Wild Side (Rose Hill #3)

10. Rhys

CHAPTER 10

RHYS

I should not have told Tabitha that I’d rather fuck her than fuck her over. It slipped out in a frustrated, cryptic grumble, and now, rather than ragging on me at every turn, she’s been dead silent. Well, except to shout at my back, “I have a spare bed in the basement,” before turning and walking down the alley beside her bistro.

Then she got in her truck and drove away, leaving me to wonder if she expected me to follow again.

And I did. Because try as I might, I’m drawn to the woman.

Now, parked in front of her house, I try to make heads or tails of this fiasco. Her sister and I forged a friendship—one of my only friendships—and as forlorn as I am over that loss, I’m equally forlorn over the picture that she painted for me.

Erika told me that Tabitha was self-centered and work-obsessed, not cut out to raise a child. But all I’ve seen so far is a woman who gets grass stains on her knees from playing too hard, who paid a professional to help her do right by said child, and who is accomplished and well-loved by her employees.

A little too well-loved. My thoughts turn to Scotty. His stupid smile and flirty winks.

But my loyalty to Erika draws me up short. I trusted her. She came to feel like the sister I never had. I knew her for two years, whereas I’ve interacted with Tabitha for all of a few days.

Still, I promised Erika I’d be an advocate for Milo, and it’s a promise I don’t take lightly. Plenty of my foster families seemed nice enough when they knew someone was checking in on them.

It wasn’t until watchful eyes moved elsewhere that the neglect would start. I was always too big and too scrappy to be on the receiving end of anything worse. I mostly got left alone, and I learned to enjoy my solitude.

Which makes this entire situation even more exhausting. I’m not cut out for it. The socializing. The smiling. Even just the noise of being out and around people makes me feel tired on some level.

I sigh raggedly, dragging my palm over my hair, then scrub at my beard. I need to get cleaned up before I head back to work. And the clock is ticking on that too. My knee is solid for the first time in years. They’ve planned my comeback, and I’ve been working out like a fiend to get ready. The clock is ticking and I’m due back next week.

Which means I need to face Tabitha. Talk to Tabitha. Assess Tabitha.

And try not to think about ripping Tabitha’s clothes off while I do it.

It’s going to be fucking torture, but I unfold myself from my vehicle and head to the front door, duffel bag in hand, ready to face her all the same.

I hear her irritated, “Door’s open,” from inside, and my heartbeat picks up.

Makes me wonder if I get off on being tortured by Tabitha Garrison. Letting her hate me like this is some special brand of self-loathing.

I walk in to see her back heading through a door and down a dark stairwell into the basement. She has a duvet slung over her shoulder and a pile of linens held out on one arm like a serving tray.

“Pull out the wineglasses. Let’s get this over with,” she says, voice growing more muffled as she goes farther down the stairwell.

I wish I could say that her combativeness makes her less likeable, but it has the opposite effect. I see right through it all. Plus, I get off on a good fight. And the thought of going toe-to-toe with Tabitha makes me hard.

To get my mind off the tightness in my jeans, I head to the kitchen. It’s small, but well laid out and functional.

I immediately see a farm-style cabinet with glass doors, shelves of wineglasses within. With two in hand, I turn and take in the kitchen. Gleaming copper pots hang above the massive industrial gas stove top, and an array of Japanese knives are stuck to a magnetic strip on the wall. The butcher-block countertops have stains and divots that tell the story of a kitchen where many a meal has been prepared with love and care.

My stomach growls, and my chest aches in time. It’s too easy to remember the days when food was scarce. Not reserved for me. An expense I wasn’t worthy of if that “family” was going to make any cash for putting a roof over my head. I’d have to sneak down in the middle of the night and steal unnoticeable pieces just to keep my stomach from aching. Then at school, the gnawing hunger would force me to beat someone up just so I could steal their lunch.

Not because I wanted to. But because I needed to.I was in survival mode.

The angry stomping of Tabitha’s feet on the stairs snaps me out of the memory and propels me toward the antique dark-wood dining table with a pedestal in the middle. It’s big enough to seat eight people, and as I take a seat in one of the studded leather dining chairs, I wonder if she’s ever been able to fill it. Seems unlikely to me.

I place the two glasses in the middle of the table and feel her enter the kitchen, even though I’m not facing her. She’s got the energy of a storm. Ominous, electric, unpredictable.

She was softer for a moment at the bar. I felt it—tired enough to let her guard down. Then she’d gone back to pissed off. I’d watched it happen, saw the turmoil in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders as she decided I couldn’t be trusted.

