A Ring for Rosie

by Maggie Wells

  She’d barely settled herself again when her phone chimed to alert her of an incoming message. Her stomach dropped with dread and she eyed the taxi’s ticking meter. Closing her eyes, she pulled her phone out again and said a little prayer Devin wasn’t throwing another last minute change of plans at her. She didn’t know if she’d have the energy to deal with another dating snafu.

  A bud of warmth unfolded in her stomach as she saw the notification from Charlie.

  I hear all the coolest guys text ladies on Friday nights to ask them out for Monday. Weeknight dating is the new day drinking.

  Weeknight dating? An impromptu Friday night dinner date? She laughed softly and marveled at how her once nonexistent social life was turning out to be fairly hectic. She shouldn’t complain. This was the plan, after all.

  She tapped her response slowly. No need to appear overanxious. Are you asking me out?

  I am, but in a super cool, I can totally play this off as casual way if you say no.

  A flush of pure, feminine pleasure made her lips curve upward. She her response without hesitation.

  Yes.

  Pick you up at seven?

  She sighed as she replied. Seven sounds great. See you then.

  She tucked the phone away in her bag once more, and let her head fall back against the seat. If day drinking was half as exhausting as weeknight dating, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be adding excessive consumption to her skill set. Still, another evening with Charlie would be nice. As dinner with Devin was sure to be. Much nicer than nuclear lasagna or singing old Stevie Nicks songs in a dive bar. As the cab zipped from light to light, Rosie let her head fall back and closed her eyes once more, allowing herself to wonder exactly how large a glass of wine Marconi’s could pour.

  Chapter 7

  James walked into the office and found Mike leaning against Rosie’s desk laughing and shaking his head. “Look at you, juggling men like tennis balls.”

  Rosie beamed up at him, her dark eyes alight with mischief. “Yes, well, I become amazingly coordinated when I drink gallons of wine.”

  Mike spotted James hovering near the desk and raised a hand in greeting. “I’m glad you had a good time, but next time, take a cab. I hate the thought of you hopping buses after these dates.”

  “Yes, dad,” she replied smartly.

  Mike turned to James. “Hey. Good weekend?”

  Narrowing his eyes at his quasi-brother-in-law, James shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from wiping the self-satisfaction right off his pal’s face. “Yeah, great. We took the boys to the bug thing at the Field Museum.”

  He saw Rosie register the use of the pronoun, and her head jerked as if she were absorbing an impact. James cringed inside. This crazy-ass scheme to drive Megan away was going to hurt the one person who was entirely blameless in this whole charade.

  “I bet they loved it.” Mike nodded approvingly. He rapped his knuckles on Rosie’s desk. “You’re seeing Charlie tonight?”

  She looked up, her cheeks pinking. “Oh. Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “Your Georgie’s a real blabbermouth, isn’t she?”

  Mike’s eyebrows rose. “I don’t think she knew she was spilling secrets.”

  The color in Rosie’s cheeks deepened and spread to the roots of her glossy dark hair. “No, no. Not a secret.”

  James stepped closer to her desk. “I don’t think Rosie appreciates being the object of idle gossip.”

  His defense seemed to offend her more than Mike’s nosy probing. She squared her shoulders and lifted her stubborn, pointy chin, and all he wanted to do was cut off whatever she thought he had coming. With his mouth.

  “Because you think I don’t do anything interesting?” she countered, her voice deceptively mild.

  “No.” He raised a hand to stave off further attack. “Because you’re a private person and you’re not used to people talking about your personal life.”

  Rosie stared at him long and hard, her expression unreadable. But rather than confirming or denying his assumptions, she turned to Mike. “Yes, I’m seeing Charlie tonight. We’re actually having dinner at his place. I’m curious to see what it’s like.”

  “His place?” James blurted.

  If Mike was startled by the revelation, he did a markedly better job of covering his shock. Instead, he treated Rosie to a sly grin. “Wow. His place. Old Charlie moves fast.”

