Page 32 of Songbird
“You’re hiding something,” she guesses. “Does it have anything to do with the silver Mercedes parked on the other side of the cabin?”
I glare her down, but she catches a twitch at the corner of my eye, and I’m not at all surprised when she gasps and weaves around me to peer through a curtained window.
“Finn Samuel Davenport,” she gasps. “You’ve got a girl in there!”
I shake my head with a quiet groan, then pick her up by the waist and deposit her on the other side of me to put my body between her and the front door. “It’s not what you think.”
She crosses her arms and looks up at me with a twinkle in her bright blue eyes. “How do you know what I think?”
I pull her ponytail free to distract her—irritating her is just a bonus—and when she goes to retie it, I give the tip of her nose a flick. She drops her hair to swat at me, then scowls and starts again.
“Stay out of it,” I tell her.
She stretches onto her tiptoes to try and peek around my shoulders. “Who is she?”
“She’s nobody.”
A warm flush burns across the back of my neck. Charles, being Charles, is waiting for it and it makes her grin like a loon. “Sure she is.”
The front door squeaks as it swings on its hinges. I close my eyes and drop my head back with exhaustion. Why can’t Rosie just do what she’s told?
Rosie walks out onto the porch, Dakota close on her heels. Today, at least, she’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and a simple tank from one of the bags Violet brought over, but she keeps wearing my flannel shirts over the top anyway, which is a bit of a mindfuck, to be honest. A man can’t help but feel primal, even a little territorial, when a beautiful woman wears his shirt. My lizard brain hasn’t caught on to the fact that this beautiful woman isn’t actually mine.
Rosie extends a hand as she approaches. “Hi. I’m—”
“Rosalie Thorne.” Charles accepts Rosie’s hand with the kind of cheek-splitting smile that makes her look years younger. “I know. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.” There’s an awkward pause before Rosie nudges me with a gentle elbow. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“I was hoping to avoid it.”
Rosie and Charles hit the exact same pitch of indignation at the exact same time. “Finn!”
I roll my eyes. “Rosie—this is my sister, Charlotte.”
Charles scowls at me. She hates being called Charlotte. I return her rage with a shit-eating grin.
“Charlie,” she corrects. “You can call me Charlie.”
Rosie’s face lights up. “I will. Thank you. Do you want to come in?”
“No,” I say at the same time Charles says, “Yes.”
And then, of course, I follow them into the cabin.
Charles takes a seat on one sofa, Rosie on the other, and I protest the whole situation by returning to the dining table, forgetting myself long enough to take a swallow of bad coffee.
Hiding Rosie was supposed to last a few days and not involve anyone else or raise any questions I didn’t want to answer. Violet finding out about us was one thing. My older sister is another, and all I can think is thank fuck it wasn’t Daisy at the door.
Charles looks at me, notes my discomfort, and rolls her lips to stop a laugh. “So how do you two know each other?”
My flat stare only makes this more entertaining, apparently, and she gives up the fight altogether with a wide smile breaking across her face.
“I used to be Rosie’s bodyguard,” I say before Rosie has a chance. Might as well try to regain some control.
“Bodyguard?” Charles throws me a stunned look that makes me feel bad about keeping a secret from her. “When? How?”
“It was a favor to a military friend,” I explain. “For two months when Rosie was on tour last year. Before I came home in June.”
