8. Rosie
Chapter 8
Rosie
Twelve Years Later
I peek out the back screen door to find Grandma Lily in her rocking chair, nursing a cup of coffee. She says there’s no better way to start the day than with coffee and the beauty of a loved garden.
After making my own doctored-up version of the tar she likes to drink, I head back to the wide wooden porch and sit on the steps, curling up against the railing while I take my first sip. Her rocker creaks against the wood, slow and rhythmic, as we watch the morning take shape in shades of blue and grey.
“You’re up early this morning, sugar,” she says.
Normally, I’m a night owl, but I’ve got shit to handle this morning, and I need to get my ass in gear. I set down my mug and stretch for my toes. “It’s the first day of spring!”
Her croaky laugh tumbles into the quiet morning. “Think this window display will get you a citation?”
“I’m a law-abiding citizen with a passion for art,” I say innocently. I’ve only been cited by the Sheriff’s Office once for my painting, and it was a hundred-dollar fine. Worth it.
Besides the one time Ms. Alberts homed in on my “happy mushrooms” and made a stink over her opinion that the art was clearly “condoning drug use in the town square,” my window displays for Bambi’s Boutique have never triggered any modesty alarms.
Did Ms. Alberts miss the point of those happy little “mushrooms” entirely? Yes. Yes, she did. But is the average person walking down the street going to stumble upon the cute little abstract mushrooms I’ve strategically designed to resemble cocks and hidden in the background of the painting? I think I’m safe.
What is someone gonna say? “These mushrooms in your window design kinda look like dicks”? Who is admitting that?
“What’s the theme for your design this season?” she asks, her eyes gleaming with mischief. She may look like a refined omega , her hair curled immaculately before six o’clock and her feathered robe fit for an old-school starlet, but Grandma Lily is a free-spirited soul and has a love of laughter.
“Are you telling me your bridge club doesn’t compete in the window display scavenger hunt?” I narrow my eyes at her, sizing her up while she feigns innocence.
Her bell sleeve drags through the air with a dramatic flourish. “Of course we do. That’s why I’m asking you to give your dear Grandma Lily an in so I know where to look. I need bragging rights, and you haven’t let me win yet.”
“Nope. My lips are sealed,” I say, smiling into my cup.
The first person of the season to spot all my disguised dicks wins a custom piece from the store my friend Bambi owns, but it’s not exactly a known thing. Just the regulars and a few word-of-mouth friends. How my grandma’s bridge club got in the know is beyond me. I didn’t say a peep. Their club has a far lengthier record for town pranks and city citations than me—once they knitted over all the town’s light poles. I strive for their brilliance, honestly.
“That’s all right.” She cuts her eyes at me, keeping up our game. “I know what you’re doing today, and that means I’m going to town.”
She’s always regal, but despite her cheerful banter, she looks pale this morning, her eyes tired.
“I better not find out you were driving.” I climb off the step and kiss her cheek on my way back inside.
“I’m perfectly capable of driving four blocks to town!” she says, scandalized by my warning as though she has a valid driver’s license.I’m already inside the screen door when she calls out again. “Before you start running for the day, would you mind bringing me the mail, sugar? I didn’t get a chance yesterday.”
“Got it.” I make a detour toward the front.
“Didn’t get a chance yesterday” is her way of saying it was a bad pain day. On days like that, she doesn’t leave the house. Worry keeps me distracted as I scurry down the front porch steps and along the cold stone pavers to the mailbox.
Her bad days are happening more frequently. It’s nowhere near as often as when I returned to Knotty Pines four years ago, but the comparison makes my stomach churn. I’d never planned on staying, only coming to town to pay my respects after my last grandpa passed away, but I couldn’t leave her after the funeral.One day turned into another and then another until I gave up my tiny studio apartment in the city and found a part-time job here at Bambi’s Boutique. Those first six months were rough. She was in so much pain and grief over the loss of her final bond that even with the new bond sickness medications, I wasn’t sure she was gonna survive.
Losing Grandpa Rufus so soon after her Prime alpha’s passing the year before almost killed her. But I couldn’t give up on her—not then and not now. Not when Grandma Lily was the one who pulled me back from the brink and gave me a home at seventeen when I decided I couldn’t live one more day under my mother’s roof. She and my grandpas stood by me against their own children and helped me heal, find a way to go to college, and make a life for myself. Coming back to Knotty Pines may not have been something I planned, but staying and taking care of her is a no-brainer.
The mailbox is stuffed, and I realize that maybe “yesterday” was more days than she let on. I’ve been busy with all the custom orders and commissions, but that’s no excuse. I make a mental note to call the omega specialists to see if we can bump up our next appointment.
A passing truck’s brakes nearly scare me to death, and I jolt back from the curb. The moving truck behind it seems to be in on the jump scare, making a groaning sound as it follows the smaller truck into the driveway next door. The neighboring house hasn’t had anyone in it in years.
I watch through the tall oaks, trying to get a look at the man climbing down from the moving truck. He’s big and burly looking—definitely an alpha. I’d say he's in his late twenties or early thirties.
Hello, handsome.
He doesn’t come any closer, heading straight for the house’s front door as the driver of the smaller truck hops down and bellows, “Let’s check out the nest.”
I can hear him, but I can’t get a good look at this driver either. It doesn’t stop me from trying. Because that voice? Good gravy. That is a sexy man.
My knees go weak, and I'm overcome by the urge to trail after the sound just to hear it again. I clutch my hand to my chest, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. That’s when I remember I’m outside in my pajamas and a threadbare robe. As much as I’d love to get a better look, I don’t think being spotted perving on them from my lawn with bed head, last night’s eyeliner, and my oversized, hole-filled Chucky shirt is the best first impression.
With that mortifying thought, I scramble back to the house. And because I’m me, I stumble on the final stair and stub my toe on the corner of the porch’s brick pillar. Hobbling on one foot, I curse my luck until I shake it out.
Still unsettled by the men next door, I hand off the stack of mail to my grandma. “Did you know someone bought Mr. Harold’s place?”
She stops rocking, perking up. “Really? How exciting! I thought his grandsons were still arguing over whether to sell.”
“Seems like people are moving in.” I shrug, trying to play it off.
That first alpha looked like he could be hot, and the second’s voice was panty-melting, but I’ve learned my lesson and then some about hot guys, thank you very much.
Look, but don’t touch.
Besides, college taught me that being hot often meant the guy was a total letdown in bed. It would be something to hear that second one growl my name though.
Grandma looks me over, and I know her keen eyes see right through me. “It seems like they might be alphas, and we should welcome them properly ,” she teases, handing me a thick envelope. “This one’s for you.”
I ignore her teasing. She can walk right over and introduce herself, but I plan to have them stay firmly in the “hot neighbor” category. I don’t need to add dating to my life.
I inspect the envelope as I head to my room. I’ve dawdled this morning, and if I don’t get moving, I’ll end up doing this window piece with an audience. Hard no.
The return address brings a wash of dread that only intensifies after I rip open the envelope. I skim the contents, groaning. It’s information about my high school reunion. The event will occur on Saturday after the Spring Fling football game during the weekend of the Founder’s Week celebrations. Would I like to RSVP?Or buy a pack tailgate package?
Not ever, please and thank you . Even knowing I’m not going, the thought of running into any of those people makes my skin crawl.
I give myself a mental pep talk all through getting dressed. I may not have ever wanted to come back here, but I’ve carved out a niche of Knotty Pines that’s just mine, and even the threat of a high school reunion can’t ruin that.
Eyeing my shoe rack, I decide today calls for combat boots.