Rose
Wilder’s been here every night since last Saturday, closing the place down with me. Then taking me home in a city cab. He walks me up to my door, says good night, and I can almost count on seeing him the next day. Same place. Same time.
It’s almost like .?.?. having a boyfriend.
He hasn’t been pushy. But he’s been talking. And I’ve been listening.
This week, Silas started working at the ranch with Connor and Dallas. Which, based on the stories Wilder told me about Silas’s ranch skills, I’m devastated I didn’t get to witness in person.
Then he told me more about his relationship with his younger brother. They’re not close. Would kill for each other, but don’t talk as much as they probably should—Wilder’s words.
And I make a mental note of it.
Because as much as I’m fighting it, I want to be part of his life.
I haven’t asked about their mother, Carrie, but she’s slowly been coming up more in conversation. Nothing about her accident. Just how things were when she was around. There wasless .?.?. tension, which I think is the word Wilder was thinking of. He grumbled something about there not being “so much barbed wire” between them back then.
He’s been asking about my progress with registration for the fall semester. I don’t offer much. Since technically .?.?. I don’tknowmuch.
It turns out the new school back home in South Carolina wants me to retake certain courses to match their curriculum after the transfer. So I’ve been holding off on committing.
And .?.?. maybe there are other reasons I’ve held off.
The other day, I looked into the school Wesley was telling me about in Denver. Just browsing the site and taking note of their application deadline. No calls made yet.
No submissions. Just .?.?. an open mind.
I clap with the crowd as Willow finishes her first set of the night on Friday evening. She takes a small bow and moves to sit at my bar.
“Boy, you’re just giving up, aren’t you?” I laugh, taking in her look. Not that she doesn’t look gorgeous, she’s just dressed down tonight.
Her auburn hair hangs in loose waves around her shoulders, framing a face with minimal makeup. She’s in jeans and that oversized black hoodie I gave her last week.
She shrugs coyly. “Choosing comfort over big tips today.”
I grin. “Big what?”
“Tips, tips,” she calls out.
I laugh, wiping down a bottle before setting it behind the bar.
Willow settles in her chair and looks around, confused. “Is he here yet? I haven’t seen him.”
I don’t follow her gaze. I know he’s not here. It’s an hour past his usual arrival time and I’m trying hard not to care—not to notice, not to let my heart sink.
I talked to Sandra about him briefly the other day during ourfirst session. She, of course, didn’t say much since he’s not the focus of my healing. But apparently, he’s a big part of my road to self-worth and trusting again.
Still trying to figure out what the difference is.
She also reminded me not to wait too long to let him in or I might lose him.
I swallow, because maybe she was right.
He gave it a week .?.?. and left. I’d be a hypocrite to be hurt by it since it’s exactly what I did.
“Margarita?” I ask cheerfully.
“Rose?” She narrows her eyes.
