Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(58)
Respectfully,
Rosalie Belmont
Dick Manager
I consider changing my job title again, but Dick Manager has such a wonderful ring to it, and the fact he didn’t respond about my art has me irrationally annoyed with him. Even though he’s working. And I’m supposed to be working. And I know my hormones are taking me on a roller coaster ride right now.
So, I send it the way it is.
Dearest Dick Manager,
Thank you for passing this along. You can RSVP for me and a plus one.
Have a happy day!
Ford Grant
CEO and Head Dick at Rose Hill Records
I blink at the screen and read the simple email over and over again. Searching for a hidden detail. Something I missed. Because who would he take to the event as a plus one?
I scowl at him, but he goes on working, blissfully unaffected. He gets up, puts a record on, and sits back at his desk. Looking carefree while I stew.
It’s possible he’d take Cora.
That could be cute. But then I consider how intensely private he is and decide he wouldn’t expose her that way. His parents were extremely careful with him and Willa, and I suspect he’d be just as protective of Cora.
I start to thoroughly mull over the question. I have no right to care. Even so, he kissed me. And now he’s ignoring me like nothing happened because he’s feeling guilty. I also realize he hasn’t once answered my question about him being single.
It never bugged me before, but now it does. What if I have to sit by while he dates some hot model who wouldn’t be caught dead eating a full bag of chips by herself on a rickety dock?
She’d probably be nice too—she’d probably be hard working and smart, with a thousand degrees, in addition to being extremely hot. And that just makes me hate his imaginary girlfriend even more.
I find myself wondering if he’d have kissed me like that if—no, I know him better than that. He wouldn’t.
I’m glaring at him now. Arms crossed. Cramps raging. Eyes like lasers.
My email pings.
Rosie,
Are you joining the dark side? I feel that if you practiced enough, you could probably Force grip me and choke me out with that scowl.
Have a happy day!
Sith Lord Ford Grant
CEO and Head Dick at Rose Hill Records
I see the email, but I don’t respond. I cross my legs and lean back, foot bobbing, as I pretend to act casual.
“Who is your plus one?”
I thought I’d sound curious and unaffected. That’s how the sentence sounded in my head. But I sound petty and accusatory, and he must hear it because his head snaps up in my direction. His slightly slanted green eyes make my chest ache, while the blush on his cheeks makes me want to trail my fingernails through his rugged stubble again. His cable-knit sweater with a plaid collar sticking out from underneath is casual-mountain-man sexy, not at all stuffy billionaire, and I can’t even deny how fucking hot he is—which annoys me even more.
He took me from oblivious to acutely aware and then he left me hanging. So right now, I hate Ford Grant more than ever.
“What?” He appears suitably confused.
“To that event in Emerald Lake? Who are you taking?” He blinks, and I stare. The music in the background is the only sound, and the air between us bubbles like boiling water on a stove.
Then he stands, without a word, and rounds his desk. All swagger as he approaches me.
He has an obnoxiously smug expression on his face when he props his hip against my desk and says, “You.”
My foot stops bobbing. He says the word so plainly that it almost doesn’t make sense to me. Doesn’t quite register.
His brow furrows and his eyes drop to my lips. It fucking kills me when he looks at my lips now because I know what he can do to them—to me.
“Me?”
His head tilts, and his gaze moves over my entire body. Like he’s putting the puzzle together, reading my body language. Picking up every little clue.
This time when he talks, his voice is earnest, not biting. “Yeah, Rosie. I can’t go to an event like that without my Dick Manager.”
I bite at my bottom lip. My eyes sting a little, and I know it’s not him or his words. I know my emotions are running amok because I’m one day away from my period starting, according to my tracker. I know he said nothing especially sweet, but the relief I feel is strong enough that I need space.
“Cool.” I nod firmly, stand up, and head toward the door like the emotional coward I am. “Forgot my…” I forgot absolutely nothing, but I’m looking for an escape. “Sweater at my place. Be right back.”
His brow furrows again as I turn and walk through the sliding barn doors. The ones that are wide open, because it’s warm out today. I can hear the concern in his voice when he says, “I’ll go grab lunch. Want anything?”
“Sure, whatever looks good,” I call back, hustling off the front deck.
I take my time walking back to my place. I even sit at the end of the dock for a while, just simmering in all my feelings. Then I take a Midol, grab a completely unnecessary sweater, and head back to the office. Primed and ready for a fight.
But when I get back to my desk, there’s no Ford to be seen. However, there is a tin takeout container of chicken wings on my desk with an array of sauces on the side.
No drumsticks. All wings.