Page 32 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

“I’m sorry,” she starts calmly. “I don’t understand you when you’re loud. Call me back when you calm down.”

“Don’t hang up. Jesus, you’re a real pill. What happened last night?”

Rose looks up at me, wide-eyed. “What did you hear?”

“Don’t play dumb, Rose. Randy told me what you were all planning. Stealing stock for the Callahan rodeo? Really? And that you got them all caught.”

Her mouth drops, and frankly, I’m fucking offended for her.

She wasn’t the reason they were caught. I notice anything and everything unusual on my ranch. And the emergency lights turned off around the stables was a big red flag. That and .?.?. when I realized Rose wasn’t home, I went looking.

I rub my forehead irritably.

“Yeah, well”—she looks up at me, a playful grin on her lips—“maybe I planned on getting caught all along. So technically, I saved Tuscan from being kidnapped.”

I cock my head at her with an arched brow, which only amuses her more.

“Good one. Did he yell at you?” Wes asks after a moment.

A relief I wasn’t expecting washes over me. He sounds protective. Rose picks up on the tone too and smirks.

“There .?.?. was yelling, yes.”

He sighs, quiet for a moment. “Well, did you slap him?”

She laughs. “No.”

“No?”

“He’s your friend, Wes, I’m not slapping him. Besides, what kind of precedent would that set if I slapped him in front of all those people?”

I hold back a chuckle.

“Should’ve slapped him,” Wes says, and I have to cover my mouth.

“Want me to come over?”

Her smile disappears and she twists nervously. “No. I’m naked.”

I shake my head, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Jesus, Rose,” Wes whines.

“Sorry, it’s my way of telling people to keep out when I want to be alone.”

“Well, use something else when it’s your brother, OK? A simple I’m busy would do just fine.”

“I’m busy, Wesley.”

“Right. What are you painting now? A dead cowboy?”

“Yeah, with the chef’s knife next to him as the murder weapon.”

He laughs, and shortly after, they end the call.

It’s amazing how they work. I’ve never heard this side to it. Caring, protective, brotherly. As though no matter what kind of trouble she got herself into, he’s on her side.

Guilt washes over me. And I know Rose sees it. “We should probably .?.?. talk,” I say gruffly.

She smiles sweetly at me and it’s like she’s giving me a way out. “I can help with that. Nothing outside these walls. Or this weekend.”

Damn, that’s more mature than I’d given her credit for.

And yet somehow it slams my chest hard. Because she’s right.

“Just one thing outside these walls, Rose.” I swallow. “I need to tell Wes. Not today, but eventually. I can’t keep something this big from him.”

She nods in understanding. “Soon as my plane lands in New York.”

Another hard crash against my chest.

“I need to go for a walk.” I hadn’t meant to say that out loud. But I need to clear my head.

“I’ll be here.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you had two suitcases of art supplies,” I comment, brushing her hair out of her face as she lays on top of me on the couch. The storm was heavy all afternoon but quieted down sometime after supper.

I can say with certainty that Rose did not get the cooking gene that Wesley has. Since we had the time staying in today, she decided to make us homemade pizza. She bought ingredients this week, insisting she was going to make New York style pizza and put this gourmet kitchen to good use.

The cheese was good, sauce was great, but I don’t think it was until she was halfway through the second slice that she realized it was cinnamon she had tossed into the mix instead of paprika. And I’m not sure how the crust was burnt on one side and doughy on the other. Still, it was edible.

Hell, I’d eat anything she made with the way she moved around the kitchen. Playful and experimental, the way she bit her lip, like she was creating some sort of masterpiece.

Her cheeks are still in that “just fucked” flush as she glances at the corner where her supplies are laid out over a tarp.

“I imagined I’d be pretty bored here when I’m not working.”

“Are you bored?”

She rests her chin on my chest. “Not today.”

I kiss her softly, lingering on the sweetness of those lips I thought I’d never taste.

But it’s dark out and I’m going to have to leave her soon. I’m on the field tomorrow. Lot to clean up after the mess the weather made today.

“You think you got enough of a workout all day to get some sleep?” It’s a cop-out, the way I don’t flat-out tell her I can’t stay another night.

She hums, stroking the hair on my chest. “I think I got enough of a workout to sleep for three days, cowboy. So technically, you screwed yourself.”

I chuckle, wrapping my arms around her.

Fuck, I don’t want to leave. But staying wouldn’t be right. Staying would imply I’m emotionally available.

Rose—if she even stays in town after the summer—deserves more than some patched-up version of the man I used to be.

The one who will always question where her heart is. If it’s with me, some dream she’s chasing .?.?. or another man.

It already feels too much like playing house.

But fuck if it isn’t a happy one. Waking up with a beautiful woman, making her breakfast, calling in sick, and going through half a box of condoms.

“I should go.”

She sits up, pulling the throw blanket over herself like she heard it coming. The tightness doesn’t ease in my chest as I pull on my jeans and watch her.

Rose has got her eyes on an empty canvas resting against the back wall, like she’s picturing her next project.

We haven’t talked about anything personal the entire time I’ve been here. And I wonder if human interaction isn’t how she expresses herself.

“You gonna paint somethin’ tonight?”

“Thinking about it.”

“You mind if I stay and watch?”

She lifts her chin to meet my gaze. So much unspoken in those eyes. “I’ve never done it with anyone watching.”

