Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(33)
So, I guess that’s why we start emailing, even though we’re both stuck here, facing each other.
Good morning, Mr. Grant,
I’m creating a budget for the renovation. How much do you have slated?
Please advise.
All my best,
Rosalie Belmont
Business Manager at Rose Hill Records
Hi, Rosalie,
Whatever it takes.
Ford Grant
CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records
Mr. Grant,
I need numbers if I’m going to make you a budget.
And you need to add a closing greeting to your email signature. Otherwise, people will know you’re a total dick.
All my best,
Rosalie Belmont
Business Manager to His Royal Dickness at Rose Hill Records
Hi, Rosalie,
I don’t especially care if random people think I’m a dick.
Numbers are attached here.
Have a happy day!
His Royal Dickness
CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records
I hear a light chuckle when that one lands in her inbox.
Then we work in silence. She hums now and then, and I chew on my pen as I try to schedule sound engineers around a constantly moving timeline. I field an inquiry from a record label on the album I did with Ivory Castle. I scroll through more and more inquiries from interested artists as news of the new company spreads. A country starlet with a PR problem catches my attention. I’ve seen Skylar Stone in the news—everyone has. But that one email piques my attention all the same.
I’ve got a thing for rescues.
My pulse ratchets up when I see another email come in from Rosie.
Good afternoon, Dark Lord,
Attached is a spreadsheet with my anticipated budget for the office and recording studio renovation. One tab is budgeted, the next is projected. I will work with the contractor and subcontractors to complete the latter.
Please advise on the feasibility and feel free to point out any issues you might find since I know how much you love to create problems where none exist.
All my best,
Rosalie Belmont
Business Manager at Death Eater Records
P.S. I’m hungry and leaving for lunch. You have a free hour to harvest souls or whatever while I’m away.
She’s up and walking out the door when I fire off:
Rosalie,
Thank you for this. Lucky for you, I can multitask eating souls for lunch at my desk while I work.
Have a happy day!
Tom Riddle CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records
I know she has her email hooked up to her phone, so I’m not surprised when I hear her laugh from outside the door. Then she shouts, “It’s really the have a happy day that gets me.”
And I shake my head because it’s hearing her laugh that gets me.
I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t care if random people think I’m a dick.
But Rosie Belmont isn’t random people.
I’m snapping photos of the outside of the barn-slash-office so I can send them to the designer I used in the city for my bar. The goal is to maintain the mountain chalet feel of this place by preserving the barn’s old wood.
I don’t want it to look shiny and new and cookie-cutter.
I want character. I want music with character and a space that inspires it.
I’m imagining charming, matching cottages nestled in the trees where artists can use this space as a retreat. Mountains, lake, wilderness—a serene space to calm their minds and focus on their art, away from the glitz and glam of what can be an ugly industry.
The quiet out here. It’s… profound. And I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until I got here.
That’s why the piercing sound of the office line ringing from inside makes me wince as it slices through my moment of peace.
Then it stops.
Then, “Hello, Ford Grant Junior’s office.”
My molars clamp down at the use of my name. I love my parents, but seriously, fuck them for keeping with that tradition.
“Oh my god, the real Ford Grant?” Rosie lets out a fake little squeal, and I freeze.
“Mr. Grant! It’s been too long. How are you?”
My legs carry me over the craggy grass that surrounds the building and I march up the front steps, skipping one here and there to get inside faster.
When I fling the door open, I’m met with Rosie’s wide, blue eyes, her hip cocked against the desk. It’s brisk out today—it feels less like spring and more like winter—which is probably why she waves a hand at me to shut it.
“Oh, baby Ford? He’s good. Working hard on this place and his scowl, as the case may be.”
A beat of silence as her eyes wander over my features.
“I’m sure he’s not ignoring you. Just—well, no, I’m here because he hired me.”
Her lips press together, and I rake a hand through my hair. My dad means well, but he’s fucking bossy sometimes, and we’ve butted heads many times.
“I hear what you’re saying, Senior. But Ford’s a big boy now, even though he sometimes acts like a little one, and if he requires your input, I’m sure he’ll ask. He’s a smart, responsible man, so we gotta trust him to make wise decisions. He’s not actually dumb, even though he’s pretty, ya know?”