Page 8 of Songbird
I also know that Rosalie looks beautiful. But that’s beside the point.
“It’s my wedding gown,” Rosalie explains. “I was at my final fitting when I saw a picture of you on Violet’s studio wall and I thought… It doesn’t matter what I thought.” She drops down into the seat with a flatness to her expression that matches the weariness in her voice. “Let’s just get this over with.”
She saw a photo of me and drove straight here without stopping to change out of her dress? That gives me a moment of hesitation. A flash of guilt. Or maybe obligation. But I refuse to be drawn into her world. I’ll be polite. I’ll pull her car out of the mud. Then I’ll wish her well and get on with my life.
Maybe this time, if we say goodbye, I’ll never have to think about her again. That’d be a nice change.
I stand beside the open car door and wait for Rosalie to step out, but she sits there with reams of fabric gathered in her arms, looking at me like I’m missing something. I glance over at the porch where Dakota watches us with a wagging tail. Weirdest dog ever. Doesn’t like stairs.
“She won’t bite,” I say to Rosalie, “if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Ah, no.” She points to the mud. “That’s what I’m worried about.”
I glance at the ground, then up again with a single raised eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”
“Absolutely not. This is a fifty-thousand-dollar dress.”
“That you’ll never wear again because you’re no longer getting married.”
“But… But…” She looks down at the fabric like it’s a vortex for common sense. “It’s so beautiful.”
“So… what do you expect me to do?”
“You’ll have to carry me.”
My laugh comes out as a snort. “Carryyou?”
“Yes. But you need to change first.” She takes me in from head to toe with a fast, sweeping look. “There’s no point being carried over the mud on the ground only to be covered by the filth in your hair and on your clothes.”
“Filth?”
“You heard me.” She wrinkles her nose. “And you smell.”
Maybe the correct response is to be offended. Maybe the gentlemanly thing to do is to go inside, put on a clean shirt, then do as she asks and carry her into the cabin. And maybe I shouldn’t be surprised at how comfortable she is with giving me orders. But I’m not offended. I’m not feeling gentlemanly. And she can be as bossy as she likes—as long as it’s not in my front yard after she tore up the ground with her driving and then had the audacity to ask me for help.
Does she not realize I’ve been gone from her life for a year? Because I’m all too aware of that fact.
I reach around to the back of my neck and drag my dirty T-shirt up over my head. Rosalie gasps and I give her a shit-eating grin.
“What are you doing?” she demands.
I turn the shirt inside out and use it to rub the dirt and sweat from my hair and face, then wipe my hands before I throw it to the side. “Getting cleaned up for you.”
I unbutton my jeans and unzip my fly, then push them down my legs. It’s a tricky maneuver to get out of and back into one boot at a time as I drag my jeans past my ankles, but I manage it just fine, then toss my jeans away too. When I’m in nothing but my boxer briefs and muddy shoes, I hold out my arms.
“Are you ready?” I ask, then give her no time to answer before I scoop her up and out of the car. “Good. Let’s go.”
She squeaks her displeasure, but that’s about all she can do. She’s tiny—five foot nothing and a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet—yet the dress is enormous, which makes walking awkward. Plus she smells so damn good, which makes it hard to concentrate.
She’s stiff with disapproval, her arms crossed, eyes staring off into the distance, and there’s a rosiness to her cheeks, like being carried over wet ground is a hardship forher. All I want to do is laugh. Not because any of this is funny but because it feels so good to finally hold her. Better than all the nights I’ve stared into the darkness and wondered what she was doing, who she was with, whether she was safe. Worse than the two months I worked for her and spent every minute resisting the impulse to cross the line between right and wrong. Because after today, I’ll always know what it feels like to have her body pressed against mine, and what am I supposed to do with that information after she’s gone?
It takes less time than I might have liked to cross the yard, climb the porch stairs, and swing open the front door to the bungalow. Dakota follows with a playful bark as I carry Rosalie over the threshold.
“There.” I set her carefully on her feet—bare, I notice, though now doesn’t seem like a smart time to ask why—and Rosalie manages to look anywhere but directly at me as she straightens her skirt and tugs at her lace sleeves. I point to the rear of the bungalow, past the kitchen and living area, like she’s actuallypaying attention. “The bathroom is at the back. It’s small, but your dress should fit. There are bottles of water in the fridge. If you need me, I’ll be outside hauling your car out of the mud.”
I don’t expect a response, so I head outside. Ignoring my shirt, which is basically a rag balled up in the muck, I scoop up my jeans and tug them on before I go around to my truck and pull out the largest, flattest stones I can find. I wedge them beneath the rear wheels of the Mercedes, then straighten as I clock the dirty license plate personalized with a name I recognize.
Huh. It’s just like my rich hockey player brother to buy his girl a new car every other month. I wonder if Violet knows her runaway bride was headed here when Rosalie took her keys, slipped past her security, and bolted out of the city.
