by C. M. Albert
Rosalie leaned over, placing her hand over his. “It was noble of you to move here, too, to be with her. I’m sure it meant a lot to your mother to have you both around during her final years.”
Zade nodded, the loss of his mother too fresh, especially after the losses he’d experienced the night before. “How’s your dinner?” he asked, eager to change the subject. He noticed that Rosalie hadn’t touched her steak yet, but her salad was gone and she was working on her potato.
Her cheeks flushed, embarrassment flooding her eyes as she looked up at him. “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking sheepish.
“What is it?”
“I’m a vegetarian,” she admitted, laughing when she saw Zade’s expression. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but I didn’t want to spoil your lovely dinner. It was so sweet of you to go out of your way to cook for me.”
“Rosalie, I didn’t go out of my way to cook for you. I wanted to cook for you. There’s a huge difference. I’m not sure when it’s going to sink in, but I kinda have a thing for you.”
Rosalie’s cheeks flushed brighter pink when she saw the hungry look in Zade’s eyes that had little to do with his steak and everything to do with the incredible woman sitting in front of him. He couldn’t help it. When he looked at her, he understood for the first time what she meant about believing in something he couldn’t see. Because every moment he spent with Rosalie, he believed more and more that he might’ve finally found his person.
AFTER DINNER, ZADE lit the gas fireplace for a little ambiance as they settled back onto the soft leather sofa in the living room. She’d held her breath as they passed through his master suite. It was practically as big as her entire house and looked as though it came straight off the pages of an architectural magazine. It fit Zade perfectly.
But something about seeing the bed someone slept in made things a little too real somehow. They become actual people, and not just the image you have of them. That, and she had to dig her nails into her palms as they headed back downstairs, because she was this close to dragging Zade over to his bed and finally getting the kiss she’d been thinking about all night.
She just needed to know what it would be like.
But Zade was being a perfect gentleman, lighting the candles over dinner, pulling out her chair, making sure she had a drink. It wasn’t something Rosalie was used to—being wooed. And while she trusted her instincts, she still wasn’t sure that she could fully put her trust in Zade. Especially when it came to her heart.
She looked at her watch. It was only ten o’clock. They’d talked for a long time up on the patio, Rosalie answering silly little questions like—what’s your favorite color? Yellow. Favorite food? Eggplant parm. Favorite movie? That was easy—Ghost. And not for the obvious reasons. It was their love story that drew her in. That deep, timeless, soulmate kind of love. It gutted her. She’d never been loved by anyone in her life like that, and she wasn’t sure she ever would be.
That was the huge misconception about being psychic. She could read people’s intentions. She often knew an answer before someone said it. She had a bullshit barometer like no other. And, yes, she could feel the energy of an outcome and give a prediction. But people still had free choice.
Even when she had a vision of something happening in the future—and her visions often did come true—there were always free-will variables she couldn’t predict. Like the night her parents were killed. Or how she never had any visions about her own love life, even though she had them frequently about other people’s.
As she settled onto the sofa, she glanced at Zade from the corner of her eyes. He was handsome; there was no doubt about that. Age difference aside, she was having trouble figuring out what this sexy, successful doctor could possibly see in her—a psychic medium with a small-town radio show. She could offer him nothing.
“Do you like your job, Zade?” she asked, finishing her second glass of wine. When he offered her a refill, she declined. There was no willpower strong enough for her to resist Zade after more than two glasses of wine. Rosalie was not one who could hold her alcohol, which was why she rarely drank.
She loved the long, straight shape of Zade’s nose. It was masculine. And his two-day growth along his jawline about had her panties melting off the moment he picked her up in his roadster. She was a sucker for some five o’clock shadow.
But it was his eyes. They were so fucking green she could cry. It was like looking into eternity. They were that clear. They were also wise and kind. Loving. She knew she should look away, but it was as if there was an invisible thread connecting them as they curled up on the sofa together. She couldn’t look away if she tried. She didn’t want to.
Zade ran his hand through his thick brown hair as his gaze drifted to the fire he’d started. Rosalie could feel the grief pouring from him, even though he said nothing. She scooched over on the couch to get closer, something she knew she might regret. But empathy was something she had to listen to in her life. No matter how many times her soul had been shredded by others, she always turned toward compassion and love.
When Zade turned back to face her, his eyes were ravaged with grief. She took him into her arms, wrapping them around him and letting him drop his head to her shoulder. He broke then—something Rosalie had been expecting the moment she felt the intensity of his pain. She rocked lightly, her hands in his hair and around his back. “It’s okay,” she said, quietly. “It’s okay.”
But she knew it wasn’t. She knew this was about the car accident yesterday. And even though she knew Annalise had survived—barely—the others hadn’t. He said three had died. Rosalie couldn’t fathom having a job where you had to call the time of someone’s death. It was one thing to see spirits and angels, but it was another thing completely to be in the same room when someone’s soul crossed over. She’d been there with her mother when hers did. Her father had been killed instantly in the robbery. Her mother hadn’t been so lucky.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Rosalie asked quietly.
