Page 9 of Songbird
Scowling, I squeeze myself behind the steering wheel. Then I wait with impatience as the automatic settings whir and the chair eases back. I’m still scowling as I shift into reverse and ease the car backward, gaining traction on the stone and only stopping once all four tires are parked on gravel. And I continue scowling as I go around the side of the cabin to retrieve the garden hose, turn it on, and aim the spray at the dirty vehicle.
No security. No fucking security! What the hell is Rosalie thinking? Why is she here asking for my help? And why, after she let her asshole fiancé fire me, should I still care?
I watch the water hit the hood and the mud slide off the silver paint in satisfying rivulets, take a deep breath, and pull myself together. Rosalie’s life isn’t my problem. Not anymore. What happens in her relationship with Chip World’s-Biggest-Douche Daniels is none of my business. How she handles her safety is a conversation she needs to have with heractualsecurity team—and good luck to them. They’re going to need it.
When the Mercedes no longer resembles a rally car, I pack up the hose, grab my dirty T-shirt, and head back inside to put on a new one. It’s the least I can do before I carry Rosalie back to thecar and send her on her way. But when I step through the front door, I find her kneeling on the kitchen floor, her arms around Dakota’s neck, her face buried in golden fur, and her shoulders shaking with unmistakable sobs.
Dakota glances up at me with reproachful eyes and I can almost hear her telling me off.Are you happy now?
Ah, Christ.
Taking care to move the expensive dress out of my way, I drop to my knees on the hardwood beside Rosalie. When she doesn’t let go of Dakota or lift her head to acknowledge me, I set a tentative hand on her back.
“Rosalie? Are you okay?”
Of course she’s not okay, you dumbass.
Rosalie’s cries get a little louder, her shudders a little more violent, and Dakota whines uneasily in response. Slowly, and with as much care as I’d take to disarm an explosive, I pull Rosalie’s arms from Dakota’s body and wrap them around my neck. I take it as a good sign that she allows it, so I pick her up, carry her to the sofa, and sit with her in my lap.
And then I let her cry.
She weeps on my bare shoulder, tears dropping from her cheeks to my chest, while I make soothing noises and stroke her hair. The tenor of her cries gives me the impression she’s been waiting a long time to let them out, and it takes fifteen minutes for her to grow calm. The whole time I sit quiet as stone, giving her a safe space to release whatever pressure has been building inside her.
When she raises her head with red-rimmed eyes that aren’t quite sure where we stand, I sigh and drop my head back. I’m going to regret this. I know it. The longer she’s here, the harder it’ll be to let her go. Again.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s talk. What the hell is going on?”
three
Finn
IslideRosalieoffmy lap to fetch her the water she still doesn’t have and a box of tissues she didn’t ask for, then scale the ladder to the loft that is my bedroom. I’m dragging a clean T-shirt over my head when I return to the living area, but this time I seat myself at a professional distance on the smaller sofa opposite Rosalie and Dakota, who’s curled up next to her leg and watching me with wary brown eyes.
So much for man’s best friend. My pup has clearly shifted her loyalties, and I don’t blame her. If it’s a toss-up between the pretty woman with tearstained cheeks and the asshole who made her cry, I know who I’d want to sit beside.
“I never realized you had so much ink,” she comments.
I glance down at the khaki-colored cotton covering the pictures on my chest, abdomen, shoulders, and upper arms. “Nothing above the collarbones. Nothing below the elbows. Makes it easy to hide them when I need to.”
“Smart,” she murmurs.
“Thanks.”
Rosalie’s shoulders rise in a deep breath as she runs her gaze around the place. An open-concept kitchen, dining, and living space that at best could be called cozy. Mismatched rugs, both threadbare and new. A wide-screen television set on an old hand-carved entertainment unit and patched floral-print curtains at the casement windows. Vaulted ceilings with exposed timber beams and a nineties-era kitchen with a two-burner stove. The shadowy heights of the loft at the top of the rickety-looking ladder.
The kindest word to describe the place would be rustic. It’s clean and tidy. It has electricity and hot water. It’s private and it was built out of love, and that makes it worth more than any designer Los Angeles compound. I’m probably only one of half a dozen people who think so, but that doesn’t make it less true.
“Your home is nice,” Rosalie says as she toys with the screw cap on her water bottle. “Have you been here long?”
“Yes and no.”
Her forehead creases with exasperation, and I shake my head.
“You talk. I listen. Let’s start with why you drove all the way out here with no personal security in a car that doesn’t belong to you, wearing a designer wedding dress you don’t need—and no shoes.”
Rosalie lifts her dress to expose her ankles and checks out her pink-polished toenails before she abruptly raises her head again. Hope shines in her eyes. “Does this mean you’ll take the job?”
“No. It means I want to know why I found you crying on my kitchen floor.”
