Page 45 of Wild Rose (Blue River Springs #1)

“No. I’d never do that. Not to you or her.”

Wes runs a hand down his face, crossing to the window.

“This is something else.” He turns to me. “You’re even more out of control than I thought.”

“That’s enough, Wes. The reality is we don’t have to explain anything to you. Rose is an adult. A level-headed, smart, talented, and open-minded human being. Maybe if you took the time to get to know her, she might surprise you.”

Wes shakes his head with an unhumorous laugh.

“Yeah, real level-headed. A therapist with an eye for art. Or—” He drops a stack of dark eight by ten photos over a manilla envelope onto my counter.

“A girl who’s lost her identity and does something stupid.

And once again, Wilder,” he bites, pushing the stack toward him across the counter, “you’re too blind to see it. ”

I catch Wilder swallow hard at my brother’s words.

And I don’t miss the reference.

How dare my brother compare me to Bonnie?

Dropping my eyes to the stack of photos, a chill runs through me. I recognize them instantly. Where I’ve seen images like it before.

At the gallery.

My stomach sinks as I reach for them. They’re me . Nude—silhouetted, thank God—images of me, in front of a window, pushing back a curtain, arranging flowers, leaning against a door frame. There must be more than a dozen of them here.

“Get out,” I whisper, my eyes fixed on the black and whites.

There’s a beat before my brother moves to the door. “Call me when you’re ready to talk.”

It takes me a moment to recover, but once I do, I race after him onto the porch. He’s halfway to his car. “Don’t hold your breath,” I shout.

Wes turns. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve had enough of you judging every move I make. You don’t know me.”

“I don’t know you?”

“You’ve never taken the time to ask what’s going on with me. You just assume I’m crazy,” I shout, my voice cracking, tears stinging my eyes.

“Fine, let’s talk. What was that about?” He motions back into the house, and I’m not sure if he means Wilder or the nude photos.

“You can’t just start with that, Wes.”

“Seems like as good a place as any to start figuring you out.”

“Fine, maybe that was a mistake, but it was mine to make and this was my mail.”

“Mistakes,” he repeats. “It’s nothing but mistakes with you.” He glances behind me. “And complete disregard for the damage you could be causing.”

I swallow, but I’m too hurt and angry to focus on his relationship with Wilder right now. “It’s an invasion of privacy, Wes. You crossed a line.”

He climbs back up one porch step, head tilted and eyes narrowing. “And you didn’t?” he asks, voice low.

When I don’t respond, he shoots a final glare into the house and steps down. “Your flight is next Saturday morning. Don’t miss it.”

My chest tightens at his harsh dismissal, but I can’t let it get to me right now.

Stepping back into the house, I shut the door lightly and turn.

Wilder isn’t looking at me. I don’t even think he notices that I’m back inside.

His fingers brush the pile of photos on the kitchen counter, spreading them like a deck of cards.

His expression blank. Not hard or angry. I wish I could see his eyes.

“That’s not what it looks like,” I start softly.

He still doesn’t look up. “What’d you say these are called? Silhouettes?”

I bite my bottom lip. “You .?.?. remembered.”

“Yeah, I remember.” He nods, lifting his eyes to mine. “Who took ’em?”

I look back at him for a beat, my lips barely parting to answer.

“That guy you met at the gallery?” He waits for me to confirm. But not long enough. “The one that got you all rattled up when I asked about him?”

I blink a few times, trying to catch up. “Wilder, slow down.”

“Why? Give you time to think of another lie?”

I shake my head, stepping toward him. “I wasn’t lying. There was nothing to say.”

He perks a brow. “These don’t look like nothing, Rose.”

“It’s just art,” I say weakly.

He drops his gaze to them again. “Is the artist usually the subject too?”

“Wilder.”

“It’s a question, Rose,” he snaps.

“No, not usually.”

He nods as he pushes them back. Then disappears into the bedroom.

I hurry to the counter and tuck them back into the envelope and into the trash can.

It’s too late. I know it is. But still, I want them destroyed.

“Wilder,” I try again when he storms out with his shirt on, boots striking hard as he marches to the door. “Wait. Please.” I hurry after him.

Without warning, he spins to face me and I nearly crash into him.

He growls to himself and waits, jaw clenched, eyes dark.

It takes me a moment to catch up with my mixed emotions and everything spinning around me. But he’s giving me the chance to explain and I’m taking it.

