Page 4 of A Taste For Trouble

He didn’t like Joe any more than I did. The man was a sleazy used car salesman. Nobody with half a brain could like him or want to marry him. Was it all the glitter she inhaled daily that was messing with Rose’s brain? Why else would she even date a creep like that, let alone want to marry him?

If I didn’t know any better, I’d have sworn she was doing this to make me miserable. But I did know better. I wasn’t Rose’s type any more than she was mine. So why did the thought of her marrying someone else give me an ache right under the sternum?

I slammed the lid on my laptop and stepped away from my desk. I’d have to revise that contract later tonight, but right now, I had to fix this problem before it got out of hand. I had promised Aunt Polly I’d always look out for Rose. And she’d never forgive me if she found out I’d let her daughter marry a man who could only make her miserable.

Rose deserved so much better than a jackass whose only job was to doctor the mileage on cars that deserved to be scrapped out of mercy. She deserved someone who would keep her safe, no matter what…who would give her everything her heart desired. Someone reliable. Someone who wasn’t Joe Cheney.

I tried to think of anyone I knew who’d be a good choice for her, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of anyone. Never mind! First things first. I had to make it very clear to little Rose Murphy that she was not going to waste her famous lasagna on the likes of that motherfucker.

CHAPTER 3

ROSE

Dominic Carlisle might be a pain in my ass, but he had the best timing ever. Trevor was forced to give up his plan to lock me in my basement until I came to my senses because he had to get back to work.

“You can’t leave me to deal with this,” cried Mara. “I’m weak! Rosie’s been trampling all over since we were in kindergarten.”

“Hey, I made you give up your purple crayon justonce! Can you let it go already?” I demanded.

“You forced me to go on a fake date with Theo just last month,” she reminded me.

“And look how that turned out,” I reminded her right back. “You scored the man of your dreams! All because I gave you a little nudge right when you needed it. That’s my superpower! I nudge people into fulfilling their dreams. So why is it such a crime if I nudge Joe into fulfilling mine for a change?”

“Butisit your dream to marry him? Or are you doing it just to spite Dominic?” she asked softly.

I let out a loud snort that would have made my Mom swat me upside the head if she were here right now.

“This has nothing to do with him because Dominic Carlisle does not give a rat’s ass about whom I marry. He’ll be glad to be rid of the responsibility of keeping me safe. Tell her, Trevor!”

“That man turns himself inside out to protect you. Always has. And he will never let you throw yourself away on a sleazebag like Joe. Tell her, Trevor,” she countered.

“Gotta go,” yelped Trevor when he saw the time and ran towards the tall building with the ugly-ass glass facade that was Carlisle Towers. It stood across the square from Quincy’s pie shop and was tall enough to be seen from anywhere in our little town of Maplewood.

Mara sighed and helped me put my bags in the trunk of her car. During the short drive to my cottage just off Main Street, she did her best to get me to change my mind, but my mind was made up. I was about to hit thirty, and I was done waiting for Dominic to think of me as anything but a burden.

His mother, Anthea Carlisle, was my godmother, and I loved her to bits. She had always been like a second mother to me, and settled into that role even more firmly after my Mom died ten years ago. And just like that, Dominic was thrown into the role of my elder brother. A role that neither of us wanted him to play.

He made that very clear every time his mother sent him to rescue me from whatever mess I’d gotten myself into yet again. The man was a Grinch, but with the face of a fallen angel. Every time he rushed to my rescue, he’d glare at me with that achingly gorgeous face set in stern lines, those lush, biteable lips pursed tightly in anger, and every time, I’d feel a little bit smaller. Like my very existence was a burden.

And I hated him for it! Of course, I did.

But for some reason, every hero of every book I wrote looked strangely like Dom. And not just looked like him. Myheroes were the embodiment of Dominic Carlisle, only way more approachable.Theydidn’t glare at my heroines like they wished she didn’t exist. I mean, they did in the beginning, but they soon saw the error of their ways and fell at her feet soon enough. Every single time. In every single book I wrote.

I sighed as I carried my groceries into the house. I was clearly living vicariously through my books, and it was time to stop. Because no good would ever come of obsessing over a man who didn’t see me as anything but a pest. I was done waiting for him. I was moving on. With Joe.

I put the pies in the refrigerator and got on with putting the lasagna together in my favourite Le Creuset baking dish. The one Dom had gifted me last Christmas. If that didn’t tell me what he thought of me, nothing would. I mean, would he buy a baking dish for Cece Blair? No, he fucking wouldn’t! He’d probably shower her with diamonds and rubies. But boring old Rosie Posie, with her love for baking, rated nothing more. I should have hit him on the head with it as soon as I opened the box, but it was Le Creuset, and in that gorgeous blueberry colour. And I did have a baking addiction. Gosh, I was weak!

Not anymore. And one more thing. I was done making lasagna for Dominic. From now on, all my pasta was reserved for Joe alone. Rude billionaires who treated me like wallpaper did not deserve any of it. I snorted in anger as I slapped marinara sauce onto the first layer of lasagna sheets. When I was sure the dish couldn’t take any more sauce and cheese, I placed it carefully into the preheated oven and crossed my fingers because my oven had been temperamental lately. I didn’t know what electrical gremlin had gotten into it, but it wasn’t something I could fix.

Joe called it a fire hazard. Heck, he called my whole cottage a fire hazard. But I didn’t care. My house might be small andcoming apart in various places, but it was mine. And it was all I had left of my mother.

A loud, plaintive yowl brought me out of my reverie.

“Yes, I hear you, but you’re not getting any more food until dinner,” I said firmly, looking down at the beseeching face of my fat, black cat, Sweetpea. He growled in response, and not for the first time since I’d named him, I wondered what possessed me to give such a sweet name to the orneriest cat in the world. Sweetpea, to put it politely, was an asshole. But a lovable one. As long as he got his way.

It wasn’t his fault, though. He was a feral cat who wandered into my bedroom through the window one night, about a month ago, to come in from a storm. At first, he refused to let me anywhere near him, but at some point that night, the loud thunder and lightning sent him scurrying into my bedroom in fright. He took a flying leap onto my bed and curled up against me rather grudgingly. But ever since that moment, he became mine. For life.

My hands and legs were covered in scratches and bites because, try as he might, Sweetpea couldn’t control his asshole side from coming out once in a while. But he made up for it with his warm cuddles and loud, rumbling purrs.