Page 3 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

Rose

My brother’s voice carries a mix of exasperation and worry as it booms over the phone.

“Rose, unless you’ve got a better idea, this isn’t up for discussion. I got you a summer gig here in Colorado—what’ve you got to lose?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and lean against the kitchen counter of my miniature New York City apartment.

I hate to admit how tempting it sounds. Getting out of the city, breathing fresh air for a change .?.?. or hell, just change .

Change is healthy, right? Even if it’s temporary.

Not to mention my feet could use a break from having to walk home twelve blocks from my bartending job downtown at two in the morning because I don’t dare ride the subway that late.

Or get in a car with a stranger .?.?.

But what would it mean if I go?

That I’m failing miserably here in New York and need my brother to rescue me? I can’t do that.

It’s exactly the kind of thing he expected when I told him I was moving to Manhattan for school. That the city would somehow swallow me whole, be too fast-paced for me to handle, or worse .?.?. I would get hurt.

Mom and Dad didn’t mind so much since they were both hoping I’d follow in Wesley’s footsteps and “go away for school.”

And sure, I did drop out more than three quarters of the way into my degree. But I had my reasons.

I’m not meant to be a therapist.

That little fact became clear to me when I went to therapy and saw it for what it really is.

A sham. A dumb, stupid tactic to get people to talk for as long as they need to without ever giving them a real answer.

Without ever healing them. I want no part in it.

A world of art instead .?.?. just sounded right . Still does .?.?. I think.

I only hesitate because it’s not easy making steady income as an artist.

But hey, at least I’m in the right city for it.

With its world-class museums, vibrant street scene, and endless diversity, the sky’s my limit here—even if my brother does hate the idea of me making it my permanent residence.

All so I can pursue a career that is impulsive, risky, and my personal favorite—not practical .

Even in middle school, when all the other girls joined drama club or tried out for cheerleading, I was sneaking into metal and woodworking class to see if I could weld something without setting my hair on fire.

My parents never complained about my choices. They want me to be happy. It’s always been my brother whose protective nature warns me that my free-spirited lifestyle will catch up with me.

In the form of bills, responsibilities, and reality checks.

He didn’t laugh when I replied with, I’d probably bounce that reality check .

Truthfully? I’m not laughing either. In many ways, I know he’s right. But I’m not ready to tell him that yet.

“Wes, I told you, I’m doing fiiine .” I stretch the word I desperately need him to believe. Even if I don’t believe it myself. “And did I mention? I don’t need you covering my rent this month. I’ve totally got it. Actually, I think I’ve got next month too. The tips at the bar have been—”

“Really? You’re fine? And how long until I hear you quit or got fired because your boss was ‘toxic’?”

“It’s Manhattan,” I shout back. “Toxic bosses are a package deal, bro.” I try to sound like I love the city vibe. And I think I’m pulling it off. Because I did love it here for a while. What’s not to love? It’s got everything you could want.

We’re from a small town in South Carolina. And as much as I loved it, I wanted to explore a broader life—it’s why I applied for every scholarship under the sun for NYU. I was meant for New York vibes, not small-town charm.

Not that it did me any good.

After “the accident”—which is how I refer to it as I refuse to call it what my therapist did, “the incident”—I’ve been living in fear of living in fear.

So I do things impulsively, bravely, and spontaneously. Art is spontaneous. Art heals.

With art, you can’t lie to someone and tell them it’s going to be OK.

But no .?.?. art didn’t solve my problem either. Because I’m still restless some nights.

I try not to be a cliché.

I try not to let my fears control me.

So those nights when I’m restless .?.?. I’m reckless. Desperate to prove that I can handle myself. I’m not scared. I’m not scarred.

How reckless, you ask?

Well, a few weeks ago, I started talking to a fellow artist at the Painter’s Room, a place downtown where new artists showcase their work. Mine are usually watercolor or charcoal. His are photography. Nude photography.