Truth be told, I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t trust me if I were her.

She plunks a bottle of red wine down on the table with all the ceremony of a bull in a china shop and twists the top off, tossing the lid on the table before pouring out two sizable bells. “Great, let’s get this over with so I don’t have to look at you anymore.” She drops into a chair, looking as exhausted as I feel.

It strikes me that she appears gaunt, leaner than I remember her from that first day she sauntered into my house.

Having grieved my fair share in this life, I know this is anger. Grieving something that never was and never will be is a special sort of hell. Tabitha is angry. Deep down, she’s even angry with herself—which is a hard fucking pill to swallow.

I can empathize.

That’s how I know it’s a lot easier for her to make me the target of all her rage. I know because I’ve done it too. I’ve needed that release too—it’s how I started fighting.

This woman needs a target for her anger. Someone to blame so that she hurts a little less.

And without even thinking it through, I decide I can be that person for her.

I can keep my truths about her sister and her eviction. I can let her hate me if it makes getting through this even a smidge easier for her. She already can’t stand me. Knowing the way her sister spoke of her won’t change anything. It’ll just crush an already broken heart. And I can’t stand to see that.

The minute the decision latches on in my brain, a weight lifts from my shoulders. Committing to silently supporting Tabitha through this ordeal gives us breathing room to figure out what the best solution is. It gives me time . And it gives her a chance to breathe before everything gets uprooted.

I will move Milo eventually. Maybe just not yet. It’s the path of least resistance—even if that’s not what Erika would have wanted.

But I know it’s what’s best for Milo. It’s what I wish someone had done for me.

With both our wineglasses filled, we stare at each other from across the table. Staring seems to be our default. I’m pitched forward, both my elbows on the wood, watching her. Most people find my size and appearance—my silence—intimidating, and they end up backing down.

Tabitha does not. She watches me back defiantly, giving nothing away except fuck-you vibes and a few rueful glances that slip down toward my mouth.

Like she’s daring me to swipe the glassware off this table and fuck the fight right out of her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says tartly. I cover my chuckle with a grumble that sounds more irritated than I mean for it to.

“Doubt it.”

“You’re thinking I drink too much.”

As someone who enjoys wine and would never judge going on a bender after receiving bad news, she couldn’t be more wrong. “No, I was thinking that the wine at your restaurant was better.” And that this one would be better served splattered across the floor with my head between?—

“Wasn’t about to waste my best bottles on you,” she replies, smacking her lips for dramatic effect.

My traitorous stomach grumbles in response, and her eyes flit down to my waist. Thankfully, the table covers my lap, or she’d see proof of the persistent boner I can’t seem to rid myself of now that we’re alone in her house.

Her brows furrow, and I can see her thinking. I haven’t eaten dinner, but I don’t intend to tell her that information. She’ll say she’s glad I’m starving, and I’ll spend more time wondering why I’ve been so attracted to her since the very first time I laid eyes on her.

“How was bowling?”

“Fucking awful,” I lie. I ended up having a fun time, even though it was embarrassing as hell.

“Good.”

Of course she loves that. “I couldn’t say much. Didn’t know if anyone was in the loop.”

She hits me with a droll look. “I’ve barely had a minute to process my sister’s death, let alone”—she waves a hand over my body—“you.”

“Have you told anyone?”

She winces. “No. Everyone can find out about Erika when I’m good and ready to tell them. The gossips in town will say mean shit about her, and I’m not ready to hear it whispered when I walk past.”

Fuck. She hasn’t told anyone ? It seems as if she might be just as alone as I am. A subject I don’t like to dwell on. So I forge ahead, getting down to the nitty-gritty.

“I need to head back to Florida.”

Her expressive brows pop up on her forehead. “K.”

A single syllable. It annoys me. But only because I don’t like carrying conversations.

“In about two days.” Her hand flies to her throat, face contorted in pain, as she rocks back as though I’ve struck her. Her reaction is visceral. It’s hard to watch. And I put her out of her misery quickly. “I won’t take Milo with me.”

Her shoulders sag as an audible rush of air breezes from her lips, relief personified. “Thank you.”

I grimace because she might not be thanking me after what comes next. “For now.”

And sure enough, ire flares in her expressive eyes. “What does that mean?”

It means I’m invested in her, though for the life of me, I can’t figure out why. I rationalize that Erika—if she could see the way her sister cares for Milo—would want this. I rationalize that if Erika was lying about her sister, then giving this setup time to shake out is the only mature, logical way to handle it.

