Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(31)

I dated a girl who wouldn’t go out in the sun without a hat because she swore it ruined her color. I couldn’t tell. But I liked her for more than her hair.

Too bad she liked me for my money.

“No, listen. The pay will be solid. Just come look at the place. You did a terrific job with my parents’ house. On time, under budget, the whole thing. You’re the cream of the crop for contractors.”

She continues spinning, and I can just make out the dull, deep voice of someone on the line.

“I know there are other contractors in the area, but you beat them by a country mile. No comparison. You’re a cut above.”

Another turn in the office chair.

Rather than watching her, I really should work my way out from under the pile of emails I need to respond to. And I’ve got a metric fuck ton of sound equipment to order.

“I am not full of shit. Ask West—he’ll tell you this is a great gig. And if you get called out for a fire, that’s fine. We’ll make do.”

She finally catches sight of me, my shoulder propped against the doorway, and stops twirling. Her eyes move down and back up, taking me in with no shame. Likely as payback for what I said to her last night. “Yeah, I know West thinks that’s a good idea. But West also thinks racing on a road with no guardrails and a cliff on one side is a smart idea. And you should see this guy. He’s wearing a Rolex. And he styled his hair to look like it’s mussed when it’s not. He isn’t going to join your bowling team. You wouldn’t want him.”

With a quick glance down at my wrist, I catch the glint of my Rolex. The one I bought to celebrate having a million dollars in my investment account. All money I earned myself. It was the first stupid, frivolous thing I bought with my own cash.

I fucking love this watch.

And my hair is mussed because I was stressed while driving back here, worried what kind of footing I’d be on with Rosie after my moment of insanity last night.

I’ve really gotta stop pulling this girl’s hair.

I jut my chin at her. “That’s the contractor?”

“Yes, the contractor I like and trust,” she says, raising her voice pointedly for the contractor’s benefit.

I hear the guy mumbling something through the receiver on her cell.

“He says he’ll do your office if you join the bowling team.”

“Jesus. What is with these guys and their stupid bowling team?”

Her hand snaps up to cover the phone like I’ve said something downright sacrilegious. “Ford, that bowling team is like Fight Club or something. Invite only. Other dads don’t get invited. It’s prestigious.” She sighs heavily and whispers, “I don’t know why, but they take it seriously, so you’d better get your game face on if you’re planning to join.”

I’ve been mocking West’s bowling team for almost two years now. And not being a dad has kept me safe from any invites. But now?

Now I don’t have an excuse. I live here. And technically, I’m a dad.

I rake a hand through my hair, mussing it further. “Okay, tell him fine. Tell him that?—”

Rosie opens her mouth to speak, but then pulls her phone away from her ear to look at the screen. “He said, ‘See you tonight at seven,’ and then hung up on me.”

“Who is he?”

“Sebastian Rousseau.”

“Do I know him?”

“Nah. He moved here a while back. He’s an airtanker pilot. Came to town to fight a bushfire and loved it too much to leave. He works summers and picks up construction gigs when it’s not fire season. He’s kinda scary. But also nice.”

“Why’s he scary?”

“Cause he’s a grumpy asshole.”

“You tell me I’m a grumpy asshole.”

“Well, next to Bash, you’re a teddy bear.”

I roll my eyes. “Well, call him back and tell him I can’t do it tonight. I need time to find someone to watch Cora. I’m not leaving her alone when she just got here.”

Rosie tosses her phone down on her desk. “I’ll hang with her.”

“You’re going to spend a Thursday night hanging out with a twelve-year-old?”

“Why not? Is it somehow more badass when you do it?”

I bristle. I’m trying to play it cool, but I was looking forward to hanging out with her tonight. While stressing about Rosie on my drive back, I was also brainstorming dinner options.

“I told her we’d cook over the fire again.”

“I’ll ply her with pizza and a chick flick. She’s young. She’ll bounce back. Take one for the team, so we don’t have to work in a place that smells like mold. You’re not in the city anymore, Dorothy. Good contractors are not a dime a dozen. You can click your five-hundred-dollar Frye boots together all you want—these guys don’t just pop up out of nowhere.”

I give her a dry glare and walk over to my desk. As I toss my phone and planner down, a sheet lifts as the air wafts beneath it.

I pick it up and note the messy, loopy scrawl that fills the page. When my eyes catch on the date, I realize what I’m holding. The torn edge, the pale gray lines. Eighteen-year-old Rosie sat in my passenger seat writing on this exact page.

I turn to look at her, and her eyes are already on me.