Chapter 13 Finn
thirteen
Finn
As tempting as it is to imagine Rosie not having anything to wear beneath my shirts at night, eventually we need to do laundry.
I usually take a bagful up to the main house once a week, but there’s no way I can leave Rosie at the cabin to do that, and the house is never empty, so I can’t sneak her in with me, but there is an alternative.
Rosie’s on my laptop when I step out of the bathroom, two bags of dirty laundry clutched in one fist. It’s the first time she’s opened the computer in days, and I wonder if she’s reviewing the bodyguard applications I shared last night.
There are three of them, and if she approves any, I’ll be out of a job. Again. But maybe that’s best.
My thoughts and feelings about Rosie are more complicated today than they were yesterday, and if things continue between us the way they have been, tomorrow’s only going to be worse.
She’s beautiful. She’s smart and so incredibly strong.
She’s funny, and she’s got a kind of tenacity I find attractive, like she’ll try anything once and isn’t too proud to try again to get it right.
Her voice—fuck me, her voice. It’s this bewitching mix of vulnerable and powerful that reaches into my heart and picks at its carefully stitched seams. And every space is starting to smell like her.
The blankets on the couch, the towels in the bathroom.
The air itself is laced with the fragrance of her soap and her body lotion and her.
I’m not thinking clearly, and if there’s one thing a bodyguard needs, it’s a straight head.
I almost kissed her. That’s how close I am to losing control. I need Rosie to leave while I still have the strength to let her go, and before I mess up badly enough that it puts her safety at risk.
“Hey.” I stand on the other side of the kitchen table and lift the bags into the air. “Feel like a field trip?”
It takes Rosie a moment to pull her eyes from the laptop screen, and when she does, she snaps it closed like she’s relieved to be free of it.
“A field trip?” She sits up straighter and anticipation makes her eyes gleam. “Where?”
“You need clean clothes. I need clean clothes. It’s time to do laundry.”
“Laundry,” she echoes, and I get the impression she’s just given herself a one-word pep talk because she bounds to her feet with more enthusiasm than anyone has ever felt for washing clothes. It’s cute. “Let’s do it.”
While she laces up her sneakers, I find an old baseball cap to cover her hair.
It’s too big, and I adjust the strap at the back while she waits patiently with her back to me.
When she passes me at the open front door, I land a little love tap on her ass, high and tight underneath her yoga pants.
It just happens, like I’ve got a right to do it.
Like I’ve done it a thousand times before. Like Rosie is my girlfriend.
“Sorry,” I mutter, hoping she doesn’t notice the heat in my neck as I heft the bags down to the bed of my truck. “I didn’t mean to… I mean… Shit. Can we forget I did that?”
She laughs as I open her door, and she hops up into the passenger seat. “I don’t know. Can we?”
By the way she sneaks glances at me under the brim of her cap, lush lips pressed together like she’s fighting a smile, I can guarantee she’s not going to forget it anytime soon, and all I can think is good.
I don’t want her to forget it. Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, I hope Rosie thinks about my palm landing on her ass all the damn time.
I guide my old truck over the interior off-road trails that crisscross Silver Leaf, passing acres of vineyards and avoiding the stables in case Daisy is around, toward Chord’s house.
It’s empty most of the year, but definitely now while my brother preps for Cup playoffs.
I’ve got the entry code because I sometimes use his home gym, and he won’t mind my using his other facilities just this once.
I pull the truck up to his place, an impressive architecturally designed two-story building with a wraparound porch all clad in white and natural stone. Rosie gapes out the windshield, craning her neck to get a better look at the house’s facade as I round the hood and open her door.
“It’s gorgeous,” she says as she exits the vehicle with a delicate hop. “Who lives here?”
“Chord and Violet, but don’t worry. They’re not here, so we have the place to ourselves. Let me show you around first, then we’ll come back and get the laundry.”
I don’t have to hold her hand—in fact I probably shouldn’t—but after how natural it felt when we ran through the trees yesterday, I want her fingers entwined with mine.
And with the way this woman tangles my thoughts, it’s too easy to justify handholding as another form of protection.
It keeps her close, therefore holding her hand is doing my job.
But when I slip my palm against hers to lead her up to the double front doors, Rosie hisses quietly.
