Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(17)

“Hey, hey. Don’t disparage the charm of Rose Valley Alley.”

“By charm, he means sticky floors,” Bash mumbles from behind the rim of his pint glass.

“Why are they—”

West’s arm slices across the space. “Nah. You can’t slander the place like that. It’s an icon. A relic. An attraction.” His finger shoots up triumphantly. “A heritage site!”

“A heritage site?” Ford looks appalled.

“When the fuck did you become a thesaurus, West?” Bash stares at him with a tilt to his head.

“I read a lot, Bash. It’s good for the vocabulary. Maybe being a fire pilot doesn’t require you to know many words.”

“Oh, and training horses does?”

Their easy banter is amusing and unfamiliar all at once. I find myself watching them, head flipping from man to man and feeling entirely out of place.

Ford chuckles, shaking his head and taking a sip of his beer. “What about you, Rhys? What do you like to do in your free time?”

“And why is it ’roids?” West quips before covering his mouth with a palm. “Shit, sorry. Mouth is faster than my brain.”

Ford groans.

Bash scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck’s sakes.”

And I laugh. I can’t help it. It feels unfamiliar in my throat. I spend an excessive amount of time alone, and the past week has been impossibly sad. But I still laugh. It was just too good-natured to offend me.

“No ’roids. Just a boring diet, great genetics, and too many hours in the gym.”

“Fair. Yeah.” West purses his lips and looks me over appraisingly. “Now that I take a closer look, you could definitely be bigger.”

Everyone laughs. They laugh even harder when I try my hand at bowling for the very first time.

I stay quiet, appraising. But as bowling progresses, I fall into a comfortable camaraderie with the other three men. For a couple of hours, I don’t think about Erika, or Milo.

I wish I could say I don’t think about Tabitha.

But that would be a lie. Because much like the very first time I met her, I can’t get the woman out of my head.

Haven’t been able to for the past two years.





CHAPTER 9


Tabitha





TUESDAY NIGHT DINNER RUSH WAS BUSY. A LARGE PARTY HIT the kitchen hard during an already busy night. It gave me that buzz. That feeling where my mind and body are so focused on the task at hand that every other thought fades away. Being needed is keeping me sane. But the guests have dwindled down to only a few tables, and my mind wanders as I stand at the pass of the open kitchen, looking out over my pride and joy.

The Bighorn Bistro.

Café by morning. Chic communal farm-to-table eatery by night.

Started working in a kitchen at sixteen and never looked back. Worked my way up through the ranks while attending culinary school. And then bought the run-down old building with my own money. Meticulously saved every penny and spent the majority of it remodeling this place.

Now there are thick wood beams spanning the vaulted ceiling, each one wrapped in twinkle lights. Leafy plants hang from above too—they’re a pain in the ass to water, but they give the space an outdoor feel. And when the sun streams in from the skylights above, it bathes the entire dining room in a subtle green glow. Tall glass windows line the front, facing the main drag of Rose Hill, just a couple blocks off the lake.

And a mere five-minute walk from where I left Rhys. Tossed him right into the deep end and didn’t even ask if he could swim.

Out loud, I’d say I hope he can’t. The bitter, petty part of me wants to scare him off and send him running. But then I saw him smell Milo’s hair when he lifted him up this afternoon. And the look of relief on his face…it’s haunting.

The dirty truth of it is, I wouldn’t have left him with those guys if I truly wished him dead. Because if someone were drowning, West would be the first person to leap in after them. Ford comes off aloof, but I think he’d ride into battle for the people he cares about. And for all of Bash’s grumbling and scowling, he’s got a good heart. You just have to dig for it a bit.

With a heavy sigh, I glance over my shoulder at the two remaining chits. And all at once, I don’t have the energy to complete these final dinner orders. As the executive chef, I don’t need to—that’s what my sous-chef and line cooks are here for. My priorities are the menu, the orders, and the sourcing, and on busy nights, I come in to plate for the dinner rush.

I look back out over the restaurant and freeze. Because like I summoned him out of thin air just by thinking of him, Rhys is sitting at the end of the bar with a big bell of red wine settled between his thick fingers.

Staring at me.

I blink a few times, as though it might make him disappear from the stool he’s perched on. Like windshield wipers clearing a splattered fly from the view ahead.

But it doesn’t work.

He’s still there. Dark hair combed back, one side flopped down, grazing his cheekbone, while the other curves around his ear. Somehow, his stubble looks thicker than it did mere hours ago. His skin is tawnier now that it’s bathed in the dim golden light of the bistro.

He looks too big for the stool and too rugged to be sipping a glass of wine.

Yet here he is, doing just that. He’s also making me hate myself, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t peel my eyes off him. He exudes so much aloof confidence. He’s magnetic. Unflappable.