Page 71 of Fighting Gravity

“Better than I imagined,” she breathed. “Better than the photo. Tate, look at them. These people arehome.”

Tate knew the feeling.

40

Six Months Later

Beaming, and maybe crying a little, Rosie snapped a series of photos.

In a leafy corner of Northwest Portland, the tenth Rosy Row had officially opened to residents. The city had turned the ribbon-cutting ceremony into an occasion. Despite the chill, there were food trucks and a neighborhood welcome committee. A nearby donation center had come by with home goods for the new residents.

Rosie’s germ of an idea for simple homeless housing had been planted and spread, and she had Tate—and the enterprising Seattle contractor, Wyatt—to thank. She was learning that, in most aspects of life, it truly took a village. Healing included.

Quinn joined Rosie then, her smile just as wide. With the Geier Group as the financial backer for the project, Quinn sometimes attended the ribbon-cuttings. During the past several months, both women had visited Seattle and Portland, with San Francisco next on their list. The rush of joy from giving back was as potent as ever for Rosie.

“Never gets old,” Quinn said, echoing her thoughts.

She slipped her arm into Quinn’s. “Come on, let’s get out of this frigid air and into some Mt. Adams cake at Papa Haydn’s.”

“You’re so predictable.”

“I know what I like,” Rosie shrugged.

“Dessert and my cousin.”

“Yes, but not in that order,” she agreed.

Rosie landed in San Diego as the sun was beginning to set. She followed side streets to Mission Hills, her new neighborhood. Her stomach still flipped whenever she pulled up in front of her home. The newness hadn’t worn off. Looking at the hundred-plus-year-old Craftsman, she didn’t know if it ever would. Like each new Rosy Row, her house represented more than walls. Perseverance. And trust.

Light spilled from the windows. Colorful plants lined the brick path to the wraparound porch, which creaked as she climbed the steps, though she was trying to be quiet. Towering trees surrounded the property. The open-concept interior, with old features refurbished and windows everywhere, felt like living in the trees. But the floors were all loud echoing hardwood, and she was trying to surprise her man.

Barefoot now, Rosie brought her small overnight bag to her room upstairs and dumped it, still packed, in the closet. She knew exactly where she’d find Tate.

As she suspected, she found him lounging on the largest deck, the one he’d outfitted like a living room, just like at the villa. Rosie approached silently from behind, pausing in the open doorway off the dining room to watch the man she’d fallen so wholly in love with.

His hair was mussed, like he’d been tugging on the locks absentmindedly as he read. He had his bare feet kicked up on the coffee table. Lanterns glowed softly in the waning light. Bella, her traitorous cat, had snuggled into his lap and kept shoving her head into his hand every time he turned the page of what was probably another presidential biography.

The part of the serene scene that had Rosie glowing brightest? Tate was shirtless in the unseasonably warm night. She felt no shame in how attractive she found her boyfriend. Her clothes continued to just fall off around him.

She slid up behind him, running her hands across his sculpted shoulders as she dropped a kiss on his cheek. His skin touching hers sparked to life a flame that would need hours of his specialized attention to tame. A rumbled approval came from his chest, and his bright eyes caught hers as she came around to straddle him.

Tate ditched the book and set a protesting Bella onto the deck before his arms went around her waist. “Missed you,ma belle.”

Then her lips became his for the full-body kiss she’d been aching for all week.

“Missed you more,” she said, when she got her breath back. They’d be revisiting that kiss soon.

“Impossible.”

Rosie slid off his lap into the crook of his arm. He leaned forward to hand her the glass of wine he had waiting for her. They caught up on the week that had passed—her in San Diego and Portland, Tate in Victory—while they drank wine and watched the sky transition from twilight to starlight over the canyon.

“I like missing you,” Tate said.

She snuggled further into him, her hand splayed on his abs. She dipped her fingers a little lower for good measure. It had been too long since she’d seen him naked. Five days too long, to be exact. “Do you?”

“Yes. Missing you shows how far you’ve come.”

She nodded. To an outsider, it might look like they were just a couple sharing wine and small talk on the deck. But getting to this place that had become sacred hadn’t been simple. Not for Rosie, nor for Tate. A home together? Long-distance love? Before, those ideas would have seemed unimaginable for both of them.

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