You’re being silly, I scolded myself inwardly. It’s just Preston—your friend.
And it was true; he was my friend. But standing here now, I let myself imagine that his reaction to seeing me cross the yard toward him was because his feelings for me were more than friendly. Because it was time to admit—even if just to myself—that my feelings for him were definitely more than that.
Unfortunately, until my divorce came through, I couldn’t legally move on. Which meant there was nothing I could do about my feelings for Preston. Still, that didn’t stop me from wanting to spend time with him, even if it was probably a bad idea.
At this point, I honestly didn’t understand what the hold-up with Blake was. My mother was sure he was trying to get his hands on the money from the gallery’s insurance policy, but I couldn’t imagine why he needed to; Blake had plenty of money, and I’d left with not much more than the clothes in my Hefty bags.
As my former friends had been more than keen to show me, Blake had moved on with his life. Surely his new girlfriend would want to know their relationship was going somewhere. Unless, of course, he was using the delay as an excuse to put her off. “Sorry, baby. You can’t move in while I’m still a married man. It won’t look good for the settlement.”
Ugh. That was such a Blake thing to say to a person that suddenly it all made perfect sense. I reminded myself to call my lawyer in the morning to see about putting pressure on him to move things along.
Preston’s grin faded. “What’s wrong?” he asked, making me realize I’d done a poor job of keeping these thoughts from showing on my face.
Pasting on a smile, I alternated lifting the six-pack of beer and the tote bag of groceries. “Nothing,” I said quickly, continuing up the steps to join him at the front door. “I hope you haven’t eaten yet, because I come bearing dinner.”
His gaze flicked down to the plain brown paper bag he held in his hand. There was a large grease splotch on the side facing me.
Assuming it was leftovers, I frowned as embarrassment took root. I’d presumed too much. “Shit. You ate already. I’ll just—” I moved to make my way back down the stairs, but he stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.
When I turned back around to face him, Preston shook his head. “No. Just a rotisserie chicken I picked up from that truck that’s always parked out on the highway as you come into town.”
I glanced back down at the bag, only just now noticing the black-stamped dueling bird beak logo. “Oh! I love Two Chicks and A Truck.”
“I’ve seen them a few times but never stopped before. My fridge is empty, so …” He shrugged. “I can save it for tomorrow though, depending on what you’ve got in that bag. Or, you could, uh, share my chicken.” Under the glowing light of the porch, I watched as his cheeks turned pink and he glanced away, his gaze quickly flicking back to mine before he opened the door and ushered me inside ahead of him. “Ugh, sorry. That sounded better in my head.”
Oh my goodness. Was Preston Kelly blushing right now?
“No, this is perfect. I was going to try my hand at a batch of veggie enchiladas since I didn’t have a chicken on hand. Now I have everything I need. Prepare to be wowed,” I declared as I moved toward the kitchen. The bag of ingredients was becoming heavy.
He groaned in appreciation as he sidled up next to me. “You said the magic word. I love enchiladas.”
I nudged him playfully with my hip. “I think you just like food.”
He chuckled and nudged me back gently. “And I’m beginning to think you just like cooking for me.”
I felt the right side of my mouth hitch up in a small smile as I began emptying the contents of the tote bag onto the counter. “Yeah. I really do,” I confessed, careful to keep my gaze fixed on the food laid out in front of me as the admission put my vulnerability on full display.
Time passed in a blur as we prepared the enchiladas, set the table, and dug in. I was halfway through my plate when a knock sounded at the door.
“Are you expecting someone?”
His brows furrowed in confusion. “Not that I know of. I’ll be right back.”
When he returned a minute later, it was with my mom in tow.
“Mom?”
“Hey, Rosie baby. It smells wonderful in here.”
“What are you doing here?” My eyes darted to Preston standing behind her. His right shoulder lifted in a shrug that told me he was just as confused as I was.
As if her sudden appearance wasn’t completely unexpected, she dropped down into one of the chairs at his table and began serving herself. “Learning to cook Mexican food was the best thing that came from your time out in California,” she commented as she set about filling her plate.
“You didn’t eat at the Ryes?” I asked, eyeing the heaping pile of food that she was busily adding green onions and pico de gallo to.
Her mouth filled with food, she waved her hand airily in front of her face. When she eventually swallowed, she said, “Uncle Billy can barely remember to feed himself. These are delicious.”
“Thank you,” I answered with an air of exasperation as I once again glanced Preston’s way. He appeared just as baffled as I was. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but … umm … what are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry; am I interrupting something?” Her gaze bounced between us. “You keep telling me you’re not interested in him romantically, so I didn’t think it’d be a problem for me to join you. Unless things have changed?” She raised her eyebrow.
I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If I told her my feelings toward Preston had morphed into something beyond simple friendship, she’d become an insufferable gloat. But I also didn’t want to give him any reason to think I wasn’t interested in him romantically. It was a catch twenty-two.
Just as I was about to open my mouth to try and give an answer that didn’t implicate me either way, Preston cleared his throat and reached for my mom’s half-eaten plate of food. “If something changes, you’ll be the first to know, okay? Now let me wrap this up for you. I know you don’t like to miss your programs.”
