Am I risking ten years of friendship for a momentary lapse of self-control?
“The moment’s gone, isn’t it?” She pulls back slowly, lookingup at me. “And after everything you just heard, probably for good.”
Hell,howIwanttoproveherwrong.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Rose.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. “He’s just not paying attention.”
But thereissomething wrong with me risking everything for a night with her.
Because that’s all it could ever be.
I drop my hand. “I think we got carried away. No—I got carried away.”
When she drops her head, I catch her chin, lifting it. “It’snotbecause of those things he said.”
She pushes my hand down and steps back a few feet. “Of course it is. And I understand.”
My legs carry me toward her and I grip her face this time. Lifting it to mine.
I swear, if I could read those pretty green eyes right now, they’re screamingGetcarriedawaywithmeagain.
And fuck, I wish I could.
But I know better than to want this. I know better than to let good looks and charm drive me away from everyone I care about.
“If you’re going to leave, you should probably do it now.”
I nod because she’s right. There’s no point in dragging this out. I walk out of the house, circle around the back, and hop in my truck.
15
Rose
At around ten the next morning, my doorbell rings, waking me. I pile up my hair in a loose ponytail and step out into the living room with a wide stretch.
Six hours.
The most sleep I’ve gotten all week. The world needs more Sundays.
If I wasn’t so mortified about last night, I’d have texted Wilder to thank him for letting me stay at the cottage.
It’s been something of a dream staying here the last few nights. Fully equipped kitchen, my own washer and dryer—it feels like a vacation with a penthouse suite.
I haven’t actually been here on a Sunday morning, so I imagine this is a wakeup call of some sorts. I stalk to the door in my pajamas.
My cart is parked outside and I notice something on the seat.
I glance around before striding over and lifting the brown paper bag, immediately smelling what’s inside. Coffee and a cappuccino muffin.
There’s a note scribbled on the bag.
Love you. Wes.
“An apology would be nice,” I grumble.
I bring it inside and close the door, resisting the urge to text him that I’m still not speaking to him.
After breakfast, I flip through the pamphlets that Ginger gave me and circle some ideas for today, since there’s no way I’m staying in. I want to see the town, go shopping. Meet people who won’t throw me against a wall—even if it is to get me out of the line of fire. Though, Callahan or not, I’m not convinced Dusty is as evil as Wesley and the Thorne brothers paint her.
