Page 87 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

Rosie nudged her shoulder into mine, but her eyes had a tiny glimmer of amusement in them, which was exactly what I’d been going for. She yawned again—the kind that cracked her jaw—andshe threw her hand over her mouth as her cheeks pinked. I loved when she blushed like that. Way, way too much.

“Do you need anything?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “You guys have been amazing. Seriously, I don’t know what I would have done if—” She sniffled.

“Hey.” I stood in front of her and took her face in my hands. I brushed my thumb across her peach-soft cheek. Her tears hadn’t fallen yet, but her eyes were red and watery as she looked up at me. “It’s a privilege to help you, Rosie Forrester.”

Her inhale stuttered, but on the long exhale, it sounded steadier. I’d love nothing more than to pull her into my chest and lie beside her all night. To comfort her if she started crying again, to kiss away each tear and assure her we would figure this out.

It took all my self-discipline to gently kiss her forehead, breathe in her familiar scent, and then step away. “Go to sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

She grabbed my arm before I could leave the room. I turned and found her watching me, confusion spread across her face. “Dylan, I …” We watched each other, the silence between us taut. Then she dropped her hand slowly and took a step back. “Thank you.”

I swallowed thickly, nodded, and left the room before I could change my mind about holding her all night long. Now that I knew what that felt like, it was hard to go back.

I went downstairs to find that my mom had made up the hide-a-bed for me. Across the top of the paper-thin mattress was a brand-new looking navy and white quilt, the Peaks’ team colors. The shades of white created a mountain peak, while the various hues of blue were the sky.

Mom had always been talented at quilting, and I knew enough about the craft to recognize that a design like this would have taken her countless hours to complete.

“If you get cold, there’s an afghan on the chair you can grab too.” She waved her hand nervously. “But what am I saying? You never get cold.”

“This is really nice, Mom.” I indicated the blanket.

“Oh, that. Yeah. I liked working on it when I was missing you. So most of the time.” She laughed but then looked away.

I’d been so focused, so driven, so willing to interpret their actions in the worst light possible to justify never coming home.

Before I could lose my nerve, I stepped close to my mom and pulled her into a real hug.

She let out a small gasp, and then wrapped her arms around me so tight, a smaller man would have lost his ability to breathe.

“I love it, Mom.”

She patted me on the back a few times, and when I loosened my grip, she stepped back immediately. The hug version of not wanting to over-stay your welcome. Her eyes were suspiciously red. “It’s yours, then.”

“I couldn’t—”

“I’ll make another one.” She took another step back, and then with a wave, headed upstairs, leaving me alone in my childhood house, her promise unsettling me.

Would she be compelled to make another quilt to represent how much she missed me?

Or was I actually welcomed here after all?

If I hadn’t beenup all night the entire night before, I probably wouldn’t have been able to sleep. But it felt like it was a mere blink from when I pressed my head to the pillow to when Iheard my parents talking quietly in the kitchen as they prepared breakfast. I rolled over with a groan to grab my phone. It was only five-thirty. I’d forgotten how early they woke up.

I stretched and went into the bathroom. When I came back out, Mom had already put the bed up and folded the blankets. I looked longingly at the couch, where I would not be getting another hour or two of sleep.

“Dad’s got breakfast on the stove,” Mom said quietly. “It’s brown sugar and cinnamon steel oats. There’s cream and a bowl of cut fruit in the fridge.”

I yawned. Steel-oats were Dad’s specialty. My stomach growled, and I went into the kitchen to fill my bowl. Dad sat at the table, reading the news on his tablet. He’d always read the paper until his tea went cold, and then he’d head upstairs to get ready. It was comforting to see he still had the same habit—even if it was a high-tech version.

The silence between us was even more comfortable than last night. Was this the effect of spending more time together? Of working together to help Rosie? If there was one thing we could agree on, it was that we cared for Rosie Forrester.

“What are your plans today?” Dad asked.

“Whatever Rosie wants to do,” I said.

Dad nodded, like that was the right answer, and it felt much better than I expected to have his approval.

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