Page 128 of Wild Love
Ihatehaving my picture taken without permission. It’s an intrusion I’ve faced my entire life. My dad did his best to keep Willa and me out of the spotlight, but the success rate wasn’t one hundred percent.
But I also know how to play nice in front of the media. Learned that from my dad too. My fingers dig into Rosie’s hip, so she turns toward me. Her hand slides up over my chest until she’s clinging to me. And I just hold her against me tighter.
The photographer smiles at us, and a blond woman wearing a sequined red dress with a recording device pops up from behind him. “Ford Grant, what a treat to have you here tonight supporting the Emerald Lake Wildfire Recovery.”
I give her a thin, practiced smile. “It’s a pleasure to be here. Or it was until they photographed us without permission.”
The woman blanches but swiftly regains her composure. “I’m so sorry. Would you like me to have the photo deleted?” Rosie’s fingers circle at my chest, a warning tobe nice, I’m sure. But she knows better. I am nice; I just don’t comeoff that way sometimes. I can practically feel her rolling her eyes at me. She’d say I’m being a dick.
“No, I’d just like to be asked first.”
That strikes everyone silent while the woman works her head around how to proceed. “Can we get a photo of you for the paper?”
Rosie starts to cover for me. “Oh, that’s not necessary?—”
“That would be lovely.” I give her a real smile.
The woman counts down, and this time, we’re facing the camera, Rosie still tucked tight against my side.
The photographer turns to show us the shot on the screen, and we look so damn good together that I swallow, covering the emotion that swells in my chest.
“And who are you out with tonight? We’ll add it to the description.”
Rosie goes stiff. I don’t know what she’s expecting me to say, but something tells me it’s not, “Oh, this is my girlfriend—Rosalie Belmont.”
I walk into the party with a speechless girlfriend on my arm.
And I’ve never liked having my photo taken more.
The night wears on in a blur of boring conversation and forced enthusiasm. I think that’s what I hate the most about any of these events. Everyone is so fake. They all have their own agenda. The vast majority of them couldn’t care less about rebuilding after a devastating fire.
The lives upended.
The insurance claims denied.
The livestock lost.
The effect on the environment.
The list goes on, and the more I think about it, the more the tragedy of it drains me. The more the ass-kissing and lobbying bugs me. Because this event is for lobbyists. City contractors. Construction moguls.
This isn’t about the fire—it’s about their best interests. It’s what everything tied to money becomes. It’s exactly what happened at Gramophone. A bunch of men in suits around a table deciding to cut the rate they pay artists to give a little extra to shareholders.
I’m bitter and disillusioned by it all.
It’s why I disappeared into the mountains. To Rose Hill.
To Rosie.
The only bright spot of the night is watching her work the room with such… aplomb. She smiles, and it’s genuine. She laughs, and it makes everyone nearby smile.
Even though we haven’t addressed it between us, I introduce her to people as my girlfriend, and she presses closer every time.
I find it impossible to take my eyes off of her. The shimmer of the pale pink silk sliding over her skin mesmerizes me. It’s borderline sensual the way her painted lips press against the edge of a champagne glass and the way her throat bobs as she swallows it is enough to make me blush as I’m transported back to that morning in the paint.
Needless to say, sheglows, and everyone sees it. Everyone is drawn to her, just like they always have been.
Rosie at a lake party. Rosie playing beach volleyball. Rosie hiking. Rosie at the fucking grocery store. I’ve watched her effortlessly draw attention for most of her life, and I’m not even sure she realizes how organically she does it.