Milo’s well-being comes first. That’s my real job as his guardian.

“It means I’ll be back in a few weeks.”

Her cheeks turn pink, dark eyes dancing. “Oh, so this is a test? Are you going to grade me? Who made you the fucking judge, jury, and ex?—”

“Tabitha. I. Don’t. Know.” That shuts her up. “You were right, okay? I don’t know anything.”

Her mouth pops open and then closes again.

“All I know is that the stories your sister told me don’t fit with what I’ve seen today. All I know is that Milo’s mom is gone, and I want nothing but the absolute best for him. All I know is that he’s talked about tabby cats for the past fucking year, and I’ve told him over and over again that I’m allergic.”

Her features go blank at the last part. And it’s true. I was wondering why he was more obsessed with tabby cats than dinosaurs. It never made sense. But it does now.

Her lips finally quirk, and she softly asks, “Really?”

“Yes.”

“Are you allergic?”

Good lord, this woman will talk about anything but the issue at hand. “Sort of. I’m not a cat guy.”

She scoffs and gives me a knowing smirk. I’m tempted to tell her she’s reading into that all wrong, but I bite my tongue.

“Listen, this is a tremendous responsibility, one I take seriously and was not prepared for in the least, so can we just lay our swords down for a minute?”

“I don’t like you.”

I take an absent sip of wine and stare off at the massive industrial fridge. “So I’ve gathered.”

“I love my sister. I don’t know what she told you. And I don’t mean what I’m about to say cruelly, but she never told me you were involved with Milo either. Just told me how hot you were and that you liked your privacy, so it would be better if I didn’t visit her there when you were in town.”

My brow furrows. “You visited?”

Tabitha’s eyes widen in astonishment. “ Of course . Dude, are you kidding me? I’m still paying off the debt I have from sending her to the best rehab facility I could find. I swooped in often to take care of Milo so she could have a break. She told me she had a boyfriend but didn’t want to bring him around yet. I always assumed it was you.”

What the fuck?

My head spins from Tabitha’s account. Every time I think I know what I’m doing, Erika blindsides me from beyond the grave. I don’t know what game she was playing, but it’s starting to look like I got played for a fool by a woman I genuinely cared for. It’s hard to accept and even harder to understand.

“It wasn’t me. And she told me the same thing about a boyfriend. But I took care of Milo when she was with him too.”

Tabitha’s lips purse and push from side to side as if she doesn’t like the taste of what she just heard, but she doesn’t address anything.

“Do your parents help out with Milo a lot?” I venture carefully. “I was under the impression they cut her off.”

Tabitha sighs and flops back in her chair. She looks as though she might melt and slip right onto the floor. “It’s complicated. And I’m the lucky go-between.”

I tilt my head in response, wanting more details.

She lets out an annoyed huff before continuing. “They did cut her off, and there’s a part of me that doesn’t blame them. When she was down, she was… hard to deal with. They were constantly worried. And it went on for a long time. The lying, the mood swings, the disappearing, the stealing. That was the final straw. She stole their wedding rings and pawned them. They were passed down from my grandparents, and I think it just broke my dad’s damn heart.”

I swallow a lump in my throat, and Tabitha looks away, blinking rapidly.

“There’s a part of me that gets it. But there’s a bigger part of me that holds it against them. Because I just… I couldn’t bring myself to cut ties. I mean, you know”—her voice drops an octave as it thickens—“that’s my big sister. My idol. Even though that one fucking injury sent her on a downhill spiral, I couldn’t just leave her.”

The lump in my throat keeps me from talking. And it’s just as well. She seems to be on a roll, and I don’t want to cut her off. Truth be told, I hang on every word out of Tabitha Garrison’s mouth.

“So, I took over. And when Milo came around, I worked both sides. Basically told them that having a mom and grandparents in the picture would be best for Milo. And eventually everyone gave in. And it worked but?—”

But she carried a heavy burden.

Her nose wiggles, and she waves the thought off. “Anyway, my mom and dad were great parents, and they are even better grandparents. But I don’t know if I’ll ever totally forgive them for bailing on Erika.” Her gaze drops. “Not that I’d tell them that. But I’m working on letting it go.” She lets out a bittersweet chuckle before pointing at her chest. “Hence the shirt.”

“I’m sorry,” I say simply. And I mean it. It’s a sad fucking story. And with the shit I’ve seen in the foster care system, I also know it’s not an uncommon story.

