Page 16 of Songbird
She lifts her palms and bites her lip to stop a smile, but her blue eyes dance in the refrigerator light. “I didn’t say a word.”
With a wry eyebrow and flat look to go with it, I reach into the fridge and hand her a bottle of water, then wait as she holds it without drinking.
“You didn’t really come looking for something to drink, did you?”
Dakota appears from the shadows under the loft ladder and rubs her head against Rosalie’s legs until she’s rewarded with a pat.
Rosalie’s shoulders drop as she sighs. “No.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.”
“And you really should try to sleep.”
She wraps her arms around herself and nods. “I know.”
The quiet between us stretches, and it’s the way she shifts on her feet, fingers plucking at my shirt, that breaks me. And besides, she’s not the only one who has trouble sleeping at night. Playing cards is better than pacing for hours or staring at a flickering television without seeing it.
“Fine.” I close the fridge, snap on a lamp, then collect my shirt from the floor and pull it on, followed by my discarded jeans. “There’s a notepad and pencil in that kitchen drawer over there. You get those and I’ll find the cards.”
“No need.” She crosses the room and swipes up her purse where she left it on the couch. “I have my own.”
Her relieved smile shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does, and I work hard to keep my expression neutral as I join her at the table. This woman has more money than God and she carries an old deck of cards in case someone’s around to play midnight gin rummy.
“Best of five?” I say without preamble.
She replies because she doesn’t need it. “Sounds good.”
We play for two hours in the kind of silence that can only be comfortable when you’ve done the same thing dozens of times before. Unfortunately, there’s not enough thinking to do to stop my mind from wandering, and when it does, I find myself questioning if having Rosalie stay for a couple days is really so bad. I’d probably enjoy her company if it wasn’t for all the baggage, and I’m not even talking about Chip and the whole runaway bride thing. It’s the celebrity and the money and the drama. From where I stand, none of it looks worth the shit she has to go through to keep it, but Rosalie without fame is like a combat soldier without military camouflage. The former needs the latter if they expect to survive.
The longer we play, the more often my thoughts aren’t the only things that wander. My eyes do too, in a way they couldn’t when I was her bodyguard. She’s so fucking pretty. Prettier without the makeup she was wearing when she got here and with her hair half mussed frommypillow. Her mouth looks sweeter in its naturally pale pink instead of the intense coral color she usually wears, and when she catches her bottom lip between her teeth while deciding how to play her cards, I wonder how quickly she’d melt if I kissed her. How warm and sweet she’d be on my tongue.
Rosalie watches me expectantly for a couple seconds before I realize it’s my turn, and I refocus on my cards. It doesn’t matter what she tastes like, because I’ll never know. I’m smart enough to separate thought from action, fantasy from reality. Kissing Rosalie Thorne is never going to happen.
By the time Rosalie wins three games to two, I’ve forgotten she’s supposed to be an inconvenience, and I’m dealing again when she raises a hand to hide a yawn.
“Time for bed?” I ask.
“I can hardly keep my eyes open,” she mumbles. “And that’s my cue.”
I slide the cards into their ancient cardboard case and push them across the table toward her. “Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
But when a heartbeat passes and she hasn’t touched the cards, hands tucked out of sight under the table, I know she’s got something to say. I lean back in my chair and wait.
“I do appreciate this, Finn,” she says in a voice weary for more reasons than not enough sleep. She sets her hands flat on the tabletop like it’s a task to keep them still. “I know I’m high maintenance, and I know nothing about this situation is easy. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you put me back in Violet’s car and sent me straight back to the city, but I don’t know what I would have done if you did. Thank you for letting me stay.”
She risks a look at me from underneath her lashes, and she’s so small curled in on herself that the urge to protect her swells larger behind my ribs, making it hard to breathe.
“I don’t know what asshole told you that you’re high maintenance,” I tell her, “although I can take a good guess. You’re the female force behind a billion-dollar brand, Rosalie, and the most celebrated music artist of an entire generation.That’shard work. Not you. Don’t believe the bullshit people say when they only say it to drag you down.”
Rosalie’s next breath is a quivering exhale. Her shoulders relax, and she meets my eyes. “I think I’ve lost the talent of recognizing truth among the lies, if I ever had it in the first place.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
I push to my feet and rub my eyes as exhaustion crashes over me. I had an early start this morning running the trail rides with Daisy, then did all that work in the yard, so I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. If I keep talking like this, I’m going to say something I’ll regret.
“So if you ever need the truth from someone who isn’t afraid to tell it, you know who to call.”
