Chapter 5
five
Finn
The creak of the loft ladder would have woken me at one a.m. if I weren’t already lying here with my eyes open.
Rosalie went to bed hours ago and I’ve been on my phone in the dark.
I’ve sent an email to Jack’s brother, Drew, and asked him for background checks on both Chip Daniels and Rosalie.
A lot will have changed in the year since I took the bodyguard job, and now that Jack’s gone, his brother runs his security firm.
I’m confident he’ll come through, but not until morning, which leaves me with a list of unanswered questions and only the internet to answer them. For all the good it does.
I’m not sure I know any more than I did twelve hours ago.
Rosalie Thorne is still one of the most popular recording artists in the world.
Chip Daniels is still a music executive with a truckload of industry clout.
The two of them together may be the most photogenic couple to ever look down the lens of a camera, and neither has made it known that one just jilted the other for being an emotionally abusive narcissist.
So when I hear Rosalie on the ladder, I’m already rethinking my decision to put myself in the middle of what’s shaping up to be the biggest celebrity scandal in years.
She descends slowly, one rung at a time, and I say nothing.
Tomorrow’s soon enough to dive back into the drama.
But as she eases her way to the floor and creeps on tiptoes into the kitchen, I feel like an asshole—again—because I know what she needs.
I just don’t know if it’s in the bounds of our new arrangement to give it to her.
Things are different now that I’m not getting paid to be at her beck and call.
I sit up and throw an arm over the back of the couch, then freeze. The way she looks fresh out of bed wearing my shirt… Rosalie Thorne in a rumpled oversized red flannel should be laughable, but it’s not. It’s really not.
The fabric swamps her, but her pale thighs play peekaboo where the buttons are undone near the hem, and the soft glow of her legs in the light of the open refrigerator makes it hard to swallow.
Her champagne-blonde curls are softer now that the day’s styling has been brushed out of them, and the natural fall of her hair creates the illusion that Rosalie Thorne is a woman just like any other. Real. Attainable. Not beyond reach.
When I do find my tongue, my voice cracks. “Hey.”
Rosalie jumps as she spins around. She smacks a hand to her chest as she takes a deep breath. “You scared me.”
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Oh.” She glances around the kitchen, searching for a way to explain why she’s out of bed. “I was thirsty.”
I push off the sofa and join her in the kitchen, only realizing I’m half naked when her gaze sweeps down my chest and torso, falls to my boxer briefs and thighs, then moves north again.
“You’re the one who promised no more nakedness,” I mutter with unfamiliar self-consciousness as a blush creeps up my neck.
She lifts her palms and bites her lip to stop a smile, but her blue eyes dance in the refrigerator light. “I didn’t say a word.”
With a wry eyebrow and flat look to go with it, I reach into the fridge and hand her a bottle of water, then wait as she holds it without drinking.
“You didn’t really come looking for something to drink, did you?”
Dakota appears from the shadows under the loft ladder and rubs her head against Rosalie’s legs until she’s rewarded with a pat.
Rosalie’s shoulders drop as she sighs. “No.”
“It’s late.”
“I know.”
“And you really should try to sleep.”
She wraps her arms around herself and nods. “I know.”
The quiet between us stretches, and it’s the way she shifts on her feet, fingers plucking at my shirt, that breaks me. And besides, she’s not the only one who has trouble sleeping at night. Playing cards is better than pacing for hours or staring at a flickering television without seeing it.
“Fine.” I close the fridge, snap on a lamp, then collect my shirt from the floor and pull it on, followed by my discarded jeans. “There’s a notepad and pencil in that kitchen drawer over there. You get those and I’ll find the cards.”
“No need.” She crosses the room and swipes up her purse where she left it on the couch. “I have my own.”
Her relieved smile shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does, and I work hard to keep my expression neutral as I join her at the table. This woman has more money than God and she carries an old deck of cards in case someone’s around to play midnight gin rummy.
“Best of five?” I say without preamble.
She replies because she doesn’t need it. “Sounds good.”
We play for two hours in the kind of silence that can only be comfortable when you’ve done the same thing dozens of times before.
Unfortunately, there’s not enough thinking to do to stop my mind from wandering, and when it does, I find myself questioning if having Rosalie stay for a couple days is really so bad.
I’d probably enjoy her company if it wasn’t for all the baggage, and I’m not even talking about Chip and the whole runaway bride thing.
It’s the celebrity and the money and the drama.
From where I stand, none of it looks worth the shit she has to go through to keep it, but Rosalie without fame is like a combat soldier without military camouflage.
