Page 3 of The Contractor's Rose
His mouth twitched. “You bet, Rose.”
There it was again.Rose.
And somehow, with my entire world half-flooded and chaos waiting downstairs, I felt like something was just beginning.
TWO
GAVIN
I shouldn’t be here.
That was the first thought that hit me as we walked upstairs. The second was that I’d follow her anywhere.
Not because I couldn’t say no. But because I didn’twantto.
Rosie—no,Rose—looked like she was barely hanging on. Her golden hair was dripping at the ends, curling against her cheeks and the hollow of her throat. The dress she threw on was plastered to her skin like a second layer until it flowed out at the hips. Her eyes—normally so bright—were red and swollen from crying. And even with all of that—hell,becauseof all that—she looked beautiful. Too beautiful for her own good.
I take a moment to wonder when I started seeing her in such a different light.
She moved across the tiny kitchen with slow, cautious steps, barefoot and wrapped in a frayed throw blanket like it was the only thing holding her together. Her toes curled slightly on the worn tile floor, her shoulders hunched like shewas still trying to disappear. She looked like something fragile and ancient—some tragic little nymph—who didn’t even realize she was dangerous.
I’ve known her since she was young. Watched her grow up next to my daughter. Watched her parents beam at her over long holiday dinners while she blushed and tried to help clear the table. She was smart. Kind. Prim in a way that was rare now—always polite, always sweet.
And now?
Now I was in her apartment. In her space. Making her hot chocolate, in what I hoped was her favorite mug, trying not to lose my mind over how intimate it all felt.
The kitchen was small and a little chaotic—open shelves crammed with mismatched dishes, herbs hanging to dry near the window, cookbooks stacked sideways on the counter. Lived-in. Hers. I found the cocoa mix in a clearly-labeled jar and had the kettle going before I even realized I’d moved.
She sat down at the little kitchen table, blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, and watched me with those wide, tired eyes. I handed her the mug gently, and when her fingers brushed mine, the contact hit like a live wire. Her skin was cold. Still trembling.
“Thank you,” she said softly, curling her hands around the cup for warmth.
“Sure you are warm enough? You’re still shivering,” I asked, because it was safer than saying any of the things in my head.
She shook her head. “I’m okay now. I think it’s just the adrenaline from panicking.”
“Panicking is allowed and valid.”
She nodded, looking down into the mug like it might offer her answers. I wanted to say more, but instead, I turned backaround and opened her fridge. I found a half-loaf of sourdough, a block of sharp cheddar, and butter in the door. She probably hadn’t eaten all day—that much was clear from how she looked like she was running on fumes and sheer instinct.
I set to work making the grilled cheese I’d promised her earlier, the motions grounding me. Buttered bread. Hot pan. The slowhissas the bread hit the surface. The scent of crisping crust and melting cheese filled the air.
She moved from the table to the couch in the living room—just a few steps away in this cozy apartment—and nestled into the corner, curling her legs under her, the blanket slipping down her shoulder a little. I tried not to stare at the pale skin it revealed. Tried—and failed—not to imagine what she’d look like without the blanket. Or the dress. Or anything at all.
Jesus Christ, Gavin. Pull it together.
I plated the sandwich, cut it diagonally—because that is the correct way—and brought it to her along with a napkin. She took it with a small, grateful smile that nearly did me in.
I sat down on the opposite end of the couch. It didn’t help. The room was too small. She was too close. Her presence filled up the space in ways I couldn’t explain.
“I’m sorry I lost it like that,” she said, voice quieter now. “I hate crying in front of people.”
“You don’t have to apologize for being human.”
Her smile was crooked. Tired. “Do you always know what to say?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But with you? I want to try.”
