Wild Love (Rose Hill, #1)(77)

It’s then that I hear the slamming of a car door from the driveway out front. My head flips in that direction and so does Rosie’s.

Déjà vu.

She tugs at the bottom of her blazer, smoothing her hands over her hair.

“Who the hell would be here?” I try to straighten myself, but I don’t especially care about anyone seeing me a bit disheveled. Instead, I look at my desk and everything scattered around on the floor.

“Maybe Scotty came back,” she quips, the way she does when she’s trying to smooth out any awkwardness or intensity. She’s been doing that since she was a kid. West would get in trouble, and there would be Rosie, sitting at the dinner table, trying to lighten the mood while everyone else ate anxiously.

“Maybe he wanted lessons in how to properly?—”

“Ford?”

I freeze and so does Rosie. Our gazes meet and now it’s my turn to flush pink. Because that is not Scotty.

Rosie recovers first, slipping her professional mask back on. “Senior! Is that you?”

She strides away, down the hall toward the front door, and out of sight, still smoothing her clothes. She’s walking a little gingerly and maybe a nicer guy would feel bad about that.

But I’m not a nicer guy, and I get off on knowing she’s sore after what we just did.

“Rosie?”

Oh god. My mom too? I prop my hands on my hips and stare up at the ceiling’s wooden beams. My dad will be oblivious to the mess in here.

But my mom?

Dr. Gemma Grant, Sex Therapist, is going to know exactly what went down in this office.

“Gemma! Hi! It is so good to see you two.”

I can hear the heavy whooshes of hugs being exchanged. I should walk over there and greet my parents, but I’m stuck staring at the ceiling. Wondering how I got to where I am.

A kid I never saw coming.

A girl I’ve never been able to forget.

My parents showing up at the worst possible moment.

“Wow, it looks incredible,” my mom says, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Ford has been hard at work,” Rosie replies breezily. Not the least bit out of step. Like she greets parents with cum in her panties every day. “And Scotty too, his favorite tradesman.”

Of course my mom picks up on that. “Does that mean he hates him?”

Rosie laughs, and I hear three sets of footsteps as they make their way down the short hallway to the main office area.

They stop short when they see it looks like a bomb went off, and I’m standing in the middle of it all.

My dad looks how he always does—silver-haired and suave. His hair color and a few extra lines beside his eyes might be the only giveaway for his age. Otherwise, he’s still rolling around in jeans and fitted T-shirt with a long necklace like he and I are the same age.

My mom’s hair is still bright red, just like Willa’s, though I suspect she gets a little help in that department these days. It’s chopped at her chin but styled a little wild and wavy. She’s tall and lean, like she always has been. And is wearing an— admittedly—really cool jean jacket with floral embroidery up the sleeve.

She’s also wearing a smirk.

“Son, the fuck you doing?” My dad says it with a deep chuckle, head pivoting to take it all in.

I shoot him a temperamental glare because I’m having a hard time believing that the last thirty minutes actually happened.

But not Rosie.

Rosie pats my dad on the shoulder and renders a light laugh. “You showed up on the heels of a temper tantrum.”

Oh, I’m going to kill her.

My dad’s brows furrow, and Rosie pins me with a wink. “You know how billionaires are. Something doesn’t go their way, and suddenly they’re pitching a fit. Stomping around. Breaking shit.”

My dad laughs at that, hugging Rosie to his side. “You’re a firecracker, Rosalie. I’ve missed ya.”

But it’s my mom who’s staring at me with that knowing smirk on her face and a slightly arched brow. Because my mom knows I’ll stew and pout and snipe when I’m pissed off, but not break shit. That’s a Willa move. “How fortunate that Rosie knows how to handle Ford’s newfound temper.”

My dad is still chuckling good-naturedly when he steps forward to wrap me in a hug. And as I look over his shoulder at Rosie, my mom bumps the little vixen’s shoulder with her own and quietly says, “Peeing afterward helps prevent infection.”

And now I smile, because Rosie, who thought the tantrum joke was real fucking funny, is now staring at me.

Red as a beet.





When the doorbell rings at three o’clock sharp, I know my parents mean business. I told them I needed to get Cora from school and give her a heads-up they were here. I told them we wouldn’t be home until three and that I’d call them.

I swing the door open, and sure enough, there stand my parents. I hold the frame in one hand and the door in the other, blocking them from waltzing in like they own the place.

“I told you I’d call you.”

My dad scoffs. “You don’t have a great track record in that department these days.”

“Well, Dad, your track record for going overboard is still firmly intact, so I guess we’re both consistent.”

His brows drop low and my mom presses her lips together to stifle a laugh. She always gets a kick out of watching the two Fords butt heads.