Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
IAN
I thought Rose would have texted me by now.
Nothing long; I’m sure she’s tired after spending the last two nights in the hospital, but just a quick I’m ok or something.
For all I know, she could have a friend or family member helping her, and she’s been too busy to respond. She could be taking a nap. Maybe she's upset that I didn’t come by this morning, and that’s why she isn’t responding.
She said she understood when I told her I had too much going on at the gym. But I’ve learned women don’t always tell guys when they’re upset, and saying they’re fine doesn’t necessarily mean it.
I should stop worrying so much. Rose is thirty-four years old; she’s been living on her own for years. She has a successful art career. I’m sure she can take care of herself, and doesn’t need me showing up at her apartment unexpectedly.
Except I keep imagining terrible things happening to her.
She could have had a complication. Hurt her hand again. Had a bad reaction to her pain medication. What if it wasn’t a random robbery like the police said, and Rose is in danger?
Shit.
As much as I’ve told myself keeping some distance from Rose is the right idea, it sure doesn’t feel like it. Not now, at least.
Not when I can’t shake this worry and my protective instincts are surging. Not when my gut is telling me I need to make sure she’s okay.
Man. Cash would laugh his ass off if he knew. Self-professed bachelor Ian going to see a woman for a third day in a row. Bringing her another gift, no less—some cookies from the bakery downtown this time, since I remember Ari mentioning sweets are always appreciated.
Although, I know Cash would understand, too. When Ari was in trouble, he dropped everything to be by her side. Though they were already good friends, while Rose and I haven’t known each other for long.
I pull up in front of Rose’s place and give it an appraising glance. It’s a side-by-side two-family house with bright blue paint that’s starting to peel. One of the shutters on the left side is missing, and the lawn looks a week overgrown. It’s not bad, exactly—the neighborhood is safe enough, and the house seems sturdy from the outside—but I’m not thrilled by its condition, either.
Even though I already know, it’s clear which side is Rose’s. Her little porch is decorated with several potted plants and a cheery flag, and the mailbox has newly applied letters spelling Spencer across the side of it.
Although that’s not really a good idea, announcing where she lives like that. Maybe once we’ve spent some more time together, I can gently suggest she take them off.
As a concerned friend, of course.
I get out of my car and approach her front door; as I get closer, I look for any sign of movement inside. The two front windows reveal a sparsely furnished living room—just a loveseat, a coffee table, and a television sitting on a stand across from them—with no evidence of anyone inside. The barren space could be depressing, if not for all the vibrant paintings on the walls, bringing the entire space to life.
At her front door, I listen for the TV, for voices rising and falling, something to indicate that Rose is home. Nothing.
But she could be asleep upstairs—I assume that’s where the bedrooms are—so there’s nothing to be alarmed by yet. I ring the doorbell, but there’s no answering chime, so I follow it up with a quick series of knocks.
There’s no response. No footsteps heading toward the door, no feminine voice saying that she’ll be right there.
Shit. Maybe she is still at the hospital. Or maybe she went to stay with a friend. And I’m making a fool of myself standing here, being worried over nothing.
Then I hear a crash from inside the house, and I know it’s not nothing.
I knock on the door again, more loudly this time. “Rose?” I pitch my voice loud enough to carry through the door, but hopefully not alarm the neighbor. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer, but only a second later, I hear a faint yelp of pain? surprise? and my heart leaps into my throat.
Fuck.
I can’t tell where the noise is coming from, other than someplace I can’t see. Upstairs? In the back of the house? The kitchen? Bathroom?
Even though I feel kind of strange about it, I try the doorknob, but it’s firmly locked. Which I’m both pleased and unhappy about—I’m glad Rose locked up after herself, but it makes it harder to find out what’s wrong.
I knock again, more forcefully this time, and call out loudly, “Rose! It’s Ian. Are you okay?” Fear makes my voice rough. “Do you need help?”
Every second that goes by without a response, the deeper my worry goes.
My hand goes to the phone in my pocket, and I debate calling 911. It could be nothing, a misunderstanding; but I heard the crash, and it sounded like Rose was in pain.
Shit. Maybe there’s a back door—a lot of houses in this style have one—and it’s possible that one could be unlocked. Or at least give me a better view of inside.
I’m about to run around to the back of the house when the front door opens.
Rose blinks up at me, pink-eyed and sniffling. “Ian?”
The relief is tremendous.
Until a second later, when I get a closer look at her.
She’s been crying. Her cheeks are wet, and her lashes are dark and shiny. Tiny lines of pain are etched between her eyes and around her mouth. Her bandaged hand is held clutched to her chest, the same way she held it the night of the assault.
The relief shifts to concern. “Rose. Are you okay?”