Her eyes flattened into narrow slits as she watched him pack up her leftovers to take back home. Briefly, a speculative glance bounced my way before she stood up from the table. “That sounds lovely,” she said eventually, coming around the table to take the Tupperware container from him. “Always such a gentleman, looking out for the women in your life.” She patted his cheek fondly.
His jaw ticked as she moved toward the door, leaving without so much as a goodbye for her daughter.
15
Preston
Rosalie’s eyes found mine across the table, apology written across her beautiful face. “I feel like I say this to you a lot, but I’m sorry.” She ate another bite of enchilada, then set her fork down as if she’d lost all interest in the meal.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ve lived next door to your mom for months now. I know what she’s like.” I picked up my empty plate and held out my hand. She put her plate into it and I took both to the sink.
She snorted and shook her head. “I know she means well, but it’s just …” Her eyes darted away, and she rose and began moving around the room, studying the knick-knacks and photos I’d set out when I first moved in. Absently, she picked up a scuffed baseball in a glass display cube signed by Roger Clemens and then put it back down.
“Just what?” I asked.
With a sigh, she dropped down onto my sofa and curled up in the far corner, pulling a wool throw blanket up over her knees.
Looping the dishtowel over the handle of my oven, I joined Rosalie in the other room, taking a seat in the black leather Eames lounge chair I’d purchased after my first big solo project had wrapped up. I loved this damn chair. I linked my fingers together and rested my hands against my abdomen.
“You’ve seen my mom,” she said hotly. “You know how she refuses to take no for an answer.” She held my gaze steadily now. “When she begged me not to marry Blake, I t
old her to mind her own business. In hindsight, she was right about everything. Which is somehow worse, because now it’s like she blames herself for my bad decisions. Like, if only she’d tried harder, I might not be where I am now.”
I understood what she was saying, but a small part of me rebelled at the notion that she was supposed to be anywhere but here, in my house, with me. “Well, I’m happy you’re here. With me.” Even as the words left my mouth, I wondered if I was stepping over that invisible line that existed between friends. Only, did I even care about the line anymore?
Just because you have feelings for Rosalie doesn’t mean she feels the same, I told myself. Sure, I’d caught her staring at my forearms as I’d rolled out that pasta dough when I’d cooked for her. And yes, I’d flexed a little more than was strictly necessary to give her a show worthy of the attention she paid to my muscles.
Still, appreciating the way someone looked wasn’t a foundation for a solid relationship. That was lust, and I’d had plenty of that in my life. Naturally, I imagined what it would be like to lay Rosalie down on my bed and worship her the way she deserved, but I wanted more than that.
I wanted everything that came after.
Unfortunately, there was also the not-so-small matter that her divorce still wasn’t finalized. That had always been a concern of mine, but at least now I was no longer worried she might go back to Blake.
Still, the idea of jumping into a relationship with a married woman—even if it was in name only—gave me pause. Deep down, I knew it was ridiculous, but Margaux and Colton’s affair had really fucked me up.
But I also recognized there was caution, and then there was cowardice. And I was no fucking coward.
I also wasn’t stupid.
This wasn’t the time or the place to tell Rosalie how I felt. But I could show her. I could be the person she turned to when she felt blue. The man who had her back no matter what life threw at her.
A small, faint smile split her lips. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do,” I agreed, “but I also know better than most that you can’t change the past. What happened, happened. You can’t blame yourself.” I leaned forward, bracing my elbows on my knees and resting my chin on my knuckles, trying to ignore the little voice at the back of my head that told me I was the worst sort of hypocrite. When both Mikey and Briana had said nearly the same thing to me after Margaux had dumped me for Colton, I’d told them they didn’t know a damn thing about it.
Rosalie nodded absently and looked away, her eyes finding the fire in the corner of the room that had burned down to embers. “In my head, I know you’re right. But every so often, I’ll have these moments where I feel like a huge disappointment to her. When you compare our lives—the choices we’ve made—I’m so much weaker than she’s ever been. I can’t help but think that’s why she’s so … aggressive about pushing you and me together. She doesn’t trust me to sort my shit out for myself, but then, why should she?”
“You’re not weak.” The inclination to push up out of my chair and wrap Rosalie up in my arms was damn near overwhelming, but I forced myself to stay put. Not the time or place, I reminded myself. “How can you even think that? It took guts to do what you did.”
“Maybe,” she mused, bringing her face back around to mine. “How much do you know about my mom?”
“Only the basics. She’s always seemed more interested in my background than talking about herself.”
Rosalie nodded slowly. “Yeah. She does that. What I think people don’t realize though is it’s a defense mechanism. Or, at least, a holdover from when she needed one.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I said, leaning back in my chair and putting my feet up on the ottoman.
“When Mom first moved to Colebury, it wasn’t under the best circumstances, and I think she realized the more people talked about themselves, the less they’d talk about her. Her friend Lily says she should have been a reporter.”
