16. Chapter 16
Chapter 16
Rose
“What?” I demand playfully as I stand outside the penthouse suite of the Longdale Lake resort. Something’s up with Claudia.
I came to check on her, one of my new hires, after I’d assigned her this morning to clean the penthouse suite. I’d gotten word from Sebastian Tate himself that it needed a deep clean, and part of me worried about putting someone so new on the job. But Claudia’s good. She’s always showing up early and hasn’t been afraid to work a little longer than her shift to make sure things really shine.
And now that I’m poking my head in the door, she’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
My gaze flicks around the entryway of the suite. This is unlike any of the other guest rooms I’ve seen. The monochromatic dark woods and gold furnishings are above and beyond the already over-the-top luxury of the suites.
“It could be nothing to do with you, but . . .” Claudia concentrates on the mop as she swishes it around the entry. “When I dumped out the garbage in the main living area, I saw something.” She rests the mop in the corner and motions to the clear plastic garbage bag hanging on her cart.
“Oh?” I’m sure there’s lots of crazy stuff in the garbage cans around here.
“When I saw the name Rose on this paper, I thought it might not hurt to take a look . . .” She reaches a gloved hand into the bag and pulls out a piece of paper, loosely crumpled. It’s the same stationary Milo uses.
Dear Rose . . .
I take in the handwriting I’ve come to enjoy, and I read silently. Claudia was right, this is meant for me. But not really, since it was in the garbage and partially wadded up. I read it, and it’s about my lips being like a rosebud and now, all of the sudden, I’m all flushed. It’s hard to find my breath.
This is an attempt to write me back. But he discarded it, and I feel guilty reading it. It’s short, though, only one sentence. And it did have my name on it . . .
“It looks like there could be others,” Claudia says in a sing-songy voice, jamming her hands through the trash to pull out two more papers, both wadded up into balls. “Do you want them?”
I remember this is my job. I don’t think I’m supposed to concern myself with anyone’s trash that’s in their rooms.
Still, I snatch them out of her hands. “Thanks.”
Once she leaves the suite, I debate over whether to smooth them out and read them.
There wasn’t a letter from him when I arrived at work an hour ago. Which shouldn’t matter because we’re both busy. We’re not dating. Still, he found out I’m a mom and that things truly are more complicated than he’d known, so I guess I’d been hoping for some sort of sign from him that he wasn’t freaking out.
But these papers are here. The question is, though, did he write them before he knew about Callum? Or after?
And this means he’s probably staying here, in this gorgeous suite.
I love my apartment because it represents freedom. A fresh start.
But the paint is peeling, and it has tile floors that remind me of a 1980s elementary school’s lunchroom floor.
And I’ve called the landlord twice about the dripping bathroom faucet and there’s been no response.
This place? It’s like I’m on a different planet.
How have I lost my head? How have I let this guy get under my skin like this? Some beautiful words, one wildly incredible kiss months ago, some lingering stares from across the room?
I can’t do this. I’m not my mother, sisters, or aunts. And I certainly don’t have the ability to be in a normal, healthy relationship.
I step around the drying spots of mop water on the entryway floor and pop my head around the corner to see the great room of the suite in all its glory. It’s a masculine room with finishes that could make the designer win some big prize on the HGTV channel. I feel like Cinderella.
I leave the suite and head back down the hall to the elevators, the letters burning a hole in my pocket.
Once inside the small bathroom just off the maintenance office, I lock the door, a thrill going through me. My gosh. I feel like I’m back in junior high or something.
My heart’s certainly beating like I am. I like him, okay? He’s the perfect distraction from a very hard few years. A distraction. Nothing more.
Dear Rose,
Thinking about the fact that you used to date Blaine makes me want to break his jawbone and his nose.
My smile is so big, the corners of my mouth burn. I scramble to smooth out the final letter, my smile never dimming as I read his words about inviting me to a writer’s conference in Texas and all the fun stuff we could do. And then:
Doesn’t matter. Because we’d be together and that’s all I care about.
I giggle, then practice some deep breathing, in through the nose and out through the mouth. I’ve recently been trying to teach Callum how to breathe when he’s feeling upset, and I smile again at his cute attempts to copy me. So far, it hasn’t really helped, but I’m sure he’ll get the hang of it eventually.
Callum. He’s who I’ll think of anytime I’m tempted to read into these letters from Milo or to daydream about this obviously wealthy and gorgeous man.
There’s a lot to enjoy thinking about—that he thinks such things like my mouth looks like a dewy and lush rosebud. And that he’s a writer.
I wonder what he writes? It’s not hard to believe since he’s got this whole letter writing thing down .
Still, it’s not like I can say anything about this since he didn’t intend for me to read them.
Another wave of guilt threatens to do me in, and I have a hard time finding the next breath. What have I done? Knowing me, I’m going to act all weird about it the next time I see him. Oh my gosh, I’m probably going to confess my sins right then and there and he’s going to be embarrassed.
I shake my head to clear it. I cannot let this affect anything. Besides, I haven’t gotten a letter from him today. Since he found out the big news that I have a kid, maybe he’s completely changed his mind about me. I fold the pieces of paper up and stash them in my pocket.
This has gotten slightly out of hand.
Come on, Rose! My mother’s voice floats over my consciousness. I know exactly what she’d say if she knew about my little crush.
Rose, he’s unattainable. Stop daydreaming of things that will never be.
I imagine her kind smile, her sad gaze taking me in. You’re a looker. Always have been. My pretty little rose petal. But men will take advantage of you. They’re going to use you up and spit you out. Happened to your grandmother, to me, to your sisters . . .
It’s time to lock my heart. He may think he likes me, but he doesn’t. He can’t. He and I are too different. He doesn’t know what’s required to raise a child. How much I cannot play games.
I’ve no sooner locked up my heart again when I get a notification that I have a letter in my mailbox.