Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(36)

“That’s Bash,” West says. “Or Sebastian. But the full name is a mouthful, ya know?”

Oh good. My new contractor.

“And this here”—West pushes an old, wiry man toward me—“is Crazy Clyde.”

Crazy Clyde is wearing a dirty trucker hat with the Rose Valley Alley logo on it and a suspicious glare on his face. It still seems like just calling him Clyde would be less of a mouthful.

“Who’s this?” The man’s watery eyes narrow.

“My friend Ford,” West explains. Again.

“Fords are shit cars. Can’t trust ’em.”

“Well, good thing I’m not a car.” I smirk back at him. West laughs. But no one else does.

“Where you from?”

“Calgary originally, I guess.”

The man makes a spitting motion. “City folk. Can’t trust ’em.”

“Clyde, shut up.” It’s the first thing Bash says as he finishes tying his shoes.

“Don’t trust you either. I told you the Denver airport is the Illuminati headquarters, and you went there anyway. And you…” He spins on West. “You’re too fuckin’ happy. Jokin’ around all the time. It’s like you don’t even care that the government is tracking you on that phone you carry everywhere.”

West pulls his phone out and waves it in front of Clyde. “This one? They can go ahead and track me. They’ll get real bored, real fast.” He turns to me. “Clyde lives on the other side of the mountain with no electricity or running water. But he makes an exception for beer on tap every other Thursday.”

Clyde grumbles something that sounds an awful lot like you mouthy little shit before he turns away to take a sip of his beer. I don’t know whether to laugh or just stand here in stunned silence. Clyde is truly a walking, talking mountaintown stereotype.

I turn wide eyes back to West and blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Does Rosie know about him?” She’d have a blast talking to this guy.

West snorts and waves a server over. “She knows about him but has yet to meet him. That would be quite the showdown.”

As West orders us a couple of beers, another man approaches. He’s tall. Taller than me, which is unusual at six foot three. But this guy does it. Long legs, long arms, even his neck appears to be unusually long.

Bash stands, coming to my side to face him. He crosses his arms and says nothing. He’d look tough if not for the two-tone bowling shoes on his feet.

“Hi. I’m Too Tall,” the man says. “The team captain for the High Rollers. We’ll be playing each other tonight.”

He sticks his hand out, and I laugh as I shake it because that was a weird introduction.

The tall dude doesn’t laugh. And neither does Bash. They stare off like this is fucking serious.

“I’m Ford. I don’t think you’re too tall at all. What’s your name?” I ask as I draw my hand away to the sound of West’s snicker behind me.

“Too Tall.”

I blink. This guy can’t be serious. He wants me to call him Too Tall as his actual name?

“Right, but what’s your big-boy name?” That gets me an amused grunt from Bash and a sneer from Too Tall.

Without telling me his real name, he turns and walks away, tossing a parting snipe over his shoulder. “Good luck tonight. You’re gonna need it.”

That’s all it takes. One petty sentence, and I’m suddenly very invested in this bowling league. Because fuck this guy and his dumb nickname and his high school attitude and his bowling shirt, which matches all the guys he walks back over to.

West hands me a beer and laughs. “I fuckin’ hate Too Tall.”

Bash nods.

“Can’t trust ’em. Neck is unnaturally long,” Clyde grumbles.

And me? I hold my beer up, a toast to the opposing team. “Thanks, Stretch! Appreciate it.”

“Stretch.” Bash huffs out the word, and it almost sounds like amusement coming from him. “I like that.”

We don’t beat the stupid High Rollers in their stupid matching outfits, but I have a hell of a lot more fun than I thought I would.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


ROSIE





Cora yawns so wide that I wonder if it hurts. Her hands curl into fists and her dark lashes flutter shut. I smile softly at her, propped up against the opposite arm of the couch. For all her sarcastic one-liners and no-nonsense persona, she looks very young right now.

I wonder when she last got a hug. The last one I got was from my dad when I pulled up unexpectedly at my parents’ house.

“I liked this movie,” she announces, settling into the couch as we bask in Elle Woods’ victory.

I push my feet, clad in fuzzy socks, under her blanket and give her legs a slight nudge. “It’s all the pink isn’t it, my little storm cloud?”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, nudging my legs back with her own. “I don’t hate pink.”

I curve a teasing brow at her.

Her eyes flash up to the neon scrunchie in my hair. “I think it looks nice on you.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’re pretty. It makes sense.”

My head tilts as I regard her. We had a fun night. It was wholesome. We ate too much pizza. I did up root beer floats for us. We made fun of Ford behind his back and laughed. She even told me about school, where she’s found two other little storm clouds to roam with. And I love that for her.