“Patrick—he’s a photographer. I met him at a gallery. I looked at his work and didn’t see it as .?.?. provocative. I saw it as expression and beauty, and when he said I’d be perfect, I .?.?.” I swallow, my voice suddenly getting smaller. “I was captivated by it in the moment.”

His eyes soften but it’s fleeting.

“I didn’t see it as him coming on to me. He’s a professional. He barely even looked at me between shots. I was exactly what you said, a subject .” I’m grasping at anything at this point.

“Forget the damn photos, Rose.” He takes a deliberate step toward me. “You got all nervous and lied and I want to know why.”

It should be a simple answer and maybe if I had more time, I could dig deep and ask myself why I felt the need to lie about this when I was so open about everything else.

Was I ashamed?

Did I think he wouldn’t understand?

I’m so scared that he’s giving up on me here, I can’t even think straight.

I shrug because I’ve got nothing else. “I don’t know why.”

He nods, eyes fixed on the floor. “You know that’s exactly what Bonnie said when I asked her the same thing.”

My eyes flash wide and I’m left breathless.

Wilder runs a hand down his face. “I’m going to call Ginger. Ask her to make some room for you at the main office this week.”

I shake my head. “What? Why?”

“I’ve got a lot going on, and I need to focus. We’ll catch up later this week.”

A weight settles in my chest. I’m barely processing as he reaches the door.

How did this happen?

“Wait.” My tone is pleading, and he turns. “I know you’re upset right now. But can we please talk tomorrow?”

He looks out the window, to where my brother just left. “How long before you wake up and realize this was a mistake too?” He gestures between us. “Just a misstep. Something that seemed like a good idea at the time .?.?.”

“Wilder—” I move toward him. “Stop.”

I freeze in my tracks, eyes burning.

He rubs his chin roughly like he’s fighting to say what’s on his mind. “Fuck.” Then, like he can’t help himself, he reaches for me, pulling me the rest of the way until I’m flat against his chest. “I’m sorry. I never want to hurt you, I just .?.?. need a day.”

I nod and push against his chest, giving him the space he’s asking for. I can do this. A day is nothing. A day is easy. “Yeah, OK. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

I know he’s trying, but there’s no warmth when he says goodbye and walks out of the cottage.

I have a nauseating feeling that I’m never going to see him again.

At least not in the same way.

It’s midnight when I get the text I’ve been expecting. Waiting for.

Willow: Evenin’ lady. Got company or want some?

I swipe at my puffy eyes, ready to cry again.

Rose: I did something stupid.

Willow: You fell in love, I know, I heard.

Rose: Would that be stupid?

Willow: The stupidest. Take it from me.

Rose: Then it’s the second stupidest thing I’ve done.

Willow: What was the first?

I snap a photo and wince as I send it. Then toss the photos back in the trash where they belong.

There’s no text back. And I hold my breath.

My phone rings and I swipe to answer right away.

“Holy shit, is that you?” Willow shrieks.

“It’s me,” I grumble.

“Hot stuff.” She really means it too, and somehow—even though it goes against everything I tried to convince Wilder of—it makes me feel better.

“It’s not hot, it’s art.”

She chuckles. “If you say so, missy.”

“I do say so.”

“Oh yeah?” she challenges. “Then why am I only hearing about it now?”

“Wise ass,” I mutter. Then I give her a quick rundown of my afternoon.

“How did Wes even—oh no. Is this what I mailed him?”

I hadn’t even considered that. “Yeah, but—”

“Shit, this is all my fault. I say you call the feds on the guy. He opened your mail.”

“It’s not your fault, and I’m not calling the feds. He’s my brother. I can hear his argument now: She didn’t call anyone when I was paying her bills, did she, Your Honor? ”

She grumbles. “Want to chat for a while?”

“No. I’m pretty tired.”

I don’t need to tell her I’ve been crying for the better part of the day since my brother and Wilder walked out.

“Well, I’ll be up for a little while if you need to chat. Also, does this mean you’re coming home early? I’ve been looking at apartments for us.”

“You don’t want me as a roommate. I’m unpredictable and impulsive.”

“No. You’re my best friend and I love you. You don’t need to be tamed. You just need to find what makes you happy.”

“Thanks, Wil. Talk tomorrow?”

“Night.”

Willow: And Rose?

Rose: Yeah?

Willow: You look hot in those silhouettes. Keep ’em.

Not if my life depended on it.