Page 39 of Wild Love
Good lord. We’re edging into dangerous territory. And all it takes is one quick glance to know that Cora is staring at me too hard for the comment to be offhanded.
I shrug. “She’s Rosie Belmont,” I say, like that explains the way she looks. The way she is. The way she always has been. “And my best friend’s baby sister.”
Then I change the subject right as we pull into the drop-off line. “Wanna listen to some samples with me this weekend? I’ve had a bunch sent to me since I announced the new company.”
I can tell I’ve shocked her. But I can also tell that Rosie was right—a spark of interest flares in her hazel eyes.
Her oversized black hoodie has holes where she’s pushed her thumbs through. She points at me and then at herself. “You want to listen to music with me?”
“Yeah. Thought it might be fun.”
“Yes, please,” she says simply. And then she opens the door and steps out, but before she goes, she swings her backpack over one shoulder and turns back to me with a smug smirk on her lips. “And just so you know, all the perv dads at pickup have noticed she’s”—her fingers curl into sarcastic air quotes—“Rosie Belmont, too.”
She smiles and slams the door in my face.
Leaving me stewing over the fact I now feel the need to accompany Rosie to the school for daily pickup.
“Pleeease,” Rosie whines as she spins in her chair, staring up at the ceiling. There’s something childish about the entire scene. The tone of her voice, her dramatic begging. But it’s the way her hair trails behind her that has me staring. Brown, gold, silver—it’s like every strand is a different color, and all darker at the root. Some come from the salon, no doubt, while others have probably changed in the sun.
I dated a girl who wouldn’t go out in the sun without ahat because she swore it ruined her color. I couldn’t tell. But I liked her for more than her hair.
Too bad she liked me for my money.
“No, listen. The pay will be solid. Just come look at the place. You did a terrific job with my parents’ house. On time, under budget, the whole thing. You’re the cream of the crop for contractors.”
She continues spinning, and I can just make out the dull, deep voice of someone on the line.
“I know there are other contractors in the area, but you beat them by a country mile. No comparison. You’re a cut above.”
Another turn in the office chair.
Rather than watching her, I really should work my way out from under the pile of emails I need to respond to. And I’ve got a metric fuck ton of sound equipment to order.
“I am not full of shit. Ask West—he’ll tell you this is a great gig. And if you get called out for a fire, that’s fine. We’ll make do.”
She finally catches sight of me, my shoulder propped against the doorway, and stops twirling. Her eyes move down and back up, taking me in with no shame. Likely as payback for what I said to her last night. “Yeah, I know West thinks that’s a good idea. But West also thinks racing on a road with no guardrails and a cliff on one side is a smart idea. And you should see this guy. He’s wearing a Rolex. And he styled his hair to look like it’s mussed when it’s not. He isn’t going to join your bowling team. You wouldn’t want him.”
With a quick glance down at my wrist, I catch the glintof my Rolex. The one I bought to celebrate having a million dollars in my investment account. All money I earnedmyself. It was the first stupid, frivolous thing I bought with my own cash.
I fucking love this watch.
And my hairismussed because I was stressed while driving back here, worried what kind of footing I’d be on with Rosie after my moment of insanity last night.
I’ve really gotta stop pulling this girl’s hair.
I jut my chin at her. “That’s the contractor?”
“Yes, the contractor I like and trust,” she says, raising her voice pointedly for the contractor’s benefit.
I hear the guy mumbling something through the receiver on her cell.
“He says he’ll do your office if you join the bowling team.”
“Jesus. What is with these guys and their stupid bowling team?”
Her hand snaps up to cover the phone like I’ve said something downright sacrilegious. “Ford, that bowling team is like Fight Club or something. Invite only. Other dads don’t get invited. It’sprestigious.” She sighs heavily and whispers, “I don’t know why, but they take it seriously, so you’d better get your game face on if you’re planning to join.”
I’ve been mocking West’s bowling team for almost two years now. And not being a dad has kept me safe from any invites. But now?
