Chapter 24 Rosalie
twenty-four
Rosalie
When we land in LA, I step into the plane’s bedroom to change into the designer ensemble Pia brought with her.
It’s a midday interpretation of the quintessential revenge dress.
A mint green mini and matching spaghetti-strap tank.
Melon-hued platform stilettos with six-inch heels.
Creamy leather bag, oversized sunglasses, wide-brimmed hat.
Fresh tube of coral lipstick and powder for my nose. All laid out like I’m a four-year-old.
I peel away Finn’s flannel shirt with a fleeting twinge of regret. Goodbye Rosie. Welcome back Rosalie.
Finn finds me in front of the mirror swiping on a second coat of lip color, sneaking up behind me to wrap his arms around my waist and cover my shoulder with slow, soft kisses that make shiver.
“You look incredible,” he says.
“Thank you.” I tilt my head to coax his mouth up my neck, then reluctantly turn away from his lips when they search for mine. “I’m sorry. I can’t mess up my makeup.”
Finn’s mouth ticks up, like he thinks I’m joking. I turn to look up at him, the apology in my eyes, and I wince as his face falls. He drops a final kiss on the top of my head and steps back.
“Guess we need to think about those kinds of things now,” he says before his attention lands on the faded flannel folded neatly at the end of the bed.
I scoop it up, tuck it into my expensive handbag. “I’ll be wearing that to bed tonight,” I tell him as I throw my arms around his neck. “And every night from now on.”
His smile is small but real and his eyes grow hot. “Will you wear this lipstick for me too?”
Finn’s eyes drop to my mouth, and I fantasize about all the places on his beautiful body I could leave my bright mouth-shaped marks. “If you want me to.”
His eyes sparkle as if to say is there any question?
and a hint of his hardness nudges my stomach, but what he says is, “Is there a reason you need to dress up for the drive home? We’re going straight from here to the house.
Nobody’s going to be taking your picture, and even if they were, I say you’re even hotter in shorts and sneakers. ”
“There’s always somebody taking my picture,” I say with a sigh. “We’re in LA, which means I can’t swan around in torn denim and men’s flannel shirts, as much as I wish I could.”
A frown passes his brow, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it, and I press my glossy lips to his cheek. “Wearing designer clothes is part of my job,” I murmur, “and I like to look nice. I know you think it’s silly—”
He stops me with a kiss, and after a split second of panic that my lipstick will never survive it, I sink into him. I’ll fix it later.
“You’re a hell of a lot smarter than me, Songbird,” he says when we’re done, holding me close, gaze fierce and thick thumb coasting underneath my lip to wipe away the smeared color. “I might not always understand your decisions, but I’ll never doubt them. Nothing you do is silly.”
My throat tightens, and I swallow with difficulty. “Thank you.”
Finn grins and takes another swipe at my chin. “You might want to look at yourself in the mirror before you say that.”
I chuckle at the coral lipstick smeared all over his mouth. “Same goes for you.”
A tap sounds on the other side of the curtained cabin wall, and Pia pokes her head in. “The car is on the tarmac,” she says. “Ready when you are.”
“Thanks, Pia. We’ll be there in a minute.”
She retreats quietly, and I absently rub the color from Finn’s skin as I ask, “Are you sure you’re happy with Pia’s plan? I don’t want you to feel objectified or sidelined or—”
“Keep this up and I’ll ruin your hair as well as your lipstick.”
I roll my lips to stop a smile and coyly flutter my lashes. “But seriously—”
“I warned you, Songbird.”
I squeal as he tosses me on the bed, then again as he cages me against the mattress with his enormous frame, dusting the tip of my nose with his.
“I’m not the kind of man who does things he doesn’t want to do,” he says quietly. “I want you, Rosie, and I’ll do whatever it takes to be the man you deserve. Promise me you’ll stop second-guessing my choices. I need you to trust my judgment as much as I respect yours.”
“You’re right.” My chest sinks into hollowness as I recognize my old thought processes. “Old habits die hard, and maybe returning to LA has triggered some old patterns.”
“It sounds to me like it’s time to write new ones.”
I stare into his eyes, earnest and sincere above me, and brush his lips with mine. “We already are.”
Finn smiles and pushes away from the mattress, then takes my hand and helps me up.
As he fixes himself in the reflection above me and I reapply my makeup in the mirror, warmth sparks in my middle and suffuses me with contentment.
It’s a weird kind of domesticity, sharing a mirror with the man I love in a private jet I bought with my own money, but it’s a reassuring picture of how we’re going to balance our different lives. All we need is love.
My label has given me access to a temporary residence in LA.
I’ve been house-hunting for a permanent address for years, but the right property hasn’t come up, and I’m grateful for that now.
If just being in the city can reignite my old insecurities, I can’t imagine what it would feel like to return to a place filled with memories.
Finn’s been briefed on the duration and route from the airport to the house, and until I meet my new security team—three men and a woman who are already at the property—Finn is my only protector.
