Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(20)

Now, parked in front of her house, I try to make heads or tails of this fiasco. Her sister and I forged a friendship—one of my only friendships—and as forlorn as I am over that loss, I’m equally forlorn over the picture that she painted for me.

Erika told me that Tabitha was self-centered and work-obsessed, not cut out to raise a child. But all I’ve seen so far is a woman who gets grass stains on her knees from playing too hard, who paid a professional to help her do right by said child, and who is accomplished and well-loved by her employees.

A little too well-loved. My thoughts turn to Scotty. His stupid smile and flirty winks.

But my loyalty to Erika draws me up short. I trusted her. She came to feel like the sister I never had. I knew her for two years, whereas I’ve interacted with Tabitha for all of a few days.

Still, I promised Erika I’d be an advocate for Milo, and it’s a promise I don’t take lightly. Plenty of my foster families seemed nice enough when they knew someone was checking in on them.

It wasn’t until watchful eyes moved elsewhere that the neglect would start. I was always too big and too scrappy to be on the receiving end of anything worse. I mostly got left alone, and I learned to enjoy my solitude.

Which makes this entire situation even more exhausting. I’m not cut out for it. The socializing. The smiling. Even just the noise of being out and around people makes me feel tired on some level.

I sigh raggedly, dragging my palm over my hair, then scrub at my beard. I need to get cleaned up before I head back to work. And the clock is ticking on that too. My knee is solid for the first time in years. They’ve planned my comeback, and I’ve been working out like a fiend to get ready. The clock is ticking and I’m due back next week.

Which means I need to face Tabitha. Talk to Tabitha. Assess Tabitha.

And try not to think about ripping Tabitha’s clothes off while I do it.

It’s going to be fucking torture, but I unfold myself from my vehicle and head to the front door, duffel bag in hand, ready to face her all the same.

I hear her irritated, “Door’s open,” from inside, and my heartbeat picks up.

Makes me wonder if I get off on being tortured by Tabitha Garrison. Letting her hate me like this is some special brand of self-loathing.

I walk in to see her back heading through a door and down a dark stairwell into the basement. She has a duvet slung over her shoulder and a pile of linens held out on one arm like a serving tray.

“Pull out the wineglasses. Let’s get this over with,” she says, voice growing more muffled as she goes farther down the stairwell.

I wish I could say that her combativeness makes her less likeable, but it has the opposite effect. I see right through it all. Plus, I get off on a good fight. And the thought of going toe-to-toe with Tabitha makes me hard.

To get my mind off the tightness in my jeans, I head to the kitchen. It’s small, but well laid out and functional.

I immediately see a farm-style cabinet with glass doors, shelves of wineglasses within. With two in hand, I turn and take in the kitchen. Gleaming copper pots hang above the massive industrial gas stove top, and an array of Japanese knives are stuck to a magnetic strip on the wall. The butcher-block countertops have stains and divots that tell the story of a kitchen where many a meal has been prepared with love and care.

My stomach growls, and my chest aches in time. It’s too easy to remember the days when food was scarce. Not reserved for me. An expense I wasn’t worthy of if that “family” was going to make any cash for putting a roof over my head. I’d have to sneak down in the middle of the night and steal unnoticeable pieces just to keep my stomach from aching. Then at school, the gnawing hunger would force me to beat someone up just so I could steal their lunch.

Not because I wanted to. But because I needed to.

I was in survival mode.

The angry stomping of Tabitha’s feet on the stairs snaps me out of the memory and propels me toward the antique dark-wood dining table with a pedestal in the middle. It’s big enough to seat eight people, and as I take a seat in one of the studded leather dining chairs, I wonder if she’s ever been able to fill it. Seems unlikely to me.

I place the two glasses in the middle of the table and feel her enter the kitchen, even though I’m not facing her. She’s got the energy of a storm. Ominous, electric, unpredictable.

She was softer for a moment at the bar. I felt it—tired enough to let her guard down. Then she’d gone back to pissed off. I’d watched it happen, saw the turmoil in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders as she decided I couldn’t be trusted.

Truth be told, I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t trust me if I were her.

She plunks a bottle of red wine down on the table with all the ceremony of a bull in a china shop and twists the top off, tossing the lid on the table before pouring out two sizable bells. “Great, let’s get this over with so I don’t have to look at you anymore.” She drops into a chair, looking as exhausted as I feel.

It strikes me that she appears gaunt, leaner than I remember her from that first day she sauntered into my house.

Having grieved my fair share in this life, I know this is anger. Grieving something that never was and never will be is a special sort of hell. Tabitha is angry. Deep down, she’s even angry with herself—which is a hard fucking pill to swallow.

I can empathize.

That’s how I know it’s a lot easier for her to make me the target of all her rage. I know because I’ve done it too. I’ve needed that release too—it’s how I started fighting.