Page 13 of Rose's Ripped Van Winkle

“I’m sure New York City has changed a lot in the last century, but at the time I grew up, I was in the heart of a crowd of non-conformists. Both my parents were artists who flouted convention.” I chuckle when I realize my childhood was the exact opposite of hers.

“While you were busy following every rule for fear of punishment, I was allowed to run free. It was quite the bohemian lifestyle.”

I pause, debating whether I should share my deepest pain. Of course, I should. Didn't Rose divulge a dozen of her painful memories to me today?

“I was always the youngest in my crowd.” I chuckle again. There are so many ironies in my life, now that I’m the oldest person on the planet. I stall for a moment, knowing what’s coming next will displease her, no matter how much customs have changed over the years. “I had… lovers.”

I scan her face. The moment it crumples, I’ll try to fix the damage my words wrought.

“Of course you did. It's not shocking in this day and age.”

Why did I doubt Rose’s acceptance? Even in the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve learned she won’t judge me.

“I was deeply, madly in love with Isabelle Deschamps for years. She was a decade older than me. It was wild and desperate and lasted over ten years. I thought we were going to be together forever. Until she dumped me for a boy barely out of his teens.”

I rub Rose's knuckle with my thumb, avoiding her gaze.

“I stayed in New York for a while after that, but when I had trouble recovering my self-esteem, I bought this cottage to hide out for a while. Now I realize how stupid it was for me to follow the instructions on the amulet. Who would make such an idiotic choice? My only defense is that I never imagined the spell would work.”

“I’m so glad you shared this with me, Rip. We’re both struggling with old demons, but I must admit, I'm so glad you're here.”

She turns in her seat, a clear signal she wants me to look at her. Her brilliant green eyes are luminous. She licks her lips and closes her lids, giving every tell in the book she's ready for a kiss.

I promised myself I would go slow. I'm not going to fall for her signals to the contrary. Deep down, I have a feeling there's a wrong way and a right way to woo Rose Bennett. I want to do it the right way. It will make it all the more exciting when we finally come together.

Instead of acting on her unspoken invitation, I use one finger to tilt her face toward me. It's impossible to miss the disappointment and yearning on her face. “Tomorrow, we're going to make time for your first painting lesson. I'll spill all my artistic secrets.”

Chapter Fourteen

Rose

My world has turned upside down since I walked into that tiny hidden room and found Rip in that bed. For one thing, I’ve barely slept because all I can do is think about him. For another, it seems as if everything inside me is shifting.

My desire to stay isolated from everything and everyone has changed. Not that I want to be the most social person in the world, but I don’t want to stay disconnected from Rip.

For another thing, I’ve never really had sexual desire for anyone in the past. I can’t say that now. Every time I’m in the same room with Rip—and sometimes when I’m not—all I can think about are the kisses we shared and the insistent drumbeat of desire thumping between my legs. It reminds me I’m very capable of experiencing all the evil, prohibited emotions my cult warned me about.

“Rise and shine!” he calls from the other room. “Growing up with parents who kept odd hours made me very self-sufficient. Scrambled or fried?”

“Scrambled. With cheese.”

An hour later we’ve had scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee accompanied by Rip’s admission, “Okay, maybe you’re right. This isn’t as good as the drinks we got from Sip and Smile. Whatever they put in their coffee yesterday was pretty damn good. I’ll need to find their secret.”

He looks at me nervously, as if he’s checking to see if he mortally offended me with a mild curse word that’s uttered on half the programs on TV.

“I don’t live in a cult anymore, Rip. It’s fine to be yourself in front of me. Now, as I recall, someone promised to divulge all his secrets.”

While I add a smidge of strawberry jam to the crust of my toast, I say, “Tell me about your art.”

He sits up straighter and thrusts his shoulders back, obviously feeling a surge of happiness and pride at my interest.

“I’ve been painting since I was a boy. It would have been odd if I hadn’t, since not only were my parents artists, but we had a bevy of artistic people in and out of our home in Greenwich Village.”

Wondering if I’ve heard of any of them, I can’t help but interrupt. “Who?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know if any of them became famous. Fanny Gold? Malcolm Richmond? Albert Bierstadt?”

“I think I’ve heard of Bierstadt,” I hedge, itching to look them all up on Google the moment I get a chance.

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