Page 96 of Red Hot Roaster

“No. I heard you. I just couldn’t believe my ears.”

“Rose, I know this hurts—”

I cut him off. “Let me get this straight. For the past two weeks, we’ve been texting and talking and video calling and…and…sharing even more than we had in the entire two months before that. Wefinallydealt with the reasons you left—and the reasons I let you go. All the guilt you carried, all the mistrust I suffered—we were putting that all behind us.”

“Rose, babe, I know it seems—”

“Don’tbabeme. It’s still my turn. So what changed your mind?”

I paused, tears pricking the inside corners of my eyes. No, not yet. I tilted my head toward the ceiling and blinked as fast as I could.

When I lowered my eyes to meet Rafe’s gaze, he seemed pale under the stubble. But how could I tell? His image was small and far away.

Wait. I could still see it, which meant he could too. Every morning and night, he saw it in the bathroom mirror. That reminder, that knife scar, that fucking scar.

He started to speak, and I talked over him. “You’restillletting the past interfere with our future. I thought we decided to leave the past behind. I thought we were building a relationship for the futureus, for when you returned to Dogwood.”

To me.

“What we’ve had,” Rafe pushed out, “doesn’t change the fact that I’m not good enough for you. I’ve let people down when they’ve needed me the most. There’s no guarantee I won’t do that with you. We need to end this—you need the way clear to find better.”

There it was again. Rafe deciding what I needed. Telling me what I needed. And he was right.

“You’re right,” I informed him. “Ican’tdo this any longer.”

His eyes widened—in surprise or maybe shock—although I didn’t know what he expected. I was tired of being the only one fighting for us.

“You’re trapped in the past, and you’re shutting me out—again—because you’re afraid you’re going to fail me.”

The tears started running down my cheeks, “The thing is… The thing is…I need you and I love youno matter what. I love youwhoeveryou are—the boy who was lost without his mom, the teen who got in with the bad crowd, the soldier who couldn’t save his brothers—even the overprotective guy who tried to rescue me all the time.”

I caught my sobs and drew in a big breath. “I seeyou, and I love you. Unconditionally, without judgment—you know, like how our dogs love us. But I can’t fight for us alone. So you’re right—we need to end this. Goodbye, Rafe.”

I hit the red circle at the bottom of my screen. A few seconds later, Elvis started to sing. I declined the call and blocked the RHR number.

I cried myself to sleep, a mix of mad and sad tears clogging my nose. And tried not to think of the care box—and all it contained—speeding on its way to Boise.

Even Pirate couldn’t retrieve that puppy now.

Chapter 48

Rafe

Isit bolt upright, throwing off the covers. Sunlight’s shining through the window—must’ve stopped snowing in the night. Fuck. That means I’m late. I lean over to nuzzle Rose awake, but she’s not there.

No Princess or Pirate around either, their bagel bed and its pile of blankets deserted. Grab my phone from the nightstand to check in with Rose—she’s probably opening the café. It tells me I’m blocked—that can’t be right. The damn thing dies—that explains why, forgot to charge it.

I can still catch her if I’m quick. Sure, it’ll be cold without clothes, but gotta get going. Throw open the bedroom door and stop. I hear a woman singing, sweet and sultry at the same time. Familiar, can’t make out the words yet. I follow the sound downstairs through the dining room to the kitchen.

Two spots are set at the butcher block island. Plates and forks on cute-as-shit placemats with Lab pups romping around. Before I get there, Pirate jumps up on me, licking my face, one paw on each shoulder. Where’s Princess? There she is—running around the island toward me, barking like a loonball.

Rose stands at the stove, waving a spatula, singing something Elvis. No surprise. She hasn’t left yet, not in that getup. Thank fuck. Got my T-shirt on—it’s supersized, hanging below, but barely covering, her heart-shaped ass. A little unsteady on her stilettos, but keeping her balance. As always.

She looks over her shoulder. “How do you want your truffles?”

“My what?”

“Your truffles, sweetheart. Milk, dark or caramelized?”

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