Tabitha presses her lips together and nods in my direction. Her eyes are glassy, but she doesn’t cry. She doesn’t strike me as a crier. “Thanks. I’m sorry you’re caught up in this.”

I shrug. I’m used to life throwing me curveballs.

“Are you going to try and take him, eventually?” she asks softly.

I suck in a breath and shift at the table. “I don’t know.”

She looks me in the eye. “I’ll fight this, Rhys. And I won’t give up until I’m broke and ruined. I’ve already been in contact with a lawyer about contesting custody. So just know that I will do everything in my power to keep him. I’m not saying this to be difficult. I’m just giving you a heads-up.”

“I believe you.” And I do. I’ve faced off in my fair share of brawls, and something tells me Tabitha Garrison would be the fight of my life if I ever decided to go toe-to-toe with her.

Her jaw tightens as her gaze works its way over me, both of us feeling equally distrustful. “So you’ll, what? Come back now and then?”

“We can tell Milo about his mom tomorrow—together—if you want. We’ll tell him he’s staying here, with you. And yeah, it’s going to be a couple of weeks before I can get back again. This isn’t an easy location for me to pop into, and I don’t know what border patrol will say. Gives us time to figure shit out. Talk to our lawyers. Talk out the legalities and the… outcome.”

She nods, the stubborn set to her jaw the only clue to what’s going on in her head. She’s barely touched her wine, but she spins the glass in place by the stem, watching the liquid slosh against the sides and create a wavelike pattern as it streaks back down.

The next question comes out in a barely audible whisper. “Do you actually want Milo? To raise him and do the whole parent thing? Like, is this just an obligation, or do you actually want this?”

She hits the nail on the head. That’s for fucking sure. Because my feelings today are about so much more than distrust.

It’s the haunting walk down memory lane. It’s knowing how much this woman is struggling with the aftermath of her loss. It’s this inexplicable connection to her and to the little boy in this town that keeps me from walking away.

I don’t want to tell her those things, but I also don’t want to tell more lies than I have to. And the truth is, I do love Milo. And I know Milo loves me.

So I settle on, “I actually want this.”

Her eyes stay fixed on the wine, and her lips tip up in the saddest smile. “Okay. We both take some time to cool down and reassess when you come back in a couple of weeks then.” She pushes up without another glance. “It’s not fancy downstairs, and there isn’t a bathroom, so you’ll have to come up to the main floor. I didn’t make the bed, but there are clean sheets, and you can stay there when you want.”

She’s leaving when my stomach growls again, and I don’t know if she hears it, but I wish I could tell it to just fucking knock it off already. It’s borderline embarrassing.

Tabitha doesn’t acknowledge me any further, though. I can hear her padding up the stairs, probably going to bed, and I’m pretty sure she’s dismissed me.

So I drag myself to the front door and grab my things before trudging to the basement. It’s unfinished, with a concrete floor and a lingering damp smell. The walls are framed, but no insulation or drywall has been added. In the corner, a mattress and box spring pass for a bed. Next to it, two sawhorses with a piece of plywood propped across them create a makeshift bedside table that’s topped off with an old-fashioned brass lamp.

Like she said, it’s not fancy, but I’ve slept in worse, and I’m too exhausted to care. I put my head down and get to work making the bed, but soon I hear her stomping around on the main floor like a Clydesdale.

She’s either still pissed, or just not light on her feet. I’m not sure which, but I hear all the same. And I don’t even want to go upstairs to brush my teeth until she’s gone.

In fact, I find myself wondering if she’s thought through letting a strange man sleep at her house. I should talk to her about that. Along with leaving her front door open.

As I park myself on the end of the bed, I vow to check the locks before I hit the hay once and for all. Then I scroll my phone, ignoring the gnawing hunger in my stomach, and wait for her to finish with whatever she’s doing that’s taking so damn long.

The creak of the door at the top of the stairs startles me, and my head whips to the corner where the entrance is. Soft light and a delicious smell pour down the stairwell.

And then, so does her voice.

“Hey, asshole. I made you a bowl of carbonara so that I won’t have to hear your stomach all the way upstairs. I didn’t even poison it. Bon appétit and good night.” The door creaks as she closes it, but then it stops. Light spills down the stairs once again as she adds, “Oh, and I sleep with a gun under my pillow, so don’t try anything weird.”

I drop my chin, and a smile curves my lips. Because I’m pretty sure that—in her own way—Tabitha Garrison was just nice to me.