“Why would anyone ever say anything bad about your mom? Sure, she can be a lot at times, but she’s a genuinely good person.” Colebury was a small town where news traveled fast, but I’d never gotten the impression that people were malicious with their gossip, and I’d certainly never heard anything untoward about my landlady.
“She was married before, but he was violent. At a time when women had no choice but to stay married to their abusers, she left, making her an outcast in the town she’d lived her whole life in. Even her own parents turned their backs on her. That’s how she ended up in Colebury. She rented a room from a lovely older couple whose daughter had died a few years before, and went about building a new life for herself here. Eventually, she saved enough money to buy this property, blazing yet another trail. It took a couple of years, but she fixed this place up and started renting it out to supplement her income. Some people were scandalized.”
“How so?”
“Someone accused her of running a whorehouse out here. The police had to investigate and everything.”
“You’re fucking kidding me,” I said, laughing.
Rosalie chuckled, too, at the absurdity of it all. “People didn’t know what to make of her, and things only got worse when she had me. ”
“Why would having a baby cause even more problems?” I asked.
She tilted her head to the side, studying me for a brief moment. “You really don’t know, do you?” When I shook my head in the negative, she blew out a long breath. “I guess that means people’ve stopped gossiping about that at least.”
“Hand to god, I’ve never heard anyone say one bad word about your mom. Or you,” I added. Honestly, I’d never heard anyone say anything about Rosalie. It was almost like she’d faded from everyone’s memories.
“That’s good.” She lifted her arms to unwind her long braid and shook out her hair.
I tried not to drool as I pictured twisting those long locks around my fist and pulling her head back for a kiss. Damn, I had it bad.
“Have you ever noticed that I don’t talk about my dad? Like, ever?” she asked, pulling me out of my fantasy of running my fingers through those long, golden strands and back to the present.”
“Now that you mention it … I guess I just assumed he’s a mean old bastard like mine.”
She shook her head. “He might be, but I honestly wouldn’t know.”
“Ugh. At least my dad stuck around.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. “Oh, nothing like that. I literally have no idea who my dad is. My mom went to the sperm bank. All we know for certain is he was a blond-haired, blue-eyed med student at the University of Vermont.”
I took a minute to absorb her words. I’d never met anyone who’d used a sperm bank, much less someone who was the result of one.
“That shocks you,” she observed.
I shook my head slowly. “Not shocked, necessarily. Surprised mostly. I have friends who’ve used surrogates, but … that? Wow.”
She chuckled. “It’s okay; you can say it: artificial insemination.” She sounded the words out so each individual syllable was clearly articulated.
“Right,” I said. “Artificial insemination.”
“Very good.” She smiled my way, and I grinned back at her.
This certainly wasn’t where I’d expected this conversation to go, but I appreciated that she felt comfortable enough to share the details of her life with me. It was another piece of the puzzle to who she was and what made her tick.
“Anyhow,” she breathed, lifting her arms up to plait her hair back into its braid as I watched with avid interest. “The point of telling you all of this is to illustrate what I’m up against. My mom never did what was expected of her. Meanwhile, I stayed with Blake as long as I did because it was exactly what was expected of me. She won’t come right out and say it, but I know she’s disappointed.”
“She isn’t,” I rushed to assure her, unable to stay in my seat a second longer. I practically vaulted over to the coffee table to the couch, sitting down
next to her and taking her hand in mine. “I know she isn’t, Rosie.”
Her eyes darted upward, and our gazes locked. “You called me Rosie.”
I swallowed deeply. “Um, yeah. I guess I did.”
“No one calls me that, ever. Except for my mom.”
“It just slipped out,” I said, clearing my throat. “It won’t happen again.”
Her tongue darted out to lick a small path over her bottom lip, and I had to stifle a groan. I’d never wanted anything more in my life than to lean forward and press my lips to hers.
Her gaze flicked between mine, searching. “No. I liked it,” she said eventually.
“I like you.”
“I like you, too,” she answered back.
We sat there for several long seconds, simply staring at one another and smiling like goofs. And the longer I stared at Rosalie, the more right I felt about what came out of my mouth next. “How badly do you want to get your mom off our backs?”
She chuckled. “Umm, only like number two on my list of goals.” She didn’t have to say what her number one goal was. We both knew it was getting her ex to sign those settlement docs so they could finalize their divorce once and for all.
“So, I have a bit of a crazy idea,” I told her, even as I asked myself if I was really going to do this.
“I also like crazy ideas.” Her neck and cheeks flushed pink, and that damn tongue of hers darted out again to taste her bottom lip. The way her chest rose and fell with breathy exhalations made me wonder what sort of crazy ideas she was picturing. Because good lord, the crazy things I could envision doing to her right now.
I had to force myself to scoot away lest the compulsion to lean forward and claim her lips with mine took over what little good sense remained.
“What would … umm …” I ran my hand through my hair, trying to recapture my train of thought. The way she was looking at me made it damn near impossible. I cleared my throat. “Right. Okay. We’ve established your mom needs to chill out. In your mind, what would actually make that happen?”
Homecoming (Speakeasy) Page 10