Her chin wobbles. “Yes. I’m… what are you… I didn’t think…”
“I came over to check on you. Since I hadn’t heard from you since this morning?—”
“Oh. I’m sorry. It was just so busy, with being discharged, and getting home, and I’ve been trying to…” she trails off. “Anyway. I should have texted you earlier. Do you… I need to clean up… but if you want to come in…”
I don’t miss the little hitching breaths she’s trying to hide. Or the rigid set of her jaw, which I’m pretty sure is from Rose trying not to cry.
I’m torn. Part of me wants to come inside and do whatever I can to make her feel better. But I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable, being caught off guard like this, and feel obligated to invite me inside.
“Come in.” Rose takes a step back, gesturing for me to follow. She forces a weak smile. “I just have to clean up the kitchen, and?—”
Then I realize she’s limping.
“You’re hurt.” It comes out rougher than I intended, so I soften my voice and try again. “Why are you limping?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks flush. “I stepped on a plate. Well, a piece of one. I was trying to cook, and I hit my hand, and then I dropped the plate?—”
She stepped on a plate? Hurt her hand again?
Without stopping to think about it, I scoop Rose into my arms. “Ian,” she gasps. “What?—”
“Your foot. If you’re hurt…” I notice several dark splotches of liquid on the hardwood floor. “And you’re bleeding .”
“Just a little,” she says softly. “It’s okay.”
Dammit. She was cooking, got injured, and had to limp all the way out here to open the door for me. Possibly hurting herself even worse.
Guilt settles like a heavy cloak over my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Rose. If I had known…”
“It’s not your fault. You didn’t make me drop the plate. Or try cooking one-handed.”
Ah, shit. It’s all slotting into place. Rose trying to make something to eat, clearly without any help, and struggling to do it while in pain and with only one hand. Getting hurt, frustrated, breaking down…
Protectiveness sweeps through me, and I hug her closer. “I’m going to check your foot. Help you clean up. And get you some food. Okay?”
Rose stares at me in silence for a second, an indecipherable expression on her face. Then she gives me a tiny smile and loops her good arm around my neck. “Okay. Thank you, Ian.”
When I see the kitchen, I get mad at myself all over again.
The ceramic plate lies in jagged shards near the stove, the ill-fated sandwich poking half-out from underneath it. Blood splatters and smears make a path from the stove to the kitchen door.
I should have come sooner.
Rose eyes the mess, frowning. “I had this idea of cooking more, since I have an actual kitchen. But now… it’s harder with one hand. I guess it’s back to frozen dinners.”
“Ah, don’t feel bad.” I set her down on a clear spot of counter near the sink. “I’m useless at cooking, even with two hands. You should see how badly some of my recipes have turned out.”
“Really?” Her eyes widen with interest. “How bad?”
“I set the entire oven on fire.” I grin at her. “The guys at the station never let me hear the end of that.”
She laughs, and her face lights up with it. “I guess that’s worse than dropping a plate.”
“Much worse,” I agree. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“Um. Not exactly a first aid kit. But I have some bandaids and antibiotic ointment in the drawer by the fridge. But you don’t have to?—”
“I want to, Rose.” I can’t resist touching her good hand. “It’ll be a lot easier for me, and I am trained, after all.”
Fortunately, the cut doesn’t need stitches, just a few bandages. As I clean Rose’s foot—which is delicate and graceful, just like the rest of her—she says, “I don’t usually cry like this. Over small cuts and ruined sandwiches.”
I glance up from her foot to meet her gaze. “These aren’t really normal circumstances. You’re going through a lot. It would make anyone emotional.”
“Still. It’s embarrassing.”
“No, it isn’t.” I finish bandaging her foot and stand back up. “There is nothing embarrassing about crying. Whatever the reason is.”
She gnaws on her lip. “I guess.”
I imagine myself in her shoes—new in town, not really knowing anyone, robbed, attacked, facing a potentially career-ending injury, and trying to function with only one hand and in pain—and I’m not sure I’d be holding up as well as she is.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I smile at her and say, “How about if I clean this up and make some sandwiches? I haven’t eaten dinner yet, so I could go for a grilled cheese.”
“I don’t know…” She pauses; long enough that I think she’s going to tell me to leave. Then her lips curve up. “Will you set my oven on fire, too?”
“I’ll try not to. I think I learned my lesson from the last time.”
“Okay.” Rose’s smile gets bigger. “I trust you.”
Inexplicably, warmth balloons in my chest.
I try to put a damper on it as I prepare our food. To remind myself that things with Amanda started this way, too.
When Rose smiles at me, and my heart makes an ungainly flip, I sternly command it to settle.
I tell myself that I’m just here as a friend, that this protectiveness is no different from how I’d feel if Ari was hurt, or Thea, or any of the other women I’m friends with.
It almost works, right up until I lift Rose off the counter and she feels so soft and perfect in my arms, I don’t want to let her go.
It’s easier again when we eat our grilled cheeses together, the small kitchen table separating us. Sitting several feet away from her, I don’t smell the shampoo she used, faintly sweet, with a hint of orange and vanilla. I can’t touch her, like I inevitably want each time we’re close to each other.