He showcases them in silhouettes, and for a moment, I was drawn to them. They were so .?.?. tasteful and sexy, I just had to ask about it. How he makes everything around them so colorful and brilliant, and you can almost see the woman’s mood.

It’s magnificent.

At least .?.?. in the moment.

I was so interested .?.?. and reckless .?.?. that I asked if he would photograph me. I didn’t expect him to, but he handed me his card and said he’d only do it if I agreed to be paid. Since the work would be featured in his book, I’d need to sign rights for him to use it.

If I told my brother, he’d have a fit and call it borderline prostitution.

Me? I call it expressing myself through art.

But a tiny part of me wonders .?.?. how far is too far?

Yes, that was exhilarating, and I can’t wait to see the images when Patrick’s done with them, but .?.?. is that really me? Or was I just trying to prove something?

And if so? To whom?

“Rose,” Wesley sighs. “I know how stubborn you are. I came prepared.”

“Gonna pull the mom and dad card on me again?” I try to sound bored with the threat I know is coming.

“No,” he starts because he secretly hates being predictable. “Fine, yes. It’s me or them, Rose.”

I grumble, but it’s more for his benefit. Because I’m not going to lie, I’ve considered moving back home.

My brother sighs. “OK, what about going back to school?”

“What? Who has time for that?” I don’t ask if he means art school or back to NYU to finish my degree. Because either way, I won’t be able to afford this place on a part-time salary, or the tuition.

“ You would if you let me help you. Rose, I’m your brother.

I know your independence is important to you and being young and carefree has its appeal, but so is looking at the future.

After the summer, let’s talk. If you’re still itching to get back to New York, I’ll help you look for some scholarships and get you back into school.

Even schools like .?.?.” He sighs. “Chelsea Art Academy.”

My eyes widen at his offer. Is this a trick or is Wes really coming around? “Thought you said it’s not practical .”

“Fuck practical. This is what you want. We can get you a work-study program and maybe you can keep”—he sighs again, like coming on board with me is truly painful—“bartending on the weekends.”

A grin spreads across my face. “Thanks, Wes.” I consider the summer offer again for a beat, not quite ready to commit. “I really can take care of myself. I just .?.?. need to get my groove back.”

He scoffs. “Where’d ya lose it? What’s it look like? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

“Wow. Harsh. You know, it’s not my interest in art that makes me impulsive.”

“Art? No. Quitting four jobs in the past year because of ‘artistic differences’ is impulsive.”

“I’m going to embarrass you,” I warn. Or maybe I’m fishing for some affection and reassurance that I could never do such a thing. That I’m not an embarrassment.

“It’s Wilder . I’m pretty sure he could pass a certification test on my kid sister.”

“Wonderful,” I grumble. “Tell me you talk smack about me without telling me you talk smack about me.”

“All right, I gotta get back to the kitchen before they burn something. We all set, then?”

I groan with a soft laugh. “Wes. I’ll shrivel up and die out there.”

“It’s not that hot.”

“I meant from boredom.” Now I’m just having fun with him. Because I’m pretty sure I’ve already made my decision.

“You’ve got me ,” he cheers like he’s the poster boy for good times.

“And the shriveling has started,” I mutter.

“Well, it’s not like you’re going to be hanging out with me much. You’ll be in the main office—or the Saddle Room, that’s Wilder’s office—I’m not entirely sure what you’ll be doing. But he needs—”

“Wait, I thought you were hiring me to be your sous chef.”

He laughs. Just laughs . Like I’ve said something hilarious. “Rose, if I let you in my kitchen, we’ll both be out of a job.”

The likelihood of Wilder cutting him loose is about as likely as me getting a call from Juilliard with a full scholarship based only on my Instagram posts.

Zero.

“So this is office work? Like papers and filing and stuff? I thought it was a farm.”