  Rosie’s lips parted and the intriguing blush came roaring back. “Not his place, his place. His restaurant.”

  “Oh!” Mike grinned and pushed away from her desk. “Chuckie’s Cheeses,” he informed James. “A fondue restaurant.”

  “Chuckie’s Cheeses?” James repeated, dumbfounded by too many Monday morning revelations. “Isn’t that illegal somehow?”

  Mike shrugged. “I assume the guy has a lawyer.”

  Rosie’s jaw tightened. He knew she was about to start singing this Charlie guy’s praises, and he didn’t want to hear them.

  “So, fondue, huh?” Pivoting he strode to his office, lifted his bulging messenger bag from his shoulder and dropped it on the chair inside his door. “I don’t think I’ve ever had fondue, unless you count those chocolate fountain things everybody had for a while there.”

  “Yeah, this isn’t like that.” Mike dismissed his conversational contributions with a wave. “But the Mexican chocolate one is fantastic,” he told Rosie. “He’s really talented with the flavor combinations. Georgie says he had one of the best palates in her class at the Culinary Institute.”

  “Chefs give weird compliments,” James interjected, refusing to be cut out of the conversation.

  The observation earned him a genuine smile from Rosie. His heart seized when he realized that smile was the first he’d seen in weeks. Wanting more, he leaned on the high counter and peered down at her. “Hey, Rosie, anyone ever tell you you’re an excellent baster?”

  To his relief, she fell right into step with their usual banter. “Thank you, no. No one has noticed before.”

  “I bet you’re a great flipper, too.”

  She blinked those big, bottomless eyes. “Flipper?”

  “Pancakes, grilled cheese…” He gave an all-encompassing swirl of his hand. “I bet you never slop them over the edge.”

  She gasped in mock horror and pressed her hand to her throat. “That really happens to people? I thought slopping pancakes was an urban legend.”

  Mike rolled his eyes at their silliness. “I’ll leave you two to amuse each other.” He paused in his doorway and turned back. “But I’m serious about the cabs, Rosie. Or better, set up a corporate account with Ryde and use them if you’re out.” His gaze flickered to James, then landed on her once again, stern and paternal. “No more late night bus rides, Rosie.”

  “You’re not the boss of me,” she called after his retreating back.

  “Yes, I am,” Mike called without missing a beat. “You’re a vital business asset. We’d consider the expense insurance.”

  Mike didn’t see Rosie’s mouth tighten into a stubborn line, but James did. He also saw a few things he’d never spotted in her expression before—rebellion, resignation, and a trace of resentment. All three scared him, but the last shocked him to his core. Yes, they sometimes took Rosie for granted. And he’d own he was probably the worst culprit, but surely she had to know how much she meant to them all, not as an employee but as a friend. He also knew her well enough not to push too hard when she was feeling…bossed.

  “Hey, he’s right about setting up the Ryde account. Probably save us a ton in garage fees and parking tickets.”

  She blinked slowly, then gave a stiff nod. “Fine.”

  His curiosity ate away any shred of self-preservation he had. “What happened with the bus?”

  “Nothing. I took a bus home after a date Friday night.” She brushed both the topic and him away with a sheaf of pa
pers from her desk.

  A hot spurt of anger bubbled like acid in his belly. “A date? Why did he let you take the bus? Why didn’t he take you home?”

  Rosie’s busy hands stilled, and she looked up at him, her expression at once quizzical and incredulous. “What do you care?”

  “I care.” He narrowed his eyes, further incensed by the patent disbelief in her tone. “He doesn’t sound like much of a catch to me.”

  She scoffed. “Then you shouldn’t try to date him.”

  Frustrated by her use of plain old logic against his irrational ire, he plowed a hand through his hair. “Who takes a woman out and doesn’t see her home?”

  “Don’t tug on your hair,” she warned. “You’ll pull the root, and it won’t grow back.”

  James stared at her. Had she seriously warned him against snatching himself bald? Had she any idea what his weekend had been like? He was lucky there was a strand left to grab.

  “Stop changing the subject.”

