Page 13 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

The walk went quickly, only a few cars and trucks passing me with the squelch of water rolling under their tires. A few went slower as if trying to make out who I was, but I looked away, toward the trees, and eventually they sped off.

The Peaks were playing in thirty minutes, and I hoped to be settled into my new apartment in time to watch it. My body felttoo light; being without my pads and skates on a game night was like missing a limb.

I approached the main part of town, where the forest trail dove-tailed into Main Street. A weather-worn wooden sign declared: Welcome to Historic Winterhaven. It was surrounded by purple cones of lupine and glossy green leaves. That sign had been there for as long as I could remember.

It’d been over ten years since I’d been home, and while that amounted to nearly a third of my life, in many ways it felt like no time had passed at all.

I pulled up my text messages. I wanted to double-check the address my landlord had sent, but first I tapped open a message from Bret in our roommate chat.

Bret:I see step one is complete. We’ll make sure Coach knows you’re there and doing great.

Location sharing had struck again.

Gage:Report back on the cat situation.

Dylan:Focus on the game. Remember the Sabertooths’ goalie is weak on the left side.

Dylan:And don’t let Marcus give the puck away.

Gage:We got this. Keep your head in *your* game.

I swiped their messages away, frustrated that I wasn’t there. But I could do this. I could lie low for a few weeks, survive Winterhaven unscathed, and convince Coach I bought into all that peace, love, and la di da crap he’d sent me here to find, so I could get back to playing with the team.

Back to normal.

If that even existed anymore.

I pulled up Rosie Forrester’s text for the apartment address. When I’d searched online for listings, this one had been perfect. Short-term. It came furnished. And I didn’t recognize the landlord’s name. Plus it was one of three listings forWinterhaven, and the other two were located in the same neighborhood as my parents.

The only pause I had was over the cats. I didn’tdislikecats. But was there a cat infestation? Were the furnishings cat themed? Was my landlord the kind of cat lady who knit her tenants sweaters from cat hair?

Rosie:The apartment is above Alaska Chic. I’ll keep the back door unlocked, so just come on up when you get here.

I walked around the back of the shop, relieved to be away from the street. I stepped into an art studio filled with half-completed paintings in shades of blue, green, and brown. I felt almost as if I was peeking in someone’s closet as I walked past the art and toward the stairs on the left.

At the top landing were two doors. The one labeled with a crooked metal 2 was half-open, and I could hear a woman talking from inside.

“Here’s the deal,” she said, sounding out of breath. I moved closer.

“First, you’re going to go out that door.” Hesitant shuffling noises. “Second, you’ll go down the stairs. Donotmess with anything in my studio. Last, you’ll leave my shop, and I never want to see you again. Oh crap!” Something large clattered to the floor, and the woman let out a shriek.

I didn’t want to get involved in any drama, but I also was not going to stand by while she tried to kick someone out of her apartment who clearly wasn’t respecting her wishes. I was big and intimidating, and I definitely wasn’t afraid to use that to my advantage when necessary.

I pushed the door all the way open to see a young woman holding a broom like it was a baseball bat. In fuzzy-socked feet, she slid across the floor toward the kitchen table as two animals ran across the surface. “Stop, Lizzy! Don’t eat it! Go, mouse! Be free!”

She let the broom arc in front of her, like she was hitting a homer in the ninth, and as a squeaking mouse flew by me like a deflating balloon, the broom smacked my face with a crack.

Chapter 7

Rosie

Dylan freaking Savage stoodin the doorway, his nose clutched in his palm. He was taller than I’d imagined. At least six inches taller than me. He also looked less angry than I’d prepared myself for—though that could be the shock masking it.

Since I’d hit him in the face and all. He’d come out of nowhere, though.

“You’re not supposed to be here until tomorrow,” I informed him.

“No, it’s today.” A trickle of red ran down his fingers, but he otherwise stood as still as a statue, staring down at me with hooded eyes.

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