Page 25 of Wild Love
Then Ford reaches forward. He pulls out the Clif Bar, which has to be expired, rips it open, and takes a huge bite, all while holding my gaze. His square jaw moves, dark stubble drawing my eyes to his lips for just a beat before they tug back up. “Thank you, Rosalie,” he deadpans. “This is delicious.”
CHAPTER NINE
FORD
Rosie takesa deep breath before raising her hand to knock on the door to her parents’ house. I’m not sure why she’s knocking. Seems more like her to just barge in and announce herself. I reach out to squeeze her shoulder as reassurance, but years of practice kick in, and I force my hand back down while internally reminding myself that I’m her boss—not her boyfriend.
Still, it’s impossible to ignore that something is off with her. I just can’t figure out what. She’s herself, but also skittish. At least my eating a past-it protein bar made her laugh. That was worth it, even if I can’t get the taste of stale oats out of my mouth.
“Rosie, baby!” Greta Belmont shakes her head and blinks a few times, like her eyes might be fooling her. “What are you doing here?” She recovers enough to wrap her daughter in a tight hug.
“Hi, Mama.” Rosie hugs her back. Hard.
“What are you doing here?” Andy says from just behind his wife, a thread of suspicion weaving its way into his tone.
Greta turns around to smack him in the chest, one arm still looped over Rosie’s shoulders. “Give your daughter a better welcome than that when she shows up to surprise us!”
Andy arches a brow at his daughter. The man is all bark, no bite. He’s got a big, soft heart, but he isn’t known for being warm and fuzzy. “How are you, Rosie Posie?” he asks, eyeing her carefully before stepping up to give her a gentle hug. His blue eyes are just like Rosie’s, and his hair is thinning just a little on top.
“I’m good, Dad.” There’s a hitch in Rosie’s voice though. One she covers by clearing her throat and adding another, “I’m good,” before pulling away.
Her mom finally turns, catching sight of the rest of us who got dragged along on this expedition. “And you brought Ford and Cora with you!”
Greta looks happy to see me.
Andy looks confused as to why I’m here.
To be fair, I am too. Maybe it was the way Cora stared at her chipped nails when she announced, “I think Rosie is having a mental breakdown. Also, I’m gonna go to her parents’ house with her. See you later.”
I wasn’t about to let her have a mental breakdown alone. Rosie glances over her shoulder at me, cheeks pinking slightly before she turns back. “Yeah. I meant to just bring Cora, but Ford invited himself.” She brushes her hands downthe front of her jeans like she’s wiping dust off her hands. “So here we are!”
“Well, come in. Come in. Let’s have some tea.” Greta hits me with a wink. “Or a beer? I seem to remember you and West getting into those when you were younger.”
Andy regards me carefully. He’s not quite scowling, but there’s nothing welcoming about his expression either. I suspect his spidey senses are tingling too—like he knows there’s something notquiteright about his fiercely independent, by-the-book daughter showing up out of the blue.
“Tea is great.”
Greta smiles and slings an arm over Rosie, pressing her daughter tight against her side. “Perfect. Tea is Rosie Posie’s favorite.”
I bite the inside of my cheek as we move indoors. I guess Mrs. Belmont hasn’t seen her daughter sling back a gin and tonic like there’s about to be a worldwide shortage the way I have.
We follow Andy into the living room, and I can’t help but notice Cora taking in her surroundings. The Belmonts’ new home resembles a large concrete box, modern from top to bottom. Except their furniture.
They relocated their old farmhouse pieces straight into their new place. You’d think it would clash with the modern stainless-steel appliances and slate-gray walls, yet there’s a certain eclectic charm to the place. I don’t think it’s intentional, but it’s there all the same.
The furnishings have character. Each cushion on the floral-print velvet couches sags slightly in the middle. Thecoffee table has a glass slab on top of an ornate wrought iron base. Beneath it, the Persian rug exudes a relaxed vibe, its white base accented with pink and blue and a minty green. Even the bookcases have a sort of vintage-cottage style to them.
Greta settles into the flower-print love seat, close to her daughter. Cora and I take opposite ends of the couch facing them—the same couch I passed out on after too many beers as a teenager, I’m sure. And after setting a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate of shortbread cookies in the center of the coffee table, Andy takes the navy-blue leather La-Z-Boy chair, possibly the only piece of furniture from this decade.
“No Ryan this trip?” Greta asks as she leans forward to pour the first cup.
“No,” Rosie says quickly, eyes flitting up to mine as Cora homes in on the cookies. “Not this time.”
“Oh my god. This cookie is so dry,” Cora whispers so only I can hear, holding it in front of her face like it could be a specimen in a lab.
“Is he doing well? That boy works too hard.”
Rosie’s lips roll together, and I can’t help but feel like she’s avoiding my gaze. “He definitely works a lot.”
