5. Dawson
CHAPTER 5
DAWSON
Two hours later, I’ve made the most of my unexpected alone time in the inn’s kitchen. The fridge is stocked like someone was planning to ride out the apocalypse here.
The shelves are packed with fresh produce, expensive cheeses, and even a bottle of white wine with a label so fancy I have to squint at it. I’m not much of a wine guy, but I know enough to guess Rosalie picked it out. She’s always had good taste in wine… and in bras.
Tracing the lines of her cleavage on the couch was the best kind of torture. It took two cold showers to get over the tingles it sent whipping across my body. If I don’t get it out of my head, I’m going to need another.
I shake off the thought and focus on the pan in front of me, tossing in another handful of freshly grated parmesan. The upside to trying to win back my ex-wife is that I already know all the tricks in the book. I haven’t seen much of her in the last two hours, but if there’s anything that’ll lure her out of her room, it’s pasta.
Back when we were married, I never cooked for her. Not once. I was too busy, too distracted, and too convinced other things mattered more. But after I lost her, I made it my mission and learned how to do it right.
Tonight I needed something rich and indulgent. My goal was to figure out what she’d close her eyes for on the first bite. The answer was right in front of me… garlic, butter, and parmesan.
The pasta’s done, the chicken’s nearly seared to perfection, and the air is thick with the scent. It’s a damn masterpiece. I let it simmer for just a minute longer to give the sauce time to do its thing.
In the meantime, I scoop a few tiny bites of chicken into a dish for my reluctant dinner companion. With a sigh, I carry it into the lobby. “Come on, cat, order’s up.”
Silence… Figures.
I scan the room, spotting the little devil’s glowing eyes from beneath the couch. I crouch down, then decide to fully commit. Stretching out on my stomach, I rest my chin on my forearm and lock eyes with him. His pupils narrow into slits, his ears flatten.
I smirk. “What, you don’t like hot chicken on a cold day? You wanted to starve up there on that icy branch?”
He responds with a low, rattling hiss. I throw one right back, a quiet, mocking sound through my teeth. “You're lucky I’m feeding you at all. I haven’t forgotten what you did to my girl. Eat your damn chicken.”
A pause.
Then, like the spiteful little bastard he is, his tiny paws shoot forward. Before I can react, sharp teeth sink right into the top of my hand.
“Son of a—” I yank back with a yelp, barely avoiding smacking my head on the coffee table. “You're a real asshole, you know that?”
By the time I recover, he’s already snatched the chicken and retreated into the shadows, probably smug as hell about it. I glare at the darkness under the couch, flexing my hand.
A soft crunch echoes back at me and I turn to see Rosalie and get to my feet. She’s got all my attention. She stands in the doorway, bathed in the soft glow of the inn’s lighting. She’s a vision wrapped in tight, black spandex that clings to every inch of her curves. The woman is all thick thighs and soft hips. Her tank top hugs just enough to make my brain short-circuit.
“Are you fighting with the kitty?” She arches a brow in my direction.
“He started it.”
Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t smile. And damn, I want to be the guy that makes her.
“Come on, I made you dinner.”
I push open the kitchen door and let my hand settle against the small of her back as she steps inside. It’s just a light, barely there touch, but through the thin fabric of her workout top, the warmth of her skin seeps into my palm. I force myself to ignore it.
“It smells incredible in here,” she says, glancing around. “But since when do you cook?”
I flash her a grin. “I’m a changed man.”
Her gaze sweeps over the kitchen as she takes in the details. The flickering candlelight, the low hum of music playing from my phone, and the stove alive with bubbling pans.
I pull out a chair for her at the kitchen countertop, and that gets me what I’ve been waiting for… a smile.
It’s soft with just a hint of amusement, but it’s there. And it’s real. Damn if it doesn’t hit me like a fist to the chest. I clear my throat and plate the pasta like I know what I’m doing.
One hour and a half bottle of wine later, we’re talking like old times. The kind of easy, effortless conversation that makes it feel like no time has passed at all. Rosalie giggles when I admit to all the hours I’ve spent glued to the cooking channel, and shakes her head in disbelief when I tell her it’s become my secret passion.
In the candlelight, she’s even more breathtaking than I remember. She’s the same Rosalie with a massive heart and the kind of charm that makes you want to take care of her. Only now she’s stronger and more sure of herself. It’s sexy as hell.
“Okay, tell me again… What’s the podcast called?”
“It’s Boots and Bitching!” Her eyes light up. “It’s this anonymous, robot voice in Sagebrush Creek. She… or maybe he, I guess, literally knows everything about everyone in the town. It mainly focuses on the brothers of Kingridge Ranch, but that’s because they’re practically royalty out there. Maisie says?—”
“Ugh.” I groan, cutting her off with mock disappointment. “Are you still on the cowboy thing? Remember the way you swooned over an old man when I took you to Garth Brooks?”
Her jaw drops in exaggerated offense. “Excuse me? He’s Garth. Brooks. Swooning is required.”
I shake my head like it’s a damn tragedy. “Ranchers have nothing on this.” I flex my bicep, giving it a solid pat for effect.
And just like that, I get my reward—full-bodied laughter, the kind that lights up her whole face and makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.
Damn. I missed this.
“Since we are getting to know each other again, let me ask… What exactly were you doing when I glanced in your window earlier?” She erupts into a fit of giggles and I bury my face in my hands.
“Ah, shit… Leave it to you to call me out,” I laugh.
This girl is too much.
From there I let her talk about her plans for a new life in Texas with her sister. A hollow ache thrums in my chest. Memories flood back to me in waves, but they’re all anchored in regret.
This could have been my life. Cooking dinner for the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known and falling asleep tangled up with her.
Rosalie pauses and takes a sip from her glass. “Can I ask a serious question? Why couldn’t you have done this while we were married?” She chews on the corner of her bottom lip.
“Well, that’s simple. It’s because I was an idiot. I thought we needed a full-on ranch to have the quiet life you wanted. I thought I was getting us there, but instead, I lost you. The loss of a lifetime.”
She turns to face me. Her eyes are glassy and I don’t know if it’s from the wine or the conversation. But I reach out and put my hand over hers. She doesn’t pull away.
“I’m sorry, Rosalie.”
I hesitate just long enough for my pulse to hammer against my ribs. Then I close the space between us. And when our mouths meet, it’s earth-shattering.
It’s a slow burn that ignites the second our lips touch and crawl across me. Heat, memory, longing—it all crashes over me at once. Her breath hitches, and I tighten my grip, pulling her closer, like maybe if I hold on tight enough, neither of us will break this time.
Our tongues tangle, the kiss deepening, turning desperate. A low sound escapes me as I bury my hands in the back of her hair, twisting my fingers into the silky strands.
I plant a kiss on the spot behind her ear because I haven’t forgotten the way it makes her come unglued. For a moment, it works. She melts against me, her body molding to mine, her breath warm and ragged.
Then—just like that—she pulls away. The warmth of her vanishes, leaving behind nothing but cold air and the taste of her still lingering on my lips.
“I can’t,” she whispers, her voice raw. “I’m not ready to break my own heart again when I leave for the ranch. I already know how this ends.”
She looks at me then, her dark eyes shimmering with something that cuts straight through me. Regret. Sadness. The kind of certainty that makes my chest tighten.
“It doesn’t have to end at all, not this time.”
“No, I chose you once,” she murmurs. “But I have to choose myself this time.”
The words land like a punch, knocking the breath from my lungs. I should say something. Fight for this. For her.
But right now, all I can do is watch her step back—watch her slip through my fingers all over again.