“What’s wrong?” I ask with concern.
“Nothing.” She pulls away from my grasp, but at the wince of pain around her eyes, I turn over her hand to see what she’s hiding.
“Blister,” she confesses as soon as I spot the tender pink circle on her skin. “I used to get them occasionally playing the guitar, but it’s been a while. I guess I’m not accustomed to manual labor.”
My chuckle mingles with a sympathetic sigh, and I take her other hand in mine instead. “Yeah. That looks like it hurts. Let’s go inside and I’ll take care of it.”
I punch the access code into the security panel and at the green-lit click-and-beep, I push open the door and lead Rosie into the expansive hardwood foyer with its oversized winding staircase.
There’s a study to one side and a living area off the other, where sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows and bounces off warm white walls.
I have every intention of giving her the grand tour, but first we go to the enormous kitchen where Chord keeps a first aid kit.
I locate it in the sixth cupboard I open, then set it on the counter next to the sink.
Rosie’s in the adjoining dining area admiring the furniture, and I give her a minute to complete a circuit of the space before calling, “Hey. Come here a sec.”
When she reaches me, I wrap my hands around her waist and hoist her up onto the counter. Nudging her knees wide so I can get in close, I hold her wound under a gentle stream of cold water from the faucet.
“Does that hurt?” I ask.
“No.” Her eyes flit from her hand to my face. “It feels good.”
I wash the wound with a little soap, using the pad of my thumb in light circles on the spot of delicate skin.
The motion makes me think of other ways I’d like to use my thumb, and with her thighs opened to me on the counter like this, I swallow hard as my dick swells.
Rosie is very still and very quiet as I rinse her hand, then dry it with a clean towel.
The energy between us thickens, the air quiet and crackling, and I pretend not to notice the gentle lean of her face toward mine.
Fuck, I want to kiss her so badly, but I’m scared to cross that line.
It’s stupid, I know, because I’m already walking it like a tightrope, but there’s still space to take a step back.
If I kissed her? Retreat would be impossible—if it didn’t kill me.
I apply a little antiseptic to her wound, and when it’s covered in a small Band-Aid, I lift Rosie onto the floor and put a respectful distance between us.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You’re welcome.” I clear the husky arousal from my voice with a quiet cough. “Let me show you around.”
I take her hand again, loosely catching my fingers in hers so her palm is clear, and it’s not until we finish a circuit of the ground floor and enter the master bedroom upstairs that her hand falls from mine.
She floats across the soft white carpet toward the glass wall in wonder. “This whole house is gorgeous,” she says, “but this is unbelievable.”
I open the doors and we step onto Chord’s balcony, complete with deep outdoor sofas around a sunken fire pit, a hot tub in the corner, and the most spectacular view over Silver Leaf and Sonoma Valley beyond.
Rosie’s expression is one of wonder as she trails her fingertips along the balustrade and absorbs the never-ending horizon.
Lush vineyards turn to patchwork fields that bleed into indigo mountains and a cornflower sky, and all I can look at is her.
“Yeah,” I agree. “I can’t quite believe it either.”
Her gaze moves to mine before her lashes drop, and my stomach falls with them.
This is why the line needs to exist. Rosalie Thorne is too beautiful, too talented, and too important to involve herself with someone as insignificant as me.
She belongs in a house like this with a man like my brother who can give her everything she deserves.
She’s too big to live small and she knows it, because when all this is over, and she doesn’t need me anymore—and that moment will come sooner than I want it to—she’ll return to her world, and I’ll remain in mine.
Rosie will fly away and forget me, and I’ll grow old remembering the handful of days I almost had it all.
“Let’s get those clothes in the machine,” I say gruffly. “And then I’ll show you the pool.”
Rosie follows me back out to the front drive, this time taking my hand before I get a chance to hold hers, and guilt thickens my throat at how much I like it.
She doesn’t let go when I haul the bags out of the truck, and she’s still hanging on when we take the stairs down to the basement, passing through Chord’s impressive home gym to the white marble laundry room on the other side.
She finally relinquishes my fingers when I hand her the bag of laundry that belongs to her, and then I do the gentlemanly thing and turn my back to give her privacy to sort her lingerie.