Page 15 of Songbird
“The brooding, independent man of mystery living on his own in a bungalow in the woods?” Finn gives me that look of eternal forbearance, and I laugh lightly. “I have no idea if those are the hallmarks of a middle child, but you handed me that one on a platter.”
Finn shakes his head and stands, a hand coasting through blond hair neatly trimmed on the side and long enough on top for a single lock to fall forward and catch on his lashes.
“You must be tired,” he says as he clears the table. “Why don’t you get ready for bed? There’s soap and a spare toothbrush in the bathroom if you want to freshen up, and while you’re in there, I’ll change the sheets. Then tomorrow…”
I sigh as the temporary high of a cheeseburger and conversation is crushed under the weight of what lies ahead. “Tomorrow, I take back my life.”
“Yep. Get some sleep and we’ll start making plans in the morning.”
“Okay. And Finn?” He turns away from the sink to look at me, a plate still in either hand. “Thank you.”
His measured blinks could mean anything, but all he says is “You’re welcome.”
After I’ve brushed my teeth and washed my face with a bar of plain white soap that leaves my skin dry and makes me wonder how men as a species have made it this far, I find the cabin dark but for the light of Finn’s phone. The man himself is stretched out on the sofa. His feet and ankles dangle off the end and he’s going to wake up with a crick in his neck if he tries sleeping with his pillow wedged at that angle, but I’m too grateful to point it out.
I pause on my way to the loft ladder, eyeing Dakota, who’s curled up in her bed at the foot. “Good night,” I whisper.
Finn shifts his phone, but the glow from the screen still lights up his face. “Good night, Rosalie.”
In Finn’s bedroom, I slip between the sheets and take a moment to inhale the scent of soap and safety and something else that’s all Finn. I’m tired, so I hope sleep comes quickly, but that’s never been my luck. With the sound of the shower running downstairs, I stare up at the timber-beamed ceiling, exhausted but unable to rest. I still haven’t turned on my phone, and I toy with it on the blanket beside me. As soon as I press that button, everything changes, and I want to stay in this ignorant bubble a while longer. It’s nice here. I like it. I feel stronger than I usually do, like I really might be the kind of woman to do what she says she’s going to do and create a life that doesn’t include Chip.
The water downstairs cuts off with the thud of old pipes, and as I listen as Finn exits the bathroom and settles himself on that too-small couch, I burrow deeper into the blankets. Finn’s willingness to let me stay might be the only thing keeping me on track right now, and here in the quiet and the dark, the fear I didn’t let myself feel earlier creeps in. This isn’t a childish adventure. This is my life and my livelihood, and I’ve never done anything so selfish or so rash as what I did today. The adrenaline is pumping. I’m nervous. I’m scared. Underneath all that, I’m also giddy with hope and possibility.
But if it wasn’t for stumbling across that photo of Finn earlier today, I might not have ever been given the catalyst to run. And if he’d been harsh enough to send me away when I begged for help, I might have lost the courage to keep running. And those are truths I have to think about. Especially now. I can’t rely on a man to help me rebuild what I’ve lost, even if that man is as decent as Finn. I need to do this by myself and be smarter andmore focused than ever. My head is what’s going to guide me to a confident and independent life, not my soft, unreliable heart.
five
Finn
Thecreakoftheloft ladder would have woken me at one a.m. if I weren’t already lying here with my eyes open.
Rosalie went to bed hours ago and I’ve been on my phone in the dark. I’ve sent an email to Jack’s brother, Drew, and asked him for background checks on both Chip Daniels and Rosalie. A lot will have changed in the year since I took the bodyguard job, and now that Jack’s gone, his brother runs his security firm. I’m confident he’ll come through, but not until morning, which leaves me with a list of unanswered questions and only the internet to answer them. For all the good it does.
I’m not sure I know any more than I did twelve hours ago. Rosalie Thorne is still one of the most popular recording artists in the world. Chip Daniels is still a music executive with a truckload of industry clout. The two of them together may be the most photogenic couple to ever look down the lens of a camera, and neither has made it known that one just jilted the other for being an emotionally abusive narcissist.
So when I hear Rosalie on the ladder, I’m already rethinking my decision to put myself in the middle of what’s shaping up tobe the biggest celebrity scandal in years. She descends slowly, one rung at a time, and I say nothing. Tomorrow’s soon enough to dive back into the drama. But as she eases her way to the floor and creeps on tiptoes into the kitchen, I feel like an asshole—again—because I know what she needs. I just don’t know if it’s in the bounds of our new arrangement to give it to her.
Things are different now that I’m not getting paid to be at her beck and call.
I sit up and throw an arm over the back of the couch, then freeze. The way she looks fresh out of bed wearing my shirt… Rosalie Thorne in a rumpled oversized red flannel should be laughable, but it’s not. It’s really not.
The fabric swamps her, but her pale thighs play peekaboo where the buttons are undone near the hem, and the soft glow of her legs in the light of the open refrigerator makes it hard to swallow. Her champagne-blonde curls are softer now that the day’s styling has been brushed out of them, and the natural fall of her hair creates the illusion that Rosalie Thorne is a woman just like any other. Real. Attainable. Not beyond reach.
When I do find my tongue, my voice cracks. “Hey.”
Rosalie jumps as she spins around. She smacks a hand to her chest as she takes a deep breath. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh.” She glances around the kitchen, searching for a way to explain why she’s out of bed. “I was thirsty.”
I push off the sofa and join her in the kitchen, only realizing I’m half naked when her gaze sweeps down my chest and torso, falls to my boxer briefs and thighs, then moves north again.
“You’re the one who promised no more nakedness,” I mutter with unfamiliar self-consciousness as a blush creeps up my neck.
