Chapter 19
nineteen
Rosie
We step onto the back porch of Finn’s family home, Finn with his guitar case, and I latch on to his forearm a split second before he opens the door.
“Are you sure I look okay?”
I glance down at my outfit, uncharacteristically nervous about what I’m wearing. It’s dinner at Finn’s house, not the GRAMMYs, but I usually have a stylist for these sorts of things. God help me if I’m snapped looking less than the Rosalie Thorne sky-high standard. I’ve seen the headlines.
Pop Princess braves the crowds with no makeup.
Sexy celebrity dresses down for drinks with friends.
Look at that frizz! Forget the blow-out—she’s just like us!
The press takes criticism and ridicule, dresses it up as girl power, and thinks we’re all too stupid to notice. It’s gross, but it makes money, and it’s the world I live in.
Finn scans me from head to toe, examining the tight white tank under the smallest flannel shirt I could find—rolled to my elbows and tied at the waist—my short denim cut-offs, and my white sneakers. The lust in his gaze sends a rush of heat to my cheeks and other inconvenient places.
“Stop it!” I admonish, and he stops my heart with that secretive smirk.
“You look good enough to eat,” he says, then dips his head to press his lips to the soft spot between my jaw and my ear that he likes so much. “And don’t think I won’t be doing that later.”
The flush in my face burns hotter, and I turn into his neck. “Nobody’s ever done that to me before.”
Finn straightens, the arousal in his eyes flaring into animalistic desire. “You really shouldn’t have told me that.”
My blood catches fire, sparking and rushing like liquid flames down my back and into my fingertips, warming my inner thighs and melting my core. “I—”
The door swings open and I jump away from Finn, a reflex response that makes me feel like a teenager caught kissing after curfew. Charlie is on the other side, and she greets us with a knowing grin.
“I thought I heard someone out here.” She swings the door open wider. “Come on in.”
“Hi, Charlie,” I say. “It’s nice to see you again. Thanks for having me.”
Finn takes my hand, and his eyes tighten ever so slightly, but Charlie reads his irritation easily enough. Her smile widens and a sparkle shines in her blue eyes.
“Thanks,” he says gruffly, but as he passes by his sister, he still drops an affectionate peck on her cheek.
Once we’re inside, the butterflies in my stomach start to spin a little differently, no longer fluttering with desire but anxiety.
Finn’s brother may have accidentally revealed that Finn had never brought a girl home before, but I’ve never been the girl brought home either.
Not like this. Chip’s parents are quintessential blue bloods from old money.
Meeting them felt like having dinner with overzealous investors, their approval predetermined by Chip’s good business sense and my status as rich and famous.
Those were circumstances that proved, once again, that being a global icon gave me an easier path.
I don’t think those conditions apply here. At least, I hope they don’t. I want Finn’s family to like me. The person not the pop star. It’s a micro kind of pressure I don’t face often anymore.
I let Finn lead me into the kitchen of his childhood home, and I’m embraced by the mouthwatering aroma of dinner in the oven and on the stove.
Plates, bowls, and napkins are stacked on a serving sideboard, along with a pitcher of something pink next to frosted margarita glasses.
The hardwood floors are worn, the kitchen lived-in but tidy, and the enormous timber dining table polished but scarred with years of history.
Through the far doorway, I spy a living room with mismatched sofas and an oversized armchair, and a cold fireplace below a mantel littered with family photographs.
The walls are cream, the windows clean and furnished with faded plaid drapes, and a staircase on the far side disappears into the top floor.
Soft plush rugs line the floors in there.
It’s hard to miss how new those look compared to the aged decor everywhere else, but it all fits.
It’s giving off cozy and comfortable, not dated and drab, and I immediately want to be like one of those rugs.
A new addition, sure, and at first glance maybe a little out of place, but when you take a moment to measure one thing in relation to the others, you realize the new things just need time to become part of the final picture.
Even now, on a second look at the space, I’m not so tripped up by the color of the rugs, and I wonder if maybe they weren’t here all along.
“This is it.” Finn gestures around the kitchen, then through the doorway to the adjoining living space.
“Eat-in kitchen. Dining table—the location of choice for family dinners, family meetings, family fallouts. You know, the usual. Living room is through there. There’s a bathroom and a den on the other side of the hallway, and the porch wraps around…
Oh, Jesus.” His fingers tighten around mine and I shift a little closer, instinctively seeking his protection.