The former needs the latter if they expect to survive.
The longer we play, the more often my thoughts aren’t the only things that wander.
My eyes do too, in a way they couldn’t when I was her bodyguard.
She’s so fucking pretty. Prettier without the makeup she was wearing when she got here and with her hair half mussed from my pillow.
Her mouth looks sweeter in its naturally pale pink instead of the intense coral color she usually wears, and when she catches her bottom lip between her teeth while deciding how to play her cards, I wonder how quickly she’d melt if I kissed her.
How warm and sweet she’d be on my tongue.
Rosalie watches me expectantly for a couple seconds before I realize it’s my turn, and I refocus on my cards. It doesn’t matter what she tastes like, because I’ll never know. I’m smart enough to separate thought from action, fantasy from reality. Kissing Rosalie Thorne is never going to happen.
By the time Rosalie wins three games to two, I’ve forgotten she’s supposed to be an inconvenience, and I’m dealing again when she raises a hand to hide a yawn.
“Time for bed?” I ask.
“I can hardly keep my eyes open,” she mumbles. “And that’s my cue.”
I slide the cards into their ancient cardboard case and push them across the table toward her. “Good. I’ll see you in the morning.”
But when a heartbeat passes and she hasn’t touched the cards, hands tucked out of sight under the table, I know she’s got something to say. I lean back in my chair and wait.
“I do appreciate this, Finn,” she says in a voice weary for more reasons than not enough sleep.
She sets her hands flat on the tabletop like it’s a task to keep them still.
“I know I’m high maintenance, and I know nothing about this situation is easy.
I wouldn’t have blamed you if you put me back in Violet’s car and sent me straight back to the city, but I don’t know what I would have done if you did. Thank you for letting me stay.”
She risks a look at me from underneath her lashes, and she’s so small curled in on herself that the urge to protect her swells larger behind my ribs, making it hard to breathe.
“I don’t know what asshole told you that you’re high maintenance,” I tell her, “although I can take a good guess. You’re the female force behind a billion-dollar brand, Rosalie, and the most celebrated music artist of an entire generation.
That’s hard work. Not you. Don’t believe the bullshit people say when they only say it to drag you down. ”
Rosalie’s next breath is a quivering exhale. Her shoulders relax, and she meets my eyes. “I think I’ve lost the talent of recognizing truth among the lies, if I ever had it in the first place.”
“Well, I haven’t.”
I push to my feet and rub my eyes as exhaustion crashes over me. I had an early start this morning running the trail rides with Daisy, then did all that work in the yard, so I’ve been awake for nearly twenty-four hours. If I keep talking like this, I’m going to say something I’ll regret.
“So if you ever need the truth from someone who isn’t afraid to tell it, you know who to call.”
Like that.
Her lips tremble with a grateful smile, and I jerk my head in the direction of the loft.
“Bed,” I order. “For both of us.”
“Okay.” She pads lightly across the room and sets one foot on the ladder, then pauses and watches me closely.
“Finn? I want to tell you something. My name’s not really Rosalie.
It’s the name they gave me when they signed me because my real name wasn’t pretty enough.
” She scrunches her nose to show what she thinks of that decision. “My real name is Rosanna.”
I could pretend I didn’t already know that, but I just promised her to always be honest. “Actually, I already knew. It was in your file when I took the job as your bodyguard.”
Her face falls. “Oh.”
Her disappointment is an itch in the middle of my back, and the only way to scratch it is to find another way to share something honest.
“Just because the world calls you Rosalie doesn’t mean I have to,” I say. “Tell me what name you want to use while you’re here, and that’s what I’ll call you.”
Her eyes drop to where her fingers tweak the hem of my shirt, and her smile turns wistful. “My grandmother used to call me Rosie, and that’s the only name that’s ever really felt like mine, but it’s been a long time since anyone called me that.”
“Would it be okay if I called you Rosie?”
She tilts her head, and the quiet is loud enough that I can hear my pulse in my ears.
“It would be more than okay,” she says.
“Then that’s what I’ll do.”
“Okay.” The shape of her name passes silently across her lips before they tug up with satisfaction. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She climbs the ladder, and when she’s safe at the top, I switch off the lamp downstairs. Once I’m stretched out on the couch in the dark, her light, lilting voice floats down from the loft. “Good night, Finn.”
I heave in a breath and close my eyes, and with the type of fatigue that feels a lot like a reason to get up in the morning, I wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
“Good night, Rosie.”