Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)(8)

But me? I can’t take my eyes off his aunt.

The elegant slope of her neck, the way her bare shoulder peeks from the off-kilter neckline of her navy knit sweater. The tips of her breasts create two clear points in the fabric, but I don’t let my eyes linger there. Instead, I move to the silky dark hair that’s effortlessly twisted up and clipped at her crown. Loose pieces tumble free and frame her doll-like face.

But the most attractive thing about Tabitha Garrison might be the way she’s gazing back at Milo, like he’s one of the wonders of the world.

It hurts to watch.

It hurts because I’ll take no pleasure in removing Milo from this place.

But it’s what I promised Erika I’d do.





CHAPTER 5


Tabitha





I CAN’T TAKE MY EYES OFF MILO. THE LOOK OF PURE WONDER on his sweet face is mesmerizing.

Whoever his father is must have the most beautiful curly hair, because the ringlet dropped in the middle of Milo’s forehead right now certainly never came from our side of the family where poker-straight hair abounds.

I never did find out who his biological dad is. Either Erika didn’t know, or she chose not to tell me. I never pressed her on it, because the news of Milo came about during a particularly low phase of her life. In fact, he’s the reason she focused so hard on healing for those few years. And all I knew was that I was happy to see my sister trying.

The fuzzy caterpillar makes its way across his palm, and he’s captivated by the experience.

“Good, now move your other hand like this”—I raise his free hand to extend the space—“and you can keep him there for longer.”

“Wow.” His little cherry lips murmur the word with awe.

“Pretty amazing, right?”

A subtle nod is all I get. It’s as though he’s entranced. The feeling is mutual, because I see so much of my sister in him. And my heart aches that she won’t be here to see him grow.

I haven’t broken the devastating news to him yet, though I know I need to. The only saving grace is that spending a few weeks with me or his grandparents isn’t out of the ordinary for Milo.

Still, I have my appointment with a highly recommended therapist this afternoon. Because I want to get this right. Say the correct things, support him in the best way possible. Give him what he needs.

I can’t even think about losing him to another country right now. If I dwell on that, I’ll crumble completely.

So instead, I watch him lift one pudgy finger and swipe gently over the top of the caterpillar. “Wow. Soft,” he murmurs. And I can’t help but smile.

“He’ll grow into a spotted tussock moth, eventually.”

Milo’s eyes widen. “This becomes a moth?”

“Yes. Almost like a butterfly. They’re both a sign of a healthy ecosystem. They help pollinate flowers, and you know how important that is.”

I grin at him, and he grins back. Because he knows. He’s been flower picking with me plenty of times. Edible toppers, tea flavoring, a splash of color on the bistro tables. I guess you could say I’m big on flowers.

The rattle of a car driving past draws my attention, but it’s not the vehicle that keeps it. It’s the scruffy, foreboding mountain of a man standing on the sidewalk at the edge of my property glaring at us.

Rhys Dupris.

The man whose full name has been haunting me since I read it on that will. He looks miserable and delicious all at once. That seems to be his brand. And I hate that I see him that way at all. I just can’t seem to help myself.

We stare at each other for a few beats as my stomach sinks down into my toes, dread coursing through my veins. I had planned to make my plea, to use lawyers and tug on some shred of empathy this man might possess to reconsider taking Milo away. Because everything with that will checks out.

But the scowl on his face isn’t promising. He looks downright pissed off.

“I had no idea you were coming today,” I blurt, still kneeling on the damp ground, completely caught off guard.

“I know,” he rumbles in that impossibly low timbre. It’s a voice that could make a girl’s toes curl, but in this instance, all it does is make me feel intentionally put on the spot. Judged. Like he expected to pop out from behind a bush and catch me doing something untoward.

Nah, all this man does is get my back up.

Which is why my jaw drops when my nephew’s body tenses, and his bare feet pitch up onto tippy-toes as he squeals in the sweetest, most sugary voice, “Ree!”

I’m so shocked by his familiarity that I almost let him toddle off and take our poor caterpillar along for the ride. “Milo, honey. Let’s put the caterpillar back on the tree.”

I reach for his arm and guide him back to the trunk. He’s vibrating with excitement, and I tell myself that’s why my hands shake as I aid him in carefully returning the bug to its home.

But the minute the caterpillar latches itself onto the bark, Milo turns and races across the grass, launching himself at Rhys. He takes a flying fucking leap. As though he knows in his bones that Rhys will catch him. As though he knows him.

I find it confusing. I find it hard to watch.

So I clench my jaw and keep my gaze on the lawn as I push to standing, brushing at the knees of my jeans. I sigh in defeat when I realize there are grass stains on the light denim.