“What does it say?” Rosie asks me calmly as she steps around me and fits her key in the lock.
I clench my jaw. “What does what say?”
She sends me the stern mum look I’ve quickly become obsessed with. I follow her into the flat and sigh heavily before handing it over to her outstretched hand. She doesn’t look up as her eyes scan the words on the page, lingering far longer than the length the creative sentence requires.
She brushes past me and throws it in the bin immediately.
She steps into the kitchen and starts putting away the dishes she left drying on the rack. I move to her side, lifting a glass and reaching above her to place it in the cupboard. Within a few minutes, the kitchen is back in order and she folds the tea towel neatly over the oven. She takes in the room before saying, “I’m going to go pack a bag, then we can go?”
“You got it, pretty girl.”
She nods and I give her a minute, heading back into the living room and gathering the clothes I’ve left here over thelast few months. I don’t take everything, not wanting Rosie to think I’m removing myself from her life if she wants to stay here longer.
“Let’s go,” she says, standing by the door with her suitcase at her feet. I press a kiss to her head and grab the case, waiting for her to lock up behind us.
It’s when we’re back in the car that she says, “I don’t want to sleep there anymore.”
I grab her hand and press a kiss to the back of it. “You don’t have to.”
29
ROSIE
Standingin my flat and reading a note a stranger left for me was probably a low point of my life. I’ve already tried to forget it existed, but an anonymous stranger calling you a dirty whore is just something that lingers in the mind.
It was an easy decision to move out, pack up the rest of my stuff and close the door on that chapter of my life. If I had a backbone, I would have stayed longer, made more of a point of claiming my own independence before letting a man take care of me. But it isn’t just me I need to worry about. I have less than three months until Smudge arrives, and the thought of finding a new place to rent in London that is safe and stable overtakes any pride I have.
Jackson offered to hire a removal team, but I’ve moved myself in and out of every place I’ve lived in since I was eighteen years old and I’m not about to let any more strangers into my space than I absolutely have to.
Which is why Jackson, Anya, Danny and myself spend a day boxing up every item of my belongings.
Anya and I are tackling the bedroom while Danny andJackson attempt to pack up the heavier furniture in the living room. Jackson has insisted we take everything, even though I know that tiny sofa is going to look out of place as soon as it’s in any room in the new house.
Anya’s version of packing is taking all the clothes out of my wardrobe and putting them in trash bags. It’s very efficient.
The drawers are empty now, so I attempt to lift the corner to pull it out from the wall.
“Jackson,” Anya calls out to the boys. “She’s trying to lift things again.”
I glare at her. Traitor.
“Rosie Taylor, blankets and cushionsonly!”
“How many cushions does the man think I have?” I grumble.
“I heard that!” Jackson shouts, from down the hall. “And the answer is not enough.”
Anya snorts. “It’s cute how protective he is. I love this for you.”
I sigh dramatically but can’t hide the smile that pulls at my lips as I return to folding clothes on the bed.
“Aha!” Anya exclaims. “I knew you’d keep it!”
She pulls out the long red dress I wore to my nineteenth, folding it over her arm like it’s a bridal gown.
I laugh. “I didn’t even know that was in there.”
I touch the soft material. I fell in love with the dress when I saw it and used almost an entire paycheck from waitressing to buy it. It hugged my curves in all the right places and made me feel like a million bucks…until I got home from my party and found messages from my sister saying I looked like a pig in lipstick.