  Rosie nailed him with an arch look. “The subject is none of your damn business.”

  “Rosie—”

  “Stop.”

  The single word put a halt to the conversation. James hesitated for a moment, ready to go again, but managed to keep his mouth shut. Sadly, this was the most they’d spoken since Megan showed up, and he didn’t want to be done talking to her. He turned to study the whiteboard Rosie used to track their project management, but the color-coded notes barely registered. He was too busy wishing he could think of some way to repair the damage he’d done by kissing her, but at the same time, thinking about kissing her again.

  She mistook his hesitance for stubbornness and heaved a put-upon sigh. “James, I had an impromptu dinner, okay? What was crazy was the date I had before dinner.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I met with some guy who was using me to make another woman jealous, so I ditched out before things got weird.” She swiveled in her chair to face him. “I was at the bus stop, I got a better offer, and I took it. After dinner, we were heading in opposite directions. I didn’t see the point in making him run all over the place.”

  James blinked, stunned by the thought of Rosie Herrera acting spontaneously. “Seriously?”

  She rolled her eyes and pushed out of her chair. “Seriously.”

  Without a backward glance, she headed for the kitchenette, her coffee mug in hand. Her Wonder Woman coffee mug, he noted. An apt choice for Rosie. When she reached the coffeepot, she looked up, an inquiring eyebrow arching high.

  “Yes?”

  He stood frozen in the cramped room. The copy machine whirred quietly, its green light glowing. Rosie slid the carafe from the burner and filled her cup, but he wasn’t interested in her caffeine needs.

  He wanted to know where she’d been hiding the pale aqua sweater she wore, and how he might possibly have failed to notice how long and smooth her throat was.

  Rosie replaced the coffeepot with a clumsy thunk. She was nervous. Rosie didn’t quite trust him. The notion should have given him a pang, but he didn’t feel bad. He wanted her nervous. He didn’t want her to forget he was the one she wanted. Not the cheesy guy or Mr. Sunset Sailor with his pleasure cruiser.

  She leaned back against the counter, putting as much distance as the small space allowed between them. Her inability to look directly at him both annoyed and thrilled him. She didn’t trust herself with him, either. The thought popped in and out of his head like a soap bubble—there one moment, beautiful and tempting, and gone the next.

  Feigning nonchalance was not her strong suit, but he admired the way she crossed one foot over the other as if she had nothing better to do but lounge around all day. “Was there something else you needed?”

  She chased the question with a quick sip of coffee. He watched in amusement as her nose wrinkled and her lips compressed with distaste. She’d forgotten to add the hefty dose of sweetener and pint of milk it took to make the bitter black cop-shop coffee Colm brewed each morning fit for human consumption.

  Not bothering to dignify her pointed question with an answer, he plucked a few packets from the bowl on the counter, pinched them by their corners, and shook their contents down. Rosie looked up when he came to a stop right in front of her, their toes almost touching. Without a word, without taking his gaze off her, he ripped open the packets and dumped the sweetener into the mug.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, ever polite.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She turned her head, and he caught sight of the tiny pulse thrumming beneath her jaw. Leaning into, then past her under the pretext of grabbing a spoon from the dish rack beside the sink, he held his breath as hers quickened. Soft puffs pummeled his shirtfront. He could almost feel the thump of her heart.

  “James,” she whispered, an edge of desperation creeping into her voice.

  But he was too far gone. He had to taste her, feel her. Ducking his head, he pressed his lips to the pulse point. He heard her sharp intake of breath. A splash of hot coffee seared through his shirt and scalded his chest. She made a sound—kind of a half-moan that could be interpreted in many, many ways. He was choosing the definition best suited to his agenda when she spoke his name again. This time, her voice broke on the single syllable and she set the coffee cup aside.

  He took full advantage by stepping into the open space the movement created.

  “James.”

  There was no stopping this train. He slid his hands into her thick, dark hair. The strands were every bit as sleek and glossy as he’d imagined they’d be. His thumbs grazed the lines of her jaw. Her skin was unbearably silky. He could almost feel the whorls of his thumbprint scraping the smooth surface. Her lips parted in silent invitation. James didn’t need to be asked twice.