“I apologize in advance for whatever happens next.”
He must have already heard the footsteps overhead, and I swallow deeply at his warning as an attractive redheaded woman skips down the stairs, her long hair in a braid, her denim shorts and T-shirt not so different from mine.
She’s alone, her steps light and breezy as she crosses the living room and heads straight for the kitchen.
“Everyone else will be down in a minute,” she announces. “Slight issue with sticky trumpet valves.”
She reaches up on her toes to give Finn a warm hug, then extends her hand to me.
“Hi, I’m Poppy,” she says before a lightning strike of puzzlement hits her brows. “Holy shit. Has anyone ever told you how much you look like—”
“I’m Rosalie.” I accept her hand and give it a friendly shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You’re…?”
Poppy flits a look toward Charlie, and even though she’s behind me, I can read the moment she confirms my identity by the momentary shock on Poppy’s face. I’ve seen it before, so I take it in stride, and Poppy recovers pretty well.
She spares an exasperated look for Finn, and he shrugs one shoulder before she shines her smile on me. “Right, well. Hi, Rosalie. It’s nice to meet you too.”
More traffic descends the stairs, this time a good-looking guy with a neat five-o’clock shadow and his long hair tied back, and a little girl with her dark hair in a braid that mimics Poppy’s style almost to the last strand.
She’s got a brass trumpet in her hands, and they’re moving carefully to make sure she doesn’t trip.
“Dylan!” Poppy calls, eager impatience making her voice shake a little. “Finn is here.”
Dylan’s grin is the kind you’d expect to find on a little brother who’s about to give his big brother shit, and as he approaches the kitchen, I roll my lips to stop a smile.
“About time.” Dylan approaches with his daughter’s hand clasped in his.
“Dylan?” Finn sets his wide hand on the small of my back, and it’s ridiculous how good it makes me feel. “This is Rosalie—”
“Thorne.” My name falls out of Dylan’s mouth like it was a thought he didn’t mean to say, and once it’s out, his eyes widen with mortification.
I can feel Finn roll his eyes. Beside Dylan, Poppy snorts and slips an arm through his, a silent kind of reassurance that tells the world these two are a team. I like them both instantly.
I offer Finn’s brother my hand. “That’s right. It’s lovely to meet you, Dylan.”
“Rosalie Thorne?” the little girl asks, and we all drop our gazes to look at her. “The real Rosalie Thorne?”
I try not to smile because the look on her little face is so serious. “Yes, the real Rosalie Thorne.”
“If that’s true,” she says, “then you should be happy to answer a few questions.”
“Izzy.” Finn crouches to look his niece in the eye, voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “This pretty lady right here really is Rosalie Thorne. You know I’d never lie to you.”
Someone find a mop because I’m melting into a puddle.
“Uncle Finn!” Izzy gives him a scolding look. “You’re embarrassing me.”
I laugh. “It’s fine, Finn. Truly. What are your questions, Izzy?”
Finn stands again and thanks me with a pulse of his hand around mine.
“How many GRAMMY Awards do you have?” Izzy demands.
I grin when her dad groans quietly. “Seven,” I confirm.
Izzy drops her head to one side. “What’s your middle name?”
“Betty,” I reply, and when her mouth pops open again, I preempt her next query. “After my grandmother.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
“I have two. Blue, like the ocean when it laps around your ankles, and pink, like cold watermelon in summertime.”
Izzy pushes her lips into a contemplative pout, weighing up the chances that this is all some elaborate hoax before her eyebrows shoot up, her brown eyes brighten, and she bounces excitedly on her toes.
“Mommy got a karaoke machine for tonight. Uncle Finn and I are going to play ‘Mary Had A Little Lamb.’ You can do the singing, if you like?”
“Oh, honey. Rosalie is here as a friend, not a… not a…” Poppy says, trying to save me, but the look she gives me is a little helpless.
“It’s fine,” I reassure her before I follow Finn’s example and stoop to match Izzy’s eye level. “I’d love to sing with you tonight. What’s your name?”
“Izzy,” she confirms, and even though Finn already told me as much, I extend my hand the way I did with everyone else.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Izzy. Uncle Finn has told me all about your music lessons and I can’t wait to hear you play.”
Izzy’s flabbergasted face makes me grin, and when I straighten, Poppy and Dylan both mouth thank you, which I accept with a small shake of my head and equally silent no problem.