I can tell by the set of his shoulders as we disembark that he takes his responsibility seriously, and although life might be easier with Finn playing this role for now, I hate that we have to pretend to be something other than what we are.
I want his hand in mine, his body heat warming my skin, and the world to know what an incredible man he is.
Instead, he leads the way down the plane’s stairs and across the tarmac, a looming force that exudes don’t-mess-with-me energy.
God, he’s sexy, and it reminds me of the months we spent together on tour, when all I knew about Finn Davenport was that he was a skilled bodyguard who smiled like he had secrets.
Both are still true, only now those secrets are mine too.
The car ride is uneventful. Pia sits in front with the driver, a middle-aged man named Robert who gains Finn’s approval when he lists his defensive driving qualifications.
Finn sits in back with me and stares out the windows, assessing for danger as my publicist and I pass ideas and devices back and forth.
Her brain works fast, and so far, I’ve kept up fine, but the pace she wants us to move over the next two weeks is daunting.
Not unusual by any stretch, and my schedule has been even busier at times in the past, but after three weeks relearning to feel comfortable on my own, I can’t tell if returning to LA and a house full of people is knotting up my stomach with nerves or excitement.
Am I happy to be back, or anxious, or both?
I hope the answer doesn’t matter and the tension will ease once I’m back in the swing of things, but as the car turns onto a leafy Beverly Hills street and we approach the staging ground for this new phase in my career, my middle pulls tighter.
This is it. This is what the scared woman who flew out of Violet’s studio was running toward, and there’s no turning back now.
My eyes are closed so I can focus on my breath when Finn growls next to me.
I glance at him, then out the window, and my heart sinks.
The entrance to our gated property is thick with paparazzi, shouting and shoving and lifting their cameras to get a money shot through the dark car windows.
It’s a familiar sight, and out of necessity and a desire to live something resembling a normal life, I’ve developed a tolerance for photographers tailing my every move.
Still, it’s a shock to find them here when I thought I was safe, and after weeks without having to worry about who’s out there watching me, this reintroduction to life in a fishbowl is especially jarring.
“How did they know she’d be here?” Finn demands, scowling at Pia as she twists around in her seat.
“The leak could have come from anywhere,” she says calmly, which earns my respect.
She’s got a spine of steel to sit up straight under Finn’s glare.
“Rosalie’s label knows she’s here, as do her stylists and couture team.
The house has staff, of course—housekeeping, gardeners, a chef—and her flight would have been logged the minute we left the ground. Anyone could have followed us here.”
The driver opens his mouth, but Finn gets in first. “We weren’t followed,” he grumbles, and the driver agrees with a short nod.
I lift a hand to set on Finn’s thigh, then remember what our relationship is supposed to look like and set it back in my lap. The flashes on those cameras will light me up through the tinted glass, and one shot of me groping my bodyguard would make headlines within the hour.
“It’s fine,” I say, paying no attention to the subtle flutter of my pulse. “I’m used to it. Let’s just get inside where we’re safe.”
“Can you get through them?” Finn asks the gentleman behind the wheel.
“Yes. Hang in there, Miss Thorne. It’ll take a few minutes.”
Finn’s hands ball into fists on his knees as we edge through the throng, rolling forward at a snail’s pace.
He scans the bodies pressed up against the car, eyes darting back and forth and visibly impatient to get to safety, but he doesn’t tell the driver how to do his job, and as disgusting as I find their profession, I don’t want to be responsible for accidentally injuring anyone.
Paps throw themselves at the car, waving lenses at the back seat windows, and I lean on years of practice to keep my face impassive and my body unflinching.
I’ve got my glasses on, but I still dip my chin.
When I reach for my hat for added protection, Pia stops me.
“No,” she says, phone to her ear as she calls inside for one of my security team to open the gate.
There’s a protection officer already there, speaking into his earpiece as he accesses a security panel and scowls at the throng.
“You’ve got no reason to hide and nothing to be ashamed of.
They know you’re in here. Hold your head up high. ”
I glance at Finn to check what he thinks, but he’s understandably distracted.
Plus, he’s already made it clear that he trusts my instincts.
So as the gates to the compound swing open and the car presses through the swarm, I lift my chin, remove my sunglasses, and turn my head toward the incessant flashing.
Cameras explode with enthusiasm when the photographers realize I’m offering them a money shot.
The first images of Rosalie Thorne since she was publicly dumped and disgraced by her industry heavyweight fiancé. Why is she looking so hot and composed? Where are the red-rimmed eyes? The tearstained cheeks? The muted wardrobe and the drive of shame?
Not here, I tell them silently. I’ve got nothing to be sad about and no reason to feel humiliated. See me now, Chip? I think with an unintentional smile. You’re never holding me down again.
I should have known that smile would be the one seen around the world, plastered all over social media almost before we finally reach the front door.