  He’d pictured kissing Rosie before. Dozens of times. But, for some reason, in his mind, those kisses always tasted of innocence. Like the awkward, nose-bumping explorations of a fumbling teenager. She made him feel like a kid sometimes. Like he was new. Fresh. Unfettered.

  But this kiss. This kiss was nothing like those fantasy kisses. Her mouth was hot beneath his. Her fingernails gouged divots in his shoulders. She tasted tangy or spicy. He couldn’t quite figure out which. All he knew was she wasn’t sweet. She was heat. All heat. Her tongue touched his, and James had the crazy notion she might be hot enough to burn him to ash. She moaned into his mouth and the truth—pure, stark and raw—slammed into him.

  There was nothing innocent in the reality of kissing Rosie.

  And there’d be no going back. No pretending he didn’t mean this. Because he did, damn it. He meant every bit of it. He pulled her hard against him, locking her into his embrace. He’d never let her go. Why would he when they could have this? What the hell had he been thinking? Why had he denied them the exhilaration of this…melding?

  Yes. He needed to be a part of her. In her. Now. He slipped his hand down to cup her ass and held her firm against him. In her. Rosie. His Rosie. He needed her. Here. Anywhere. As long as he could have her now. Had to be now. He’d waited too damn long already.

  As if she could taste his swirling thoughts, Rosie planted both palms flat on his chest and pushed. “No,” she gasped as their lips parted.

  James froze, hating himself for sparking the ache in her voice, but selfish enough not to move. If she wanted him to let her go, she was going to have to tell him outright.

  “Please don’t.”

  The request came out so quietly, he wanted to believe he’d misheard her. But her palm pressed against his shoulder, and remained there. Firm. Steady. The backing force behind her rejection. He swallowed hard, trying to push the lump of raw desire lodged in his chest down as he gave her the space she craved. But he didn’t apologize. Not this time.

  “Thank you.” She ran her hand over her un-mussed hair, then smoothed the soft knit of her sweater. “And
please don’t,” she repeated. This time, the request was issued with gut-twisting assurance. “I can’t do this with you. Not anymore.”

  Anymore.

  He wanted to contest the use of the word. How could they quit doing something they’d never started doing in the first place?

  “Rosie, I—”

  “No.” She thrust a palm into his face and sidled past him, careful to make certain there was not one second of incidental contract.

  James’s chest contracted as he watched her rush back to her desk. How many times had she brushed against him accidentally-on-purpose over the years? Fifty? A hundred? Hair, hands, breasts, and on one particularly memorable occasion, her soft, round ass pressed flush against his thigh as she did some voodoo to the copy machine. And now? Now she was going on cheesy dates with guys named Charlie and acting as if he had the clap.

  A weekend’s worth of frustration boiled up inside him. He stormed out of the kitchenette to find Rosie seated at her desk once again, her back rigid and her fingers poised unmoving on her keyboard. He stared at her long, graceful fingers, too tangled up in his own anger to give a good goddamn about the way they trembled, or her sharp, shallow breathing.

  “Listen, I’ve been good, damn it.” He hissed the assertion, his voice low and harsh, and his own oxygen intake on the iffy side. “I’ve kept my hands to myself. I’ve pretended I didn’t notice the looks or the…” He ran his hand through his hair. He was digging his hole deeper. “Hey, you want to play around with Charlie the Cheese Whiz, good for you, but don’t act like we don’t both know what’s going on here.”

  She whirled and sprang from her chair, dark eyes ablaze and disconcertingly shiny. “Yes, we do,” she spat. “For years, I sat here letting you pretend I was another piece of office equipment. Then, when you finally notice me and kiss me, you act like it never happened. But pretending is what you do best, isn’t it? You knock a girl up, you pretend it isn’t happening, or you might get out of it on a technicality, but then, poof! Two babies who look exactly like you. No paternity test needed there.”