Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(26)

“But I love Gramophone. I listen to all my music there. And this morning I overheard him talking with Ivory Castle. She was this lame teenybopper pop star, you know? But then she recorded with him, and he gave her this whole new sound. Have you heard the new single from that album? It’s all smoky and gritty but mainstream enough that people with bad taste in music will still like it. She plays the guitar and everything. She’s great. You know, if you can just pretend those other sellout albums don’t exist.”

I bite down so hard on my inner cheek that I swear I taste blood. Behind all her snark, I somehow missed the serious case of hero worship this girl has going on with Ford.

“That is pretty cool. Does he know all this?”

She bats a hand through the air like she’s swatting at a fly. “Nah. He mostly just stares at me like I terrify him.”

I feel a twinge of sympathy for Ford—he truly is unprepared for this.

“I don’t want to make his life harder, so I don’t push my luck. He’s busy and important.”

Now I feel a sharp pang of sympathy for Cora. Because that is so fucking relatable. I tried so hard, for so long, to fly under the radar with my family that I now recognize all the ways I missed out on a deeper connection with them. I don’t want to say that I resent my parents for letting me become the invisible child, but it certainly taught me not to rely on them… not to confide in them. And in a lot of ways, I did it to myself. I saw the anxiety they had around West and decided I wouldn’t add to that.

As I think back on it, it made me feel very alone. And I don’t want that for Cora—or for Ford.

“He’s not as bad as he comes off sometimes,” is what I offer back. “You can’t take him at face value—and I know that’s tough sometimes. Trust me, I do.” Because it’s true. For all my stomping and huffing about the guy, I know he’s a good one. And I know the way he works. “But you don’t make his life harder, I promise you that. Don’t make yourself into an inconvenience when you aren’t one. He may not know you well yet, but he wants to, and he just isn’t sure how to do it.”

She nods sternly and we fall into a comfortable silence. As I turn up the radio for the short drive back to Rose Hill Records, I shake my head with a small smile on my lips.

He looks at her like she terrifies him. And she looks at him with stars in her eyes.

But they’re both too alike to say a single word to each other.

It’s adorable.





CHAPTER ELEVEN


FORD





“I told you I’ll eat anything.” On a stool at the kitchen counter, Cora is absorbed in reading a book. She doesn’t bother looking up to answer my question about her dinner preferences. She just keeps reading. While I flail around trying to find out what she likes to eat so I can make it for her.

We just tried calling her mom at the treatment center, but Marilyn wasn’t available, and it took the wind out of her sails—even if she won’t admit it. She’s trying to be cool, but I can tell she misses her mom, and I don’t blame her at all.

That’s why I’m trying to make it better.

“If I could cook you anything in the world, what would you pick?” I try to clarify my question as I stare into the refrigerator. Admittedly, not everything in the world is in here. But if she would tell me what she actually likes, I could try something similar. I mean, shit. I could have it brought in.

“Anything.” I see her shrug out of the corner of my eye and wonder if this is how I was growing up. I’d know if I bothered to tell my family about this situation. My mom, my dad, my big-mouth sister. They’d all have something to say about it. I’m sure they’d all have good advice too. But they’d also come with criticisms. I worry they’ll tell me I shouldn’t have done this with Cora. That it was impulsive. That I’m putting myself at financial risk. That I’m under no obligation to help in this situation.

And they’d be right. But the truth is, I’m feeling startlingly protective of Cora.

Any critical comment or advice that I do less than I already am could make me go borderline feral. Like full papa bear mode. And it’s an unfamiliar feeling. One I’m still grappling with. One that’s keeping me from seeking outside advice.

“So, frog legs?”

Her hazel eyes pop up over the top of the book. “Sure.”

“Liver?”

“I love it.”

“Caviar?”

“Your rich kid is showing.”

Fuck me, that was funny. I wipe a hand across my mouth to hide my smirk.

“Hot dogs?”

She gives me a confused look. “You know, that’s actually the most offensive food on that list. Do you have any idea what’s in them?”

I reach into the fridge and inspect the package. “Meat trimmings.”

Cora just nods. But she’s finally not ignoring me for whatever Stephen King horror shit she’s reading in an attempt to be as anti-stereotypical as possible.

“Are they less offensive if we roast them over a fire?”

For a moment, her eyes light up before she goes back to trying to look cool and unaffected. “Do you have stuff for s’mores?”

I’m a thirty-two-year-old bachelor workaholic. Of course I don’t have stuff for s’mores. But I only say, “I don’t.”