Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(23)
Her jaw tightens as her gaze works its way over me, both of us feeling equally distrustful. “So you’ll, what? Come back now and then?”
“We can tell Milo about his mom tomorrow—together—if you want. We’ll tell him he’s staying here, with you. And yeah, it’s going to be a couple of weeks before I can get back again. This isn’t an easy location for me to pop into, and I don’t know what border patrol will say. Gives us time to figure shit out. Talk to our lawyers. Talk out the legalities and the…outcome.”
She nods, the stubborn set to her jaw the only clue to what’s going on in her head. She’s barely touched her wine, but she spins the glass in place by the stem, watching the liquid slosh against the sides and create a wavelike pattern as it streaks back down.
The next question comes out in a barely audible whisper. “Do you actually want Milo? To raise him and do the whole parent thing? Like, is this just an obligation, or do you actually want this?”
She hits the nail on the head. That’s for fucking sure. Because my feelings today are about so much more than distrust.
It’s the haunting walk down memory lane. It’s knowing how much this woman is struggling with the aftermath of her loss. It’s this inexplicable connection to her and to the little boy in this town that keeps me from walking away.
I don’t want to tell her those things, but I also don’t want to tell more lies than I have to. And the truth is, I do love Milo. And I know Milo loves me.
So I settle on, “I actually want this.”
Her eyes stay fixed on the wine, and her lips tip up in the saddest smile. “Okay. We both take some time to cool down and reassess when you come back in a couple of weeks then.” She pushes up without another glance. “It’s not fancy downstairs, and there isn’t a bathroom, so you’ll have to come up to the main floor. I didn’t make the bed, but there are clean sheets, and you can stay there when you want.”
She’s leaving when my stomach growls again, and I don’t know if she hears it, but I wish I could tell it to just fucking knock it off already. It’s borderline embarrassing.
Tabitha doesn’t acknowledge me any further though. I can hear her padding up the stairs, probably going to bed, and I’m pretty sure she’s dismissed me.
So I drag myself to the front door and grab my things before trudging to the basement. It’s unfinished, with a concrete floor and a lingering damp smell. The walls are framed, but no insulation or drywall has been added. In the corner, a mattress and box spring pass for a bed. Next to it, two sawhorses with a piece of plywood propped across them create a makeshift bedside table that’s topped off with an old-fashioned brass lamp.
Like she said, it’s not fancy, but I’ve slept in worse, and I’m too exhausted to care. I put my head down and get to work making the bed, but soon I hear her stomping around on the main floor like a Clydesdale.
She’s either still pissed, or just not light on her feet. I’m not sure which, but I hear all the same. And I don’t even want to go upstairs to brush my teeth until she’s gone.
In fact, I find myself wondering if she’s thought through letting a strange man sleep at her house. I should talk to her about that. Along with leaving her front door open.
As I park myself on the end of the bed, I vow to check the locks before I hit the hay once and for all. Then I scroll my phone, ignoring the gnawing hunger in my stomach, and wait for her to finish with whatever she’s doing that’s taking so damn long.
The creak of the door at the top of the stairs startles me, and my head whips to the corner where the entrance is. Soft light and a delicious smell pour down the stairwell.
And then, so does her voice.
“Hey, asshole. I made you a bowl of carbonara so that I won’t have to hear your stomach all the way upstairs. I didn’t even poison it. Bon appétit and good night.” The door creaks as she closes it, but then it stops. Light spills down the stairs once again as she adds, “Oh, and I sleep with a gun under my pillow, so don’t try anything weird.”
I drop my chin, and a smile curves my lips. Because I’m pretty sure that—in her own way—Tabitha Garrison was just nice to me.
CHAPTER 11
Rhys
“IT’S GOOD TO SEE YOU.” ANTHONY’S PALM LANDS ON MY bare back in a loud slap. The gesture could be friendly, but there’s enough force behind it to just make him an asshole.
Not that this is news to me. Anthony Morris has been my boss at World Professional Wrestling since my first day on the job. And he’s been a royal dickhead the entire time. Not to me. No, he’s always looked at me with dollar signs in his eyes. There’s no denying that the man has a vision. And that vision has included me as a key part of the brand since day one.
But I’ve seen the way he does business, and while I love my job, I don’t necessarily love being associated with him. Alas, he signs my paychecks and mostly stays out of my way, so we keep a tenuous sort of peace.
“Thanks,” I grumble from where I wait backstage in what we call the Go Position—just behind the curtain.
“You sure took your sweet fuckin’ time getting back to us.”
There it is—the underhanded jab. Like I chose to be locked up at home recovering from ACL surgery, rather than on the road doing what I love.