He took in a ragged breath, sitting up and searching Rosalie’s eyes. But nothing could prepare her for his confession. “The two others we lost, you knew them,” he confirmed. Rosalie held her breath, not daring to feel into his energy and learn who they were before he spoke the words.
“You remember Jeraldine Miller and her grandson, Andrew? We talked to them at Dez and Mitch’s party the day we met,” he said stoically, taking hold of Rosalie’s hands.
She shook her head no, as if the simple act of denial would change things. “No,” she whispered. “No, no, no. Please tell me it wasn’t them,” she begged.
When Rosalie’s walls cracked, that’s when Zade’s finally did too. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair, her tears silent but falling all the same. “I’m so sorry. There was nothing I could do for them. We had to focus on Annalise.”
It was as if Zade was pleading for Rosalie to understand. As if her opinion of him mattered. He was so vulnerable in that moment, opening up to her as if they were equals. She did the one thing she promised herself she wouldn’t do—especially on their first date.
She placed her hands on both sides of his face and she leaned forward and kissed him. It was slow and soft, just a brush of her lips on his. It wasn’t meant to be sexual, it was meant to comfort, to heal. But he wanted more. She found him kissing her back—really kissing her this time. His mouth was warm yet strong, his teeth nipping gently at her lip as he explored, tasting her. Slowly, patiently, lip on lip.
She’d never had girlfriends to talk to about stuff like this, though she’d had her fair share of kisses since her high-school mistake. But she had nothing to compare this kiss to. It was familiar and gentle, as if she were remembering the kiss rather than experiencing it for the first time. But when his tongue parted her lips, gently finding hers and connecting for the first time, she felt the spark. The tingle that Brecken always told her she would feel when she found “the one.”
She never believed in it be
fore. And she wasn’t letting her mind even consider it now. But the energy between them was absolutely electric. There was no denying that. His tongue swept along hers slowly, leisurely, despite the heat that was simmering between them. She was tangled up in their shared grief, and their shared passion. She didn’t want to mingle the two, but she couldn’t let go of him either.
Emptiness. She had no one else to grieve with, so she clung to him, her hands finding his hair and deepening the kiss. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself in his lap, curling into him. Her mouth found his neck, his ears. She rubbed her cheek along his jawline, his stubble shooting spears of lust straight between her legs.
“Rosalie,” he groaned against her hair as she brought her lips back to his. This time she drew in his bottom lip, sucking it in as her nails scraped his five o’clock shadow while she held his face in her hands. She loved the rough brush of his scruff against her palm and the confident caress of his tongue as it matched her pace—slow and languid, deep and sensual.
It shocked her when he was the one to pull back first, taking a deep, shaky breath. “God, Rosalie. I want you so bad it physically hurts,” he said, pressing himself against her bottom to make his point. Her whole body shivered with anticipation, with desire. “But I want you more than just this one night. And I don’t want to make a mistake taking things too fast.”
Rosalie backed up, sliding off his lap. She ran her fingers through her hair to straighten it, drawing in her swollen bottom lip as she did. She nodded, her mind agreeing that this wasn’t the time or place to take this further. Hell, she wasn’t even the one looking for this—this thing—with him. But logic doesn’t always answer when there’s a knock at the door. And what her heart heard was rejection once again.
She stood up, looking for the sandals she’d kicked off earlier. “You’re right,” she mumbled. “Absolutely right. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Zade grabbed her hand, pulling her back into his lap. “I didn’t say I didn’t want you, Rosalie,” he growled. “I was actually saying you deserve better than that on a first date. I want to give you more than that—in time. If you stop pushing me away.”
Their eyes met, his searching hers for answers she knew she kept buried deep. “I don’t know how to do this, Zade. I truly don’t. I don’t know what you want from me—but I’m pretty sure it’s not something I can give you.”
“Rosalie, I want nothing and everything from you. I’m sorry if that terrifies you. It terrifies me too. I never planned to stay here, to find someone worth staying for. Arden’s Glen was supposed to be a temporary stop for me,” he said, resting his forehead against hers.
“And it still can be, Zade. Nothing is stopping you.” She leaned forward and kissed him one last time, regret and confusion crushing her heart and making it hard to breathe.
“Take me home,” she whispered.
ROSALIE LAY IN bed that night, restless. She didn’t ask for Zade to pursue her. Hell, it was only one date. Maybe it was the grief from the news about Mrs. Miller and her twelve-year-old grandson, Andrew. Fuck! He’d survived cancer. She saw him surviving in her visions, and he did. She had told him it wasn’t his time yet last Christmas. Only to get just eight more months? Why? What was the point of it all?
Zade hadn’t given her any more details on their drive home, but she suspected she’d find out more in tomorrow’s newspaper. She’d make it a point to go in and volunteer so she could talk to some of the nurses who may know more. That, and she wanted to check in on LuLu and make sure she was doing okay, learn the extent of Annalise’s injuries. She would be devastated when she found out about her boyfriend not making it. And no matter how much Annalise disliked her, Rosalie wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
She could still feel the soft pressure of Zade’s lips against hers as he walked her to the door before dropping her off. The light was on and she hadn’t wanted another confrontation with Brecken after the emotional news she and Zade had shared together that night. The last thing she needed was her hot-headed brother to make things worse.
