Page 5 of Rosie and the Beast Next Door

I’d let him call me that for so long, I didn’t know how to correct him at this point. I’d tell him when we were married. Or I’d get a name change.

His youngest sister, Sophie—who absolutely knew my name was Rosie since we’d graduated high school together but still didn’t correct him—wiggled her rear end in her seat like a seal. “Hey, do the Wobble!”

I forced a blank smile and pretended not to hear her. I was never going to live that down. One downside to living in a small town? If you embarrassed yourself in public, no one ever forgot it.

“What can I get you all to drink? A Coke with extra ice and a cherry, right?” I said to Max before I could bite down on my tongue. Yep. I remembered his drink order, his favorite pizza toppings, that he was mildly allergic to green bell peppers, knew he’d wink at me if I slipped in some extra pickled peppers with his pizza and that he avoided karaoke night at all costs, and he always requested C-SPAN when the restaurant wasn’t busy. Le sigh. How could I not love him?

“Exactly.” His grin widened. Nowthatwas a princely grin.

I finished grabbing their drink orders but paused when I saw Dylan on the big screen over the bar again. He pushed through the hallway outside of the locker room, an expression on his face that said he was hoping for a fight. A photographer stepped in front of him and thrust a camera in his face.

“Does your team have what it takes to make the play-offs without Shiloh?”

My gasp at the casual cruelty of the question was joined by several others.

On screen, Dylan’s hand shot out and he ripped a camera from a photographer’s hands before smashing it against the wall. A reporter’s voice-over continued, “Dylan ‘the Beast’ Savage attacked a photographer after their game today, one action in a series of increasingly concerning moves since his teammate Shiloh Blaire’s death—and now he may be facing repercussions from law enforcement.” We watched another teammate pull Dylan away from the crowd, then the camera zoomed in on a child farther down the hall, a signing pad clutched in his grip, and fear in his eyes.

“He’s really changed,” Max said.

I hadn’t realized Max knew Dylan, but of course he did. They all grew up in this town.

Everyone knew everyone. For better or for worse.

I spent the restof my shift tallying up the smiles (and categorizing the types of smiles) Max gave me, getting a replay of the Icy Asp’s terrible game while I ate two slices of pizza in record speed, cleaning tables, and finally sitting down to count my tips at the end of the night.

A hundred-dollar bill caught my eye.

Dangit, Bennett. No one else would leave me a tip that big. And I couldn’t, in good conscience, use it anywhere but at my shop. But it would get me that new paint set I’d been eying.

I clocked out and finally checked my texts as I walked home.

Dad:Thank you, baby girl. I promise this’ll be the last time.

It wouldn’t be the last time he asked for money, but I’d come to terms with it. At least he was in my life after so many years of missing him. I deleted the text so my brothers didn’t accidentally see it. My steps felt lighter as I continued through the quiet town.

Most of the shops in Winterhaven were along Main Street, including my art boutique with the upstairs apartment I’d recently moved into. In addition to the Icy Asps restaurant, we also had a library, a community center, a grocery store, three tourist shops that sold variations of the same kitschy items, a bookstore, a bakery, and a huge sign pointing toward the docks, where our water-based businesses were located.

I walked extra slow past Valentine Books, Max’s store, hoping to catch a glimpse of him through the window. The bookstore was in a gorgeous Victorian building that looked like a gingerbread house came to life, complete with a white fencesurrounding it, peaked rooftops, baby blue siding, and lacy white trim. Max didn’t live there, but perhaps he’d stopped by after he left the restaurant.

All the lights were off tonight though.

Rererereee.

I paused, straining my ears to listen.

Rererereee.Yep, I definitely heard it that time. It sounded like a mix between a distressed whine and a high-pitched trilling noise.

I entered the alleyway behind the bookstore, following the unusual sound. I tiptoed toward the large trash bin, not wanting to startle the animal. The scent of damp trash turned my stomach, so I lifted my shirt to cover my nose.

A full black trash bag behind the bin moved.

I shrieked and recoiled, landing on my rear end in the questionably sludgy mud. The bag moved again, only this time, a tiny kitten ear poked up from the top of the open bag.

I raced forward with a gasp and ripped it open. Poor thing. It must have crawled in through the opening and gotten lost inside. I clicked my tongue and slowly stretched my fingers toward it. It uncurled and peeked around the trash, revealing a teeny, tiny slimy creature. A chicken breast with legs. No, a live pig embryo, like we dissected in high school bio.

Abort! Abort! A red light flashed behind my eyes, but—much to my brothers’ chagrin—I’d never been very good at heeding those warnings. Where was the fun in that?

It trilled again as it slowly moved toward me, revealing it as a small, furless cat. And with every inch it gained, it grew … cuter. We were in a make-over montage, complete with upbeat music playing in the background as the main character has a glow-up. The light catching its bright green eyes. The charm in the scrunchy, old man face. The pointed ears and naked, wrinkled skin that made me understand cuteness aggression at an entirelynew (and somewhat alarming) level. It was unsuitable for me in every way, but I loved it.

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