Page 39 of Songbird
“Chord and Violet, but don’t worry. They’re not here, so we have the place to ourselves. Let me show you around first, then we’ll come back and get the laundry.”
I don’t have to hold her hand—in fact I probably shouldn’t—but after how natural it felt when we ran through the trees yesterday, I want her fingers entwined with mine. And with the way this woman tangles my thoughts, it’s too easy to justify handholding as another form of protection. It keeps her close, therefore holding her hand is doing my job. But when I slip my palm against hers to lead her up to the double front doors, Rosie hisses quietly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask with concern.
“Nothing.” She pulls away from my grasp, but at the wince of pain around her eyes, I turn over her hand to see what she’s hiding.
“Blister,” she confesses as soon as I spot the tender pink circle on her skin. “I used to get them occasionally playing the guitar, but it’s been a while. I guess I’m not accustomed to manual labor.”
My chuckle mingles with a sympathetic sigh, and I take her other hand in mine instead. “Yeah. That looks like it hurts. Let’s go inside and I’ll take care of it.”
I punch the access code into the security panel and at the green-lit click-and-beep, I push open the door and lead Rosie into the expansive hardwood foyer with its oversized winding staircase. There’s a study to one side and a living area off the other, where sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows and bounces off warm white walls. I have every intention of giving her the grand tour, but first we go to the enormous kitchen where Chord keeps a first aid kit. I locate it in the sixth cupboard I open, then set it on the counter next to the sink.
Rosie’s in the adjoining dining area admiring the furniture, and I give her a minute to complete a circuit of the space before calling, “Hey. Come here a sec.”
When she reaches me, I wrap my hands around her waist and hoist her up onto the counter. Nudging her knees wide so I can get in close, I hold her wound under a gentle stream of cold water from the faucet.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“No.” Her eyes flit from her hand to my face. “It feels good.”
I wash the wound with a little soap, using the pad of my thumb in light circles on the spot of delicate skin. The motion makes me think of other ways I’d like to use my thumb, and with her thighs opened to me on the counter like this, I swallow hard as my dickswells. Rosie is very still and very quiet as I rinse her hand, then dry it with a clean towel. The energy between us thickens, the air quiet and crackling, and I pretend not to notice the gentle lean of her face toward mine. Fuck, I want to kiss her so badly, but I’m scared to cross that line. It’s stupid, I know, because I’m already walking it like a tightrope, but there’s still space to take a step back. If I kissed her? Retreat would be impossible—if it didn’t kill me.
I apply a little antiseptic to her wound, and when it’s covered in a small Band-Aid, I lift Rosie onto the floor and put a respectful distance between us.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome.” I clear the husky arousal from my voice with a quiet cough. “Let me show you around.”
I take her hand again, loosely catching my fingers in hers so her palm is clear, and it’s not until we finish a circuit of the ground floor and enter the master bedroom upstairs that her hand falls from mine.
She floats across the soft white carpet toward the glass wall in wonder. “This whole house is gorgeous,” she says, “butthisis unbelievable.”
I open the doors and we step onto Chord’s balcony, complete with deep outdoor sofas around a sunken fire pit, a hot tub in the corner, and the most spectacular view over Silver Leaf and Sonoma Valley beyond. Rosie’s expression is one of wonder as she trails her fingertips along the balustrade and absorbs the never-ending horizon. Lush vineyards turn to patchwork fields that bleed into indigo mountains and a cornflower sky, and all I can look at is her.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I can’t quite believe it either.”
Her gaze moves to mine before her lashes drop, and my stomach falls with them. This is why the line needs to exist. Rosalie Thorne is too beautiful, too talented, and too importantto involve herself with someone as insignificant as me. She belongs in a house like this with a man like my brother who can give her everything she deserves. She’s too big to live small and she knows it, because when all this is over, and she doesn’t need me anymore—and that moment will come sooner than I want it to—she’ll return to her world, and I’ll remain in mine. Rosie will fly away and forget me, and I’ll grow old remembering the handful of days I almost had it all.
“Let’s get those clothes in the machine,” I say gruffly. “And then I’ll show you the pool.”
Rosie follows me back out to the front drive, this time taking my hand before I get a chance to hold hers, and guilt thickens my throat at how much I like it. She doesn’t let go when I haul the bags out of the truck, and she’s still hanging on when we take the stairs down to the basement, passing through Chord’s impressive home gym to the white marble laundry room on the other side. She finally relinquishes my fingers when I hand her the bag of laundry that belongs to her, and then I do the gentlemanly thing and turn my back to give her privacy to sort her lingerie.
“Hey, Finn?” she asks as I’m stuffing everything I have into one of four machines. Why my brother owns four washers is beyond me. Because he can, I suppose, and he needed something to fill this ridiculous room, which is at least half as big as my entire cabin.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t have a lot of experience with this sort of thing, and I don’t want to embarrass myself by making something out of nothing, but if I’m going to be more in control of my life, then I should try to be confident in all respects, don’t you think?”
I glance over my shoulder at Rosie nervously twisting a shirt in her hands with her chin lifted in some kind of challenge. She’s nervous and determined, and I know a trap when I see one.Unfortunately, I’ve got no idea what she’s angling at, so I do the only thing I can do. I give her my honest answer.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I think that’s smart.”
“Good.” She tosses the shirt aside and stands taller. “You’re attracted to me, aren’t you?”
I swear, my heart stops beating and time stands still. I relive the other morning in my bed, waking up with my cock hard and her ass against my hips. I think about yesterday, chasing her through the trees and fighting the primal urge to catch her and make her mine. I imagine what might have happened less than an hour ago if I’d kissed her in the kitchen when I had the chance. It’s moment after moment of temptation and torture.
I’m about to deflect, brush off the question or change the subject, but the words won’t come. I think about how she’s been manipulated, gaslit, and lied to by the people who were supposed to protect her, and how that has compromised the belief she has in herself. I can’t be part of that, not when she’s so brave and so vulnerable and so right.
