Page 48 of Bedding Rose
I watch her pace aggressively like some lioness, and her demeanor makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. She’s clearly worked up, clearly in a terrible mood that resulted in a stiff silence for the entire hour-long drive home. I don’t know if I’ve seen her this furious and frazzled since Dad tried to get the house in the divorce.
Maybe I shouldn’t have left my window unlocked for Angelo like he requested.
Maybe that was a mistake.
Maybe everything involving him is.
“Well, one look at that Walker boy and the Garcias turned tail and left,” Mom says, the muscles in her neck tense, and her voice vibrating with a barely controlled edge of fury. “LEFT! Not a dime. They weren’t there to bid against the Jimenez couple—tonight was a total disaster! We’re at least a million short of our projections.”
Mom runs an exasperated hand over her hair, though even her fingernails can’t penetrate the shellac that her hairdresser put on her curls earlier.
Her brow furrows as she shakes her head. "I don’t even think I can get their support back now. Not with the disastrous rumor mill saying you and Angelo areengaged, Rose.” The full brunt of her anger turns toward me and I suck in a breath, because I work so hard never to earn that look. I hate that look and the way it makes self-loathing foam up inside my throat, clogging it.
My eyes drift down to my knees. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I don’t bother saying that it was just a joke, because, in the grand scheme of things, that doesn’t really matter. A joke just cost her a ton of money—money she needs for advertisements, for flyers, for signs. God. I feel like such an idiot. I normally don’t let my guard down at those events. But I did tonight because of him.
Look what happened.
Quique calls out from his end of the couch, “Mom, it's not her fault. I was teasing him and we got carried away. Rosie didn’t do anything!” He lifts a hand and gestures in my direction.
But his words only earn him a sharp, pointed finger. “Do not interfere. She knows better than to make a spectacle. That’s allthat boyknows how to do.”
“Yeah, he’s so awful. He saved some guy’s life tonight and Rose’s life all those years ago.” Quique stands, using his height to look down on Mom. “Total bastard.”
I sink back into the couch, curling my legs up, because—as much as I love that he’s trying to defend Angelo, trying to physically intimidate Mom is absolutely a mistake. Dad used to do the same thing.
As I expect, Mom does not appreciate that. I can practically feel invisible spikes shooting out of her spine, as if she were a porcupine. Her brows knit and her tone becomes dangerously low as she shoves her pointed finger into Quique’s chest. “You think you know better, mijo? You don’t. Thatcabrónis a murderer!”
Those words wallop me across the face as if she was holding a tire iron. They smash in my teeth and my breath leaves my body for a moment.
“What the fuck? Who told you that bullshit?!” Enrique and she get right in each other’s faces, a screaming match ensuing.
But it’s as if my ears have been filled with cotton. Their yells sound far away, distant, as I float to my feet and down the hall, away from them. They don’t even notice—too intent on yelling themselves hoarse.
It can’t be true. Can it? He’s too good. Too silly. Always cutting-up with Enrique. A guy who can do those things, can’t just be a killer … can he?
The way he took Nick out though, instantly and brutally, even publicly, without regard for the consequences …
No.
No, I’m overthinking. I’m applying stupid, hateful rumors and using them to overanalyze what happened. I shake my head, trying to dislodge the cotton, as I turn my knob.
I’m shocked to find my window wide open, even though I left it ajar. My dazed musing made me completely forget that he was coming.
And my mother and brother are still locked in a screaming match—over Angelo.
Shit.
I hurry to shut the door and lock it behind me as if I can hide the horrible things that are being flung by my two hot-tempered family members. Then I turn to see him.
Angelo stands in my room, still in his white dress shirt and pants, though he’s lost the tie. In his hands, he holds a book he’s plucked from my bookshelf. It appears as though he was reading the back of it but stopped when I entered. His profile is lit by my bedside lamp, which he has turned on, giving his skin a golden glow. My eyes are particularly drawn to the muscles of his neck when he turns to face me and swallows hard. The expression on his face is strained.
Fuck!
My stomach slides down from its place in my abdomen and tumbles to my toes. He definitely heard what Mom said. Shame lights up my cheeks at the fact that my own mother would say those things. God, I wonder how that makes him feel? How much would it hurt to have your second family say that kind of terrible crap about you?
I cringe.
I’ve known Angelo for years and I’d never—not in my wildest dreams—have come up with a rumor even half as cruel as the one she’s in there spreading … If I heard people talking about me that way, I’d burst into tears. And it’s his best friend’s family, no less.
