his accurate description as I shake my head. “Get fucked, Belmont.”