I reach for her hand. “Then let me be your first.”

With her one hand in mine, she stands, fisting the blanket in front of her. It’s the first time she’s shied away from me since last night, and I feel like an ass for nearly walking out on her when things were .?.?. so damn good.

After Bonnie, I swore to never get so attached to someone that I forget friends and family come first.

The ranch second.

Doesn’t leave much interest in a relationship that would just end up in flames.

Rose is a direct contradiction to the friends I put first and the relationships I avoid.

But hell if I give a damn about any of that right now.

She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It takes me a while sometimes. I’m still pretty new. And I don’t want to rush it.” She smiles playfully. “You need your sleep too.”

“I’d like to stay and watch you. Even if it takes all night.”

She hesitates, eyes drifting down like she’s weighing her options. Finally, biting her bottom lip, she looks up and gives me a small nod. “All right. I just need to get dressed.”

Before long, Rose is cross-legged over the tarp with a full set of paints, brushes, charcoal, and paper towels.

I’m sitting on the floor against the wall. I can’t see the canvas, but I can see her face, which is all I care to watch at this point.

She’s in that oversized T-shirt I found her in last night when I came banging on her door. Her hair is bunched up over her head. Her full lips quirk every time she glances my way. There’s warmth and teasing in her eyes, but her focus is undisturbed.

“This why you don’t drink? So your strokes stay even?” I ask, breaking my unspoken rule of no personal questions. The less I know, the less protective I become. The easier I can let her go.

So far, like she can’t help herself, Rose has been like an open book with me. And I wouldn’t trade her trust in me for the world.

But since it might be related to her focus on art, it’s not that personal. It’s not like I’m here asking if she had a drinking problem. Somehow, I don’t think that’s it.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Then why?”

“Alcohol tends to knock me out.”

I’m about to ask, Wouldn’t that be a good thing? But then remember why she’s anxious to fall asleep.

“You’re afraid you won’t hear anything if .?.?.”

She nods, her eyes laser-focused on the tip of her brush.

“Noticed you got a bottle of red on the counter.”

She shrugs. “Wes brought it over one night for dinner. He knows I don’t drink but he had a glass and left it here. You could have some if you want.”

I watch her and barely realize I don’t answer.

“I used to love wine,” she says after a moment. “The red, fruity kind that Wes brought over. Sometimes I think it might be OK. Just a little. But, what’s the saying, just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean someone’s not trying to get you?”

Something aches in my chest, and I realize it’s the unshed tears in her eyes as she keeps them on her creation.

I’m not sure how much time passes. Or how long I’ve been staring like a man who’d lasso the moon for her, but when she finally finishes, the only thing I want to see is her smile. Proof that she loves it.

“There,” she sighs. “I think that’s as good as it’s going to get.” She stands and turns it over to me.

It’s my ranch. Or a part of it. One of the barns. It’s from a distance so you can see the soft blues of the sky, the trees, the river, and all-around earth tones surrounding it.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to a silhouetted figure with Superman muscles and a cowboy hat.

She laughs and dabs on the corner of her eye. “That’s you, silly. I can’t do people yet, too much detail in that. But I can do silhouette. I met this guy at an art exhibit who told me how much story you can tell with just a silhouette.”

“Who is this guy?” I’m on high alert but keep my tone playful.

She glances to the side. “No one important.” The response comes too quick and I hate that I question it.

“He an artist too?”

I catch her swallow, keeping her eyes on her work. “I think he was, yes.”

I’m rattling her—I can see it. I sure as hell don’t mean to but there’s something she’s not saying.

Stepping closer, I gently lift her chin to look in her eyes. She meets mine, steady, soft, present.

I take a breath before getting in over my head. Pushing her on something I’ve got no place to. “I think what you did is beautiful.”

Her eyes widen. “What is?”

I nod toward the canvas. “This.”

She shakes her head. “Oh. Right. I mean, thank you.” She bites the corner of her lip. “Honestly didn’t think I’d get through it so fast with someone here. You should come over more often.” She winces. “Forget I said that.”

I smile, reaching for her hand. “Thanks for letting me watch you at work.”

“Seemed fair since I like watching you at work.”

A quiet ache grips my chest. Because it’s not fair. Watching me at work is about all I let her know about me. Like it’s the only thing that matters. Like nothing else exists or ever did.

I take her hands in mine and kiss them softly. “Have a glass with me.”

She starts to shake her head.

“I’ll stay tonight. I’ll be here so you can knock out soundly, knowing you’re safe. Have one with me.”

Her eyes brighten with gratitude, but her lips suppress a laugh. “Peer pressure.”

I stroke her bottom lip, trying to find the right words. “No pressure. Just want to give you something you want without there being consequences.”

She sweeps her gaze over me. “Too late for that.” Leaving me with that loaded comment, she walks to the kitchen and reaches for two wine glasses, eyes dancing with delight. “Oh wow, OK. But if I’m doing this, I need to do it right.” She holds up a finger. “We should cut some cheese. And chocolate.”

I chuckle, meeting her across the island. “And here I thought I’d have to twist your arm.”

She pushes the bottle toward me. “You pour, I’ll shave.”

“I’m sorry—shave?”

“The chocolate. Chocolate shavings, cheese, and wine used to be my favorite thing.”

I smile, then feel like kicking myself for even considering leaving her tonight.