Page 17 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

He’d sent me the link to this apartment, and I had to wonder if directing me here was Dad’s way of getting back at me for being a terrible son. Could he have known Rosie would hit me in the face? Probably not. But had he known the apartment for rent was like the pit of Hades? That, I could believe.

The bloody nose was just a bonus.

Rosie mentioned I looked like Dad when I scowled. It struck me at the time that not only did she know my dad well enough to say that, but she’d seen his scowl enough times to recognize it.

Somehow, even with only a few minutes of meeting her, that didn’t surprise me.

Rosie Forrester was unexpected, and the great Sheriff Savage didn’t do unexpected. It shouldn’t make me like her, but it did. Or at least lit a spark of curiosity. Except for the fact that she was either a liar or completely delusional about what an actual livable space looked like.

She was charging me the same amount of rent to stay in that rat-infested, mildew hole as Bret charged me for my room in his huge house. Which wasactuallyfurnished.

I texted dad back.

Dylan:I made it to Winterhaven.

Dad:Your mom would like for you to come to lunch Sunday.

The careful wording was not lost on me.Momwanted me to come. She’d attempted to reconcile me and Dad in the beginning, and then her efforts had faded. I knew his painful texts were the product of her prodding, combined with the fact that I’d been ignoring her phone calls.

I could say no. I probably should say no. But I needed to get this over with. Winterhaven wasn’t a big enough island to avoid them forever. We could do one civil meal together.

Dylan:*thumbs up*

I put on myrunning clothes and headed past the futon—what was it with this girl and futons? I wasnotgoing to sit on this one. I jogged down the creaky wooden stairs, eager to get a run in before the rest of the town woke up. Dim light filtered in from the windows downstairs, casting dozens of canvases into shadows. Three canvases were set up on easels and in various stages of completion. The scent of paint permeated the entire building.

I paused at the bottom of the stairs and blinked to adjust my vision when I saw Rosie fast asleep in an upright wooden chair in the middle of the room. She slept in front of a realistic painting of the ocean, with a few playful otters bobbing their heads up from the water near a tiny dinghy in the distance. It was good. Really good.

Rosie’s head was cocked back at an unnatural angle, and she wore a paint-stained T-shirt that showed off most of her tan legs. Paint streaks covered her hands and arms, and even the tops of her thighs looked like a rainbow made of gradations of blue. A dark-tipped paint brush was loosely gripped in her hand.

Had she slept here all night while I was asleep in her bed? Anger at myself warred with frustration at her. I gently touched her arm, and she sat up with a startled jerk and a yelp. The paint brush went flying, narrowly missing my chest.

Way to scare her to death, Dyl.“Hey, it’s just me. Dylan Savage.” I took a huge step back and held up my hands as non-threateningly as possible.

She cleared her throat and swiped at the drool that had run down her cheek. Her vision cleared with recognition, and she smiled sleepily at me. My heart gave an uncomfortable flop.

“You said you had a houseboat,” I accused, the words harsher than I’d intended.

She blinked, still clearly waking up and processing. “And you said your glare doesn’t look like your dad’s.” She shrugged like she didn’t have a care in the world, while I tried to smooth out my expression. She had to stop comparing me to my dad.

“Rosie.” I ground her name out with all the patience I could muster. “Why are you sleeping on a chair?”

“Why areyounaked? These are life’s mysteries.”

My teeth ground together. “I’m not naked.” I folded my arms over my bare chest, but that only made it worse. My pecs and biceps pushed outward, and it looked like I was trying to show them off. Dangling my arms at my sides felt unnatural, especially since I couldn’t stop flexing my abs like a teenager at the pool. My abs were on autopilot. “Were you here all night?”

“Inspiration has insomnia. Something we might have in common.”

My apartment was directly above this studio. Had she heard me moving around all night? Maybe that’s why she couldn’t sleep.

She stood and stretched. Her huge neon green shirt rode up her long legs. It fell half-way to her knees when she wasn’t lifting her hands over her head and arching her back like that cat-thing of hers. I quickly looked away from her legs, but not before I caught her stare on my bare stomach. Her cheeks were pink as she tugged on the hem of her shirt. Our gazes flew apart like pool balls being struck. Running without a shirt on was normal, and not something to be suddenly so self-conscious about.

“Are the paintings upstairs yours?” I asked in a blatant attempt to cover the awkwardness between us.

It took a beat for her to respond, her hands still clutching the bottom of the shirt. Unfortunately, that meant she’d tugged the collar down to reveal a slender shoulder. I nearly groaned. Why had I woken her up? I should have just gone on my run and let her wake naturally. “Um, yes. I’ve painted everything in here.”

I walked around the art studio to avoid looking at Rosie, taking everything in with fresh eyes. It was Winterhaven the way I’d experienced it as a kid. Magical and atmospheric, full of possibility and beauty. I paused at a painting she’d done of an overgrown area of the old graveyard. Salmonberries grew from wild bushes bisected by fallen trees and muddy meandering paths. Homesickness struck me again, for a time and a feeling I could never go back to.

“I’ve been painting for as long as I can remember,” she said, and I felt her gaze on my back. “One of my first memories is my brother giving me one of those really cheap watercolor palettes and a notebook full of blank pages—and he told me to please keep my artwork to paper.”

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