Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(62)

Conversations like this are out of my wheelhouse. A lifetime spent keeping people at arm’s length means this thing with Tabitha has me feeling like a deer in the headlights—wide-eyed and frozen. My chest aches as if the unspoken words are burning from the inside, trying to make their way out.

But by the time I think of what to say, she’s gone.





CHAPTER 28


Tabitha





Tabby: Give Little Willy hell.

Rhys: Yes, wife.



WATCHING RHYS DRIVE AWAY THE NEXT MORNING ROLLED over me as an overwhelming wave of dread. Milo waved goodbye with a big smile, chattering away about how much fun they had at the park, and all I could think was, I don’t want him to go.

What worked between Rhys and me in the beginning was a mutual distaste for each other and a shared love for Milo. Our arrangement had nothing to do with us, and everything to do with one little boy.

But after months spent together and seeing all the subtle ways he supports us, I… Well, I’m not sure what our arrangement is founded on now. He told me he was proud of me, and my chest swelled. I’m not sure he even understands how badly I needed that praise.

All my hard work, all my sacrifice, it always ends up coming along with implications about Erika. There is an unintentional tendency among the people in this small town to compare us. Like anything I do is great because it’s more than what Erika did.

My accolades have always been attached to her in some way. Which not only makes me feel like shit, but it makes me feel angry on my sister’s behalf. Her mental health was a constant uphill battle, and she struggled, but she had a soft heart. It kills me that no one sees her the way I do.

Except for Rhys. I suppose we’re kindred that way.

So now the distaste is gone, and in its wake? Mutual respect.

With just a drop of obsession.

Because I have not been able to stop thinking about Rhys all day.

Is he safe?

Is he hungry?

Is everything at the border okay?

Is he thinking about me too?

Dinner rush at the restaurant was the only thing that stilled my spiraling mind.

But that was short-lived, because now I’m back home. Luckily, my mom already had Milo peacefully tucked into my bed upstairs, and I’m…watching fucking wrestling.

It’s not even Rhys’s night—his show is on Mondays—but with a cup of tea in hand and a brain too wired to fall asleep, curiosity got the best of me. I find myself fascinated, from the costumes to the names to the way they throw themselves around with reckless abandon.

It’s riveting. The drama is full tilt, the women are badass, and the men are more varied than I remember from my childhood. They’re not all fake tanner, blasted-out pupils, and so muscle-bound it looks painful. They look more like Rhys. Big, built, and fit, but not like they chew steroids for breakfast.

The camera zooms in on the man wearing the manties that Rhys doesn’t, and I lean closer, gauging if he shaves his legs or if he’s just so oiled up that I can’t see the hair. Even his arms are smoother than mine. Perhaps it’s a strategy thing? I think back to touching Rhys’s forearms—there was definitely hair. I’d have noticed smooth skin or scratchy stubble.

I stroke Cleo, who is curled beside me, and then slide my hand down my own leg. Yes, like that. Stubble—because I took one look at my razor in the shower and decided shaving my legs seemed like way too much work.

I reach for my phone, the question burning in my mind and not at all just an excuse to contact Rhys.

Tabby: Do you shave your legs?

I hit send and immediately consider deleting it. We left things on such a tender note last night, and here I am, asking if he shaves his legs like the awkward weirdo I am.

He responds within seconds.

Rhys: What?

Rhys: Also, did you put that sandwich in my bag? I ate it on the plane. I hope you didn’t poison it.

Tabby: Your legs. For wrestling. Is there a benefit to having them look like a Ken doll? Because I’m watching tonight’s matches, and this dude is smooth and glazed like a doughnut.

Tabby: And yes, I made it. No, I didn’t poison it. I’ve given up on killing you off. I just wanted you to have something in case your connections were tight.

Rhys: Sorry. You’re watching wrestling?

Tabby: I’m a very supportive wife. I mean, come on. I made you a sandwich.

Rhys: Yeah, looking so close at my coworkers that she has questions about their body hair.

Tabby: Well, I haven’t seen your legs! Inquiring minds and all that. I promise not to make fun.

My head joggles as I read the words back, realizing that’s a bald-faced lie. My thumbs move again, to clarify.

Tabby: Much.

Rhys: Maybe I like to maintain a little mystery.

I grin maniacally, because that seems a bit like flirting. I didn’t know what to expect when I sent that first text. But this? This feels good.

Tabby: No shit. You let me call you a porn star for weeks. Now tell me about the state of your leg hair!

Rhys: No, I think I’ll let it be a surprise. Something to look forward to in the spring when I don a pair of shorts.

Tabby: I’ll just sneak down and check when you’re sleeping.

Tabby: You know…when you’re here next. So maybe spring. Whenever.

I lob it out there, thinking he might give some indication as to when he’ll come back. But he doesn’t correct the assumption, which makes a pit form in my gut.