Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(30)
“Are you single?” The second the words leave my lips, I hate myself for saying them. They’re enough to make him draw away ever so slightly.
I hear the bristling of his stubble against his palm as he scrubs a hand over his mouth.
“Yes. Are you?”
I keep my eyes low; my breathing feels labored. Like it’s hard work to keep from collapsing under the weight of his stare.
“I don’t know.”
And it’s true. I’ve spent so long being a people pleaser— avoiding making any waves—that I’m terrified of disappointing the people I care about. But I know I’m done. I’ve finally come to terms with it. But telling Ford before I tell Ryan would be shitty. Where Ford and my personal life are concerned, vague is better. Safer.
He stands, calmly unfurling his powerful body, before stepping right in front of me and bending down to my level. His lips are a breath away, his eyes so deep and searching I can’t hold his gaze.
Slowly, his hand comes up to grip my ponytail—just like he did the other night. But tonight, with one slow tug, he guides my head back so I’m forced to look at him. “Next time you ask me that, make sure you are.”
Then he turns and walks away. Leaving me stunned and reeling even more out of control than I already was.
And when I get back to the bunkhouse, I’m too amped up to sleep. I thought the walk back would clear my head, but it only gave me time alone to fixate on our interaction. So, I pull out my old diary and hunker down for a walk down memory lane. Ryan never calls and I barely even notice. I’m far too invested in reading my teenaged musings on Ford Grant.
I laugh, I cry, and I fall asleep with the journal in my hand and my bedside lamp still lit.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FORD
“I had fun last night,” Cora announces in the quiet car.
“Me too.”
“Can we do it again? Cook on the fire?” She peeks up at me, almost shyly. Like she’s not used to asking for what she wants. Or like she thinks I might say no.
“Of course.”
“Would you show me how to build the little pyramid thing with the paper and sticks?”
“Should I be at all concerned about your sudden interest in lighting fires?”
She scoffs and looks out the window. “It was nice. Cozy. It felt very… I don’t know. Country?”
I turn into town, heading toward the junior high school. I know exactly what she means. Surrounded by wilderness. Water. Stars. You can have a fire in the city, but it just isn’t the same. Too tidy, too sanitized. “I love that feeling too.”
“Can we try my mom again today?”
“Of course,” I say, resolving to call the facility first and make sure we call at a time that guarantees success.
She nods. And then I nod. But today, the silence isn’t awkward. In fact, I feel like I made some headway last night. That we forged a small connection in what is otherwise a really fucking weird arrangement.
“How late did you and Rosie stay up last night?”
Rosie. Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about whatever that moment was last night. The tortured expression on her face as she watched my lips while telling me I shouldn’t be looking at her like that.
Cora asks me the question casually enough, but I see her fingers fiddling with the straps of her backpack as she stares out the window.
“Not for much longer. She headed home. Work night or whatever. You’ll see her after school.”
She turns now, casting a suspicious glare my way. “Good. I like her.”
“Me too.”
“It’s possible I like her more than you.”
I bark out a laugh. “I don’t blame you. She is far more likable than me.”
“Pretty too.”
Good lord. We’re edging into dangerous territory. And all it takes is one quick glance to know that Cora is staring at me too hard for the comment to be offhanded.
I shrug. “She’s Rosie Belmont,” I say, like that explains the way she looks. The way she is. The way she always has been. “And my best friend’s baby sister.”
Then I change the subject right as we pull into the drop-off line. “Wanna listen to some samples with me this weekend? I’ve had a bunch sent to me since I announced the new company.”
I can tell I’ve shocked her. But I can also tell that Rosie was right—a spark of interest flares in her hazel eyes.
Her oversized black hoodie has holes where she’s pushed her thumbs through. She points at me and then at herself. “You want to listen to music with me?”
“Yeah. Thought it might be fun.”
“Yes, please,” she says simply. And then she opens the door and steps out, but before she goes, she swings her backpack over one shoulder and turns back to me with a smug smirk on her lips. “And just so you know, all the perv dads at pickup have noticed she’s”—her fingers curl into sarcastic air quotes—“Rosie Belmont, too.”
She smiles and slams the door in my face.
Leaving me stewing over the fact I now feel the need to accompany Rosie to the school for daily pickup.
“Pleeease,” Rosie whines as she spins in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. There’s something childish about the entire scene. The tone of her voice, her dramatic begging. But it’s the way her hair trails behind her that has me staring. Brown, gold, silver—it’s like every strand is a different color, and all darker at the root. Some come from the salon, no doubt, while others have probably changed in the sun.