I can almost convince myself I’m only here as a friend.
But then we finish eating, and Rose looks at me with this hesitant expression and her cheeks go pink as she asks, “Do you want to stay? For a little while? We could watch TV or something?”
How could I say no?
So we end up on the loveseat in the living room—I carried her there, strictly for safety reasons, not as an excuse to hold her again—and now I’m definitely within touching distance again.
I couldn’t be more aware of her leg only inches from mine, and I feel like I’m fourteen all over again, on my first real date with the girl I’d had a crush on for months. I couldn’t stop thinking about touching her back then, and it’s like that now, only so much more intense.
Now, my heart is stubbornly inserting itself into the mix.
In an attempt to distract myself from the beautiful woman sitting beside me, I glance around at all the paintings lining the walls. They’re stunning—gorgeous abstract landscapes in a kaleidoscope of colors, so much more impressive in person than the photos I saw of Rose’s work online.
Seeing her work, I can understand how she won all those awards. I can understand how a person would pay twenty K to own one of her paintings. It seemed unbelievable when I read that online, but now I get it. If I had the money, I’d buy one, too.
“Your paintings are amazing,” I tell her, and gesture at my favorite—one of two mountain ranges with a lake tucked between them. “I’m sure you’ve heard that lots of times, but I can’t get over how incredible they are.”
“Thanks.” A shadow flickers across her face. “I’m glad you like them.”
“Are these your favorites? The ones here?”
She scans the room, her gaze lingering for a moment on each painting. “I guess so. They’re my favorite locations. Each painting is an actual place I’ve visited. I know I could use photos for inspiration, but I always felt like I couldn’t do it justice unless I’d been there. So most of these are from the East Coast, and that one”—she points at my favorite—“is from the Indian Head Vista up in the Adirondacks.”
After a sigh, she says, “I may have to sell them, though. Depending on what happens…”
Ah, shit. Why did I bring up painting? Am I trying to upset her?
Desperate to erase the sad look from Rose’s face, I cast about for a different topic. Something cheery. Or funny. Anything to make her smile again.
But Rose beats me to it. She gives her head a little shake, like she’s shaking off the negative thoughts, and gives me a small but genuine smile. “We didn’t really get to talk about it much last week. But I’d love to hear about the gym. Your gym. I thought about taking a class there, but with my hand… I’ll have to wait.”
The gym. Yes . That’s a safe topic.
I lean back onto the couch cushions and turn so I’m facing her. “Well. I’m a co-owner. Chris and I—he’s the other owner—have had it for seven years now.”
She leans forward and her knee brushes mine. “How did you come to open a gym?”
“Chris discovered it. We were roommates freshman year, and after graduation, we kept in touch.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Ithaca. We ended up both going into exercise science. He left after his bachelors; I stayed to get my masters. Then I got a job on campus as a trainer. Chris was working in the city by then, and that’s how he found out about this opportunity in Sleepy Hollow. The gym was on the verge of closing down; it was in pretty bad shape. But Chris saw an opportunity?—”
Rose smiles. “And you took it?”
“Yeah. Chris asked if I wanted to go in on it with him, and I thought it sounded like a smart investment. Plus, I really love teaching classes. With the training, I didn’t have time for it as much. This way, I get the best of both worlds.”
“Ian. That’s amazing.” Her eyes are bright, sparkling gold and emerald. “So you opened the gym when you were only, what? Twenty-eight? You must be so proud.”
Her words are like a sledgehammer crashing into my chest, and I can’t speak for a second. I was married to Amanda for four years, and not once did she say she was proud of my accomplishments. Never proud that I got my masters, or opened a business. And now Rose, after such a short time…
She touches my leg. “I’m sorry. Should I have not said that?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “It was really nice. I mean, thank you. I’m pretty proud, though it’s not just me. I couldn’t do it without Chris, and my parents helping me pay for college. But yeah. It’s a good feeling.”
And somehow, without thinking, my hand covers hers.
It feels right. Rose’s small hand underneath my larger one, soft to my rough.
Her gaze meets mine, and there’s this sort of tug between us.
Suddenly, I don’t care about keeping my distance.
Without preface, I say, “I’m coming over tomorrow. For dinner. I’ll bring takeout, so we don’t have to cook. Does that sound okay with you?”
She blinks. Her brows arch up in surprise. Then a little frown pulls at her lips. “Just because I was having a hard time today, I don’t want you to feel obligated. I can figure things out. It’s just the first day. Tomorrow will be better.”
“I know that.” I flip our hands over and thread my fingers between hers. “It’s not that I think you can’t handle things. I want to come. If you want me to.”
“Oh.” Pleasure pinks her cheeks. “Then I’d like that.”
Despite the swelling and bruising on her face, she looks absolutely beautiful.
Just friends , one half of my brain shouts silently.
But the other half just gloats.
Who am I kidding?