“It’s a ranch. Wilder needs help with the day-to-day. Vendor deliveries, inventory, billing, payroll, scheduling, things like that.”

“Sounds like busy work.”

“It is.”

“And how much does it pay?”

“I didn’t ask. But it comes with free housing and food. Hear great things about the chef.”

I grumble, but it’s not genuine. I’ve missed my brother’s cooking.

“This isn’t forever. It’s just .?.?. a reset.” Even as he says it, I can hear that he’s still worried.

Wes’s voice softens. “And who knows, maybe the scenery here will give you some inspiration.”

There he goes, winning me over with art references. “The whole summer though? That seems like a long time to commit to something.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not exactly the whole summer. It’s six weeks.”

“Not until the end of August?”

“Well, you know. In case you .?.?. well, it’s just .?.?. we want to make sure you’ll really fit in here.”

Heat floods my face when I realize what’s happening here. “Wesley, did you have to twist his arm to hire me?”

“Couldn’t if I tried.”

“I don’t mean physically,” I grit.

“That’s it. I’m not arguing with my little sister. Now start packing.”

“You jackass. What did you say? Does he feel like he has to babysit me? Well, I’m telling you right now, I’m not about to be anyone’s problem.”

“No. Of course not. Wilder’s not a softie like that. He truly needs the help, Rose.” Something about his tone makes me believe him.

But I don’t indicate as much.

He sighs again. “Look, remember a few weeks ago, I told you about his brother Dallas?”

“The one who lost his fiancée in a barn fire?”

“Yeah. He’s been .?.?. well, unavailable, and Wild’s been having to fill in—everywhere.

We’re not sure when Dal will be ready to get back to work.

If he’s not spending all day in bed, he’s at Bones, one of the local bars here.

He doesn’t ride, barely talks to the staff anymore, he’s just .

.?. not himself. Now Wilder’s runnin’ the place on his own. ”

I purse my lips. “Wasn’t there a third brother?”

“Silas. Yeah. He doesn’t have much to do with the ranch. Plays hockey for the Denver Kings.”

“Oh, right. Can I be his assistant?”

Wesley chuckles. “Your enthusiasm is misplaced.”

I grumble, partly to myself, “Yours would be too if it’d been a while since—”

“Rose, come on, boundaries.”

I laugh. “All right, all right. I’ll start packing. But be warned, if I hate it or if it’s ‘toxic,’ I’m booking myself a one-way ticket back home.”

I glance around the space. Or as close to ‘home’ as I can afford right now.

I hear him typing away. “It’s a deal. I’m sending you flight information for Monday.”

“It better not be before noon.”

“Oh, that’s another thing. This is an early-morning job. Not one that starts at four in the afternoon. You need to readjust your sleep schedule.”

My chest tightens.

I can try .

But even I know that unless I intend on being a zombie at my new job, I won’t be making it on time. Maybe Wilder will let me come up with a new custom arrangement.

Yeah, that’ll work. I’ve had one conversation with the man ages ago, and I can only imagine how much his ability to rationalize with a woman has grown.

“Six weeks,” I agree with a newfound worry.

“A reset,” he reminds me.

Hours after hanging up and throwing some clothes on my bed to consider before packing, I catch Willow up on my new summer plans.

She’s my best friend—if not only friend.

We met in college when I mistakenly walked into the music room where she—seemingly alone—was sitting in front of a piano, rocking out to a solo concert in her head.

We’ve been inseparable since.

Rose: I can’t believe I said yes to this.

Willow: I can. You need to get out of the city. Sheesh, I wouldn’t mind the fresh air myself if I could afford a plane ticket.

Rose: I’ll miss working with you.

Willow plays piano at the downtown bar where I bartend; it’s how I got the job. The owner there worships the ground she walks on, so when she recommended me, I pretty much started the next day.

Willow: Have you worked out your hours for this gig yet?

Rose: Early. Real early.

Willow: You’re kidding.

Rose: I’ll be fine.