But no matter how hard she tried to sleep, nothing could drown out the sounds coming from Brecken’s room. Apparently it was okay for him to get laid, but not Rosalie. Asshole, she thought. She had nothing else to do with her pent-up frustration, sadness, and confusion but to paint it out. She threw on her Beats headphones and cranked her favorite oldies playlist, the smooth tones of Foreigner washing over her.
As she painted, almost in a blind trance, her vision fixated on the colors, the textures, the lines. She never once stopped to breathe or second guess her strokes. She tucked away the evening, and the war that was tugging between her intuition and her common sense.
In my life, there’s been heartache and pain . . .
She closed her eyes, pushing back the images that tormented her: The kids at school. Mr. Durant. Rocco Del Vecchio. Her parents. Andrew Miller. Jeraldine Miller.
Zade.
I don’t know if I can face it again . . .
The visions lessened and Rosalie came out of her fog, paint coating her forearms and fingertips. She set her brushes in the water cup, then wiped her hands on the tattered, old jeans she always painted in.
Can’t stop now; I’ve traveled so far, to change this lonely life.
She had started to slowly open up more since meeting Celeste. She still had Brecken in her life. LuLu. Egan. Baby Dylan. Dez. Mitch. Inez and Bridgette. Ti. Martina. Zada. The nurses at the hospital. Each and every child she helped on the children’s floor.
Zade.
I want to know what love is . . .
It seemed to keep coming back to him—no matter how badly she wanted to resist it—to push him away. She looked down at her painting for the first time, her heart pounding as the music played on, filling her little cocoon with promises and dreams she didn’t know if she could ever chase.
The painting was a close-up of Zade when he walked into the café, his arms full of the ridiculously oversized bouquet of white hydrangeas from Mums N’ Roses.
I want you to show me.
The truth of the lyrics shocked her. Because in the quiet of night, as Brecken filled his heart with another lonely encounter, Rosalie was honest with herself for the first time in too long. She’d gotten so good at putting her walls up, keeping others out so she didn’t get hurt again.
I’ve got nowhere left to hide.
But when she looked at her painting, remembered the soft, confident feel of Zade’s mouth brushing hers, she felt the stirrings of true affection, and it terrified her. A relationship was the last thing Rosalie was looking for. The TV show was her chance to leave Arden’s Glen, and that’s what she’d always wanted—wasn’t it?
The show was her ticket to finally being accepted and to help others realize she was no different than they were. She just . . . had a super power.
She smiled, remembering Zade’s words. The way he held her when they were both grieving. The way he read and respected her needs, even when she was blind to them. He didn’t treat her like a curiosity, or a freak. He treated her like a woman. A desirable woman.
The memory of his fingers tucking an errant piece of hair behind her ear. The way he held her hand as they rode the rickety old elevator down to the parking garage, his eyes never leaving hers. The gentle kiss on her doorstep, and the text immediately when she got inside: Can I see you in 4 days?
She’d laughed, her heart softening.
Now, she put her paints away, leaving the canvas out to dry. When she crawled back into bed, it was nearly three in the morning. She set her alarm on her phone, noticing a new text from Zade: You must be exhausted tonight. You keep running through my mind.
A stupid smile formed on her lips and stayed there as visions of Zade finally lulled her to sleep.
Love has finally found me.
THE NEXT THREE days passed in a blur. Zade followed up on Annalise’s progress regularly, though she was still in ICU being sedated until she could breathe o
n her own again. She was damn lucky to be alive—“but by the grace of God,” as his mother used to say. She’d had multiple fractures and lacerations, her collapsed lung being the most serious, immediate concern. But it looked as if they could remove the chest tube tomorrow if she remained stable, since the extra air was gone from her lungs now.
Zade sat in his black leather chair, dictating his charts for Zada, when he got a text from his friend Connor. Connor lived in his building, and his family’s floral business was one of the shops on the street level. They worked out together in the loft’s gym when they could. Which, admittedly, wasn’t too often since Connor was putting in long hours to breathe new life into his business, while Zade’s crazy schedule—plus frequently being on call—left things rather unpredictable. But it was nice to finally have a friend he bonded with in Arden’s Glen.
Connor: When do you get off?
Zade: Not nearly enough.
Connor: From work, asshole.
Zade: An hour.
Connor: Meet at Del Vecchio’s?
Zade checked his watch. He wasn’t seeing Rosalie tonight. In fact, she’d never replied to his text about seeing him tomorrow, but he’d been too busy to follow back up with her. Usually, it wasn’t a problem with women, since most were lining up to date him—especially after they found out he was a doctor. That was one of the things he loved about Rosalie. She didn’t give a damn.
Zade took a deep breath, exhausted from his brutal schedule the past few days. Did he really have the energy to go out and socialize? But then he thought of his mostly empty fridge at home and told Connor he’d meet him down there at nine.
Zada popped her head in the door after knocking first. “Hey,” she said, “can I come in?”
“My door’s always open for you. You know that.”
“Yeah, but you’re dictating,” she reminded him, looking at his pile of charts and recorder. “Can I take those from you yet?”
