Page 72 of Songbird
Marco makes a show of hesitating, like he might actually rein it in when we all know he’s living for the gossip.
“A little bird I slept with atCelebritymagazine told me that Chip’s parents were quoted as saying they’ve reached out to you to mend bridges, and you’ve told them it’s just a matter of time before the wedding is back on.” He wraps the measuring tape around Rosie’s bust. “That kind of thing carries some weight.”
“I did not talk to Chip’s parents! We arenotgetting back together.”
“Oh, I know, darling. It’s nonsense. Nobody will believe it.” Marco holds out his hand for the notebook of measurements, then frowns at the numbers noted on the paper. “Speaking of weight… What were you eating while you were away? Cheeseburgers and milkshakes? Darling, you know dairy is the devil.”
Rosie glances at the paper, and a pink flush stains her cheeks.
“You’ve gained an inch everywhere and two in the chest.” Marco clicks his tongue. “If you’re not careful—”
“Ifyou’renot careful, you’re going to be eating your next meal through a fucking straw.”
The look Marco gives me is startled. His assistant looks terrified, and from her chair at the dresser in the corner, Pia raises her head with a withering look. But all I care about is Rosie, her blue eyes glassy even as she gives me a tremulous smile.
“Right.” Marco clears his throat. “It’s not a problem. We can work with curves, and I’ve got half a dozen silhouettes that’ll accentuate this gorgeous bust. Adam! Fetch the second rack and we’ll look at our options.”
I loom as Marco and Adam zip around the room, assisting Rosie as she steps in and out of gowns that turn her into a Hollywood goddess right before my eyes. Perhaps my growly quip has ruined the mood, because Rosie and Marco’sconversation moves from pointed jabs and vague digs for juicy tidbits to chatter about fabrics and necklines and colors and vibes. It takes three hours to arrive at any real decisions, but eventually Rosie has a dress for her television guest spot, and Pia has instructions on where to pick up the shoes and jewelry to match.
Rosie steps down from the dais, and as Pia wraps her up in a flowing silk robe, she turns to me with a sparkle in her blue eyes. “Okay, Finn. Your turn.”
My eyebrows draw in. “Myturn?”
“As my personal bodyguard, you need at least two or three well-fitting suits in your closet. You never know when I’ll need you on a red carpet.” Rosie bites her lip to stop a smile, but it’s there in her cheeks, lighting her up. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Ah, yeah, I mind. Suits have never been my thing. They’re hot and uncomfortable, and the fabric makes it hard to move fast if I need to. I’m a jeans and flannel and muddy boots man, not a guy who struts his stuff down red carpets. But Rosie’s the boss, and she’s enjoying this. Stuffing myself into a suit is not only in my job description—and, ironically, a way to blend in when I need to—but it’s also an easy way to make her happy, and that’s reason enough for me.
I move toward the mirror, ignoring the dais because I’m already head and shoulders taller than Marco.
“Strip, please,” he says distractedly, phone to his ear as he calls through to his studio with instructions for Rosie’s dress. “Adam will measure and fit you today.”
With a twitch in my eyelid, I peel off my boots, jeans, and shirt and stand still as stone. The room is already quiet, but it grows silent with a weirdly intense hush, a glitchy kind of lull that makes me feel like a backwoods idiot with no right to be here.
But then I notice Rosie standing behind me in the mirror, her fingers resting against her throat and her gaze hot on my nearlynaked form. I swallow with difficulty, glancing away before my dick gets any wild ideas, and Rosie smirks over my shoulder like she read my mind.
Marco clicks his fingers and Adam jumps to pick up his measuring tape, running it around my chest, waist and thighs, up my inseam, across my shoulders, and down my arms. He makes sounds under his breath, quiet whistles and mumbles accompanied by raised eyebrows as he jots down my size, then pulls a single suit from a rack of readymade menswear. He’s smart enough to let me get into the pants myself but insists on buttoning the crisp white shirt and helping me into the dark suit jacket. I grit my teeth and tolerate it for Rosie.
It’s at least half a size too small, too tight to roll my shoulders, and stretched thin around my thighs, and I’m grumbling like a toddler in my head. I tug at the fabric, pulling at the sleeves and running my thumbs around the waist, trying to settle the clothes better on my body as I shift from foot to foot. I look ridiculous, the mirror reflecting a man who obviously does not belong in a five-thousand-dollar suit, and if there were only me and Rosie here, I’d say so.
I cast a look her way, expecting her reaction to be the outward expression of my inner frustration and discomfort, but instead she’s staring with open admiration. Her eyelashes flutter and her hands are pressed in the prayer position against her mouth, and it’s enough to stop my fidgeting.
Today’s metamorphosis of Rosie from the girl who swam in my river and sang in my living room to global icon is impossible to ignore. She’s goddamn beautiful no matter what she wears, and her eyes are the same whether she’s in flannel or silk, but here in LA, she deserves to walk with a certain kind of man by her side.
Rosie’s gaze meets mine in the mirror and she winks. She shouldn’t, but she knows that, and I give her a secretive smile inreturn. And with a small nod that from the outside stays within the bounds of our celebrity-bodyguard pretense, I let her know I’m here for her. In denim and dirt or satin sheets and suits, I’ll always be what she needs.
twenty-six
Rosalie
Istandatthevanity mirror, Finn’s old flannel hanging from my shoulders, massaging expensive lotion into my hands and analyzing the reflection of my makeup-free face. It shines with a thin layer of organic oil, its herbal scent strong enough to make my stomach twist with a queasy roll. I can’t believe how much work and money it takes to replicate the kind of glow I captured without even trying at Silver Leaf. As soon as Marco pointed it out, it became hard to miss, and I don’t know that artificial radiance can ever compare to bathing in sunshine, swimming in rivers, running through the woods, and washing with a plain bar of white soap.Thatshould be the prescription for beautiful skin. Not twelve different serums and oils and creams and sprays applied morning and night under harsh overhead lighting in a white-tiled bathroom.
My gaze drifts down my reflection, searching for the hints of softness in my stomach and hips that had Marco so scandalized. They’re also hard to ignore now I know they’re there, and I suppose some women might choose cosmetics and potions over homemade cheeseburgers and shakes, but I don’t want to be oneof them. And besides, it’s kind of nice to have a little more to show off in the bust.
The shower cuts off behind me and Finn opens the glass door, steam tumbling out around his naked, dripping body as he steps out and reaches for a towel. I watch him in the mirror, admiration and desire coiling in my middle. The way his muscles flex as he dries his hair. His thick thighs and tight ass. The inked lines and ridges of his shoulders and arms. The undulation of his tattooed back. He’s breathtakingly beautiful and so damn sexy.
Eventually, he catches my eye in the mirror, and a knowing smirk steals across his lips. He throws the damp towel to the floor and stands behind me, his frame towering over mine, skin hot and damp and smelling like soap, his cock thickening against my lower back.
He reaches around me, his skin barely brushing mine yet making me shiver, and picks up my hand lotion, then the face oil. “What’s all this for?”
