Chapter 3
ROSE
Dominic Carlisle might be a pain in my ass, but he had the best timing ever. Trevor was forced to give up his plan to lock me in my basement until I came to my senses because he had to get back to work.
“You can’t leave me to deal with this,” cried Mara. “I’m weak! Rosie’s been trampling all over since we were in kindergarten.”
“Hey, I made you give up your purple crayon just once! Can you let it go already?” I demanded.
“You forced me to go on a fake date with Theo just last month,” she reminded me.
“And look how that turned out,” I reminded her right back.
“You scored the man of your dreams! All because I gave you a little nudge right when you needed it. That’s my superpower!
I nudge people into fulfilling their dreams. So why is it such a crime if I nudge Joe into fulfilling mine for a change? ”
“But is it your dream to marry him? Or are you doing it just to spite Dominic?” she asked softly.
I let out a loud snort that would have made my Mom swat me upside the head if she were here right now.
“This has nothing to do with him because Dominic Carlisle does not give a rat’s ass about whom I marry. He’ll be glad to be rid of the responsibility of keeping me safe. Tell her, Trevor!”
“That man turns himself inside out to protect you. Always has. And he will never let you throw yourself away on a sleazebag like Joe. Tell her, Trevor,” she countered.
“Gotta go,” yelped Trevor when he saw the time and ran towards the tall building with the ugly-ass glass facade that was Carlisle Towers. It stood across the square from Quincy’s pie shop and was tall enough to be seen from anywhere in our little town of Maplewood.
Mara sighed and helped me put my bags in the trunk of her car. During the short drive to my cottage just off Main Street, she did her best to get me to change my mind, but my mind was made up. I was about to hit thirty, and I was done waiting for Dominic to think of me as anything but a burden.
His mother, Anthea Carlisle, was my godmother, and I loved her to bits.
She had always been like a second mother to me, and settled into that role even more firmly after my Mom died ten years ago.
And just like that, Dominic was thrown into the role of my elder brother.
A role that neither of us wanted him to play.
He made that very clear every time his mother sent him to rescue me from whatever mess I’d gotten myself into yet again.
The man was a Grinch, but with the face of a fallen angel.
Every time he rushed to my rescue, he’d glare at me with that achingly gorgeous face set in stern lines, those lush, biteable lips pursed tightly in anger, and every time, I’d feel a little bit smaller. Like my very existence was a burden.
And I hated him for it! Of course, I did.
But for some reason, every hero of every book I wrote looked strangely like Dom.
And not just looked like him. My heroes were the embodiment of Dominic Carlisle, only way more approachable.
They didn’t glare at my heroines like they wished she didn’t exist. I mean, they did in the beginning, but they soon saw the error of their ways and fell at her feet soon enough.
Every single time. In every single book I wrote.
I sighed as I carried my groceries into the house. I was clearly living vicariously through my books, and it was time to stop. Because no good would ever come of obsessing over a man who didn’t see me as anything but a pest. I was done waiting for him. I was moving on. With Joe.
I put the pies in the refrigerator and got on with putting the lasagna together in my favourite Le Creuset baking dish.
The one Dom had gifted me last Christmas.
If that didn’t tell me what he thought of me, nothing would.
I mean, would he buy a baking dish for Cece Blair?
No, he fucking wouldn’t! He’d probably shower her with diamonds and rubies.
But boring old Rosie Posie, with her love for baking, rated nothing more.
I should have hit him on the head with it as soon as I opened the box, but it was Le Creuset, and in that gorgeous blueberry colour.
And I did have a baking addiction. Gosh, I was weak!
Not anymore. And one more thing. I was done making lasagna for Dominic.
From now on, all my pasta was reserved for Joe alone.
Rude billionaires who treated me like wallpaper did not deserve any of it.
I snorted in anger as I slapped marinara sauce onto the first layer of lasagna sheets.
When I was sure the dish couldn’t take any more sauce and cheese, I placed it carefully into the preheated oven and crossed my fingers because my oven had been temperamental lately.
I didn’t know what electrical gremlin had gotten into it, but it wasn’t something I could fix.
Joe called it a fire hazard. Heck, he called my whole cottage a fire hazard. But I didn’t care. My house might be small and coming apart in various places, but it was mine. And it was all I had left of my mother.
A loud, plaintive yowl brought me out of my reverie.
“Yes, I hear you, but you’re not getting any more food until dinner,” I said firmly, looking down at the beseeching face of my fat, black cat, Sweetpea.
He growled in response, and not for the first time since I’d named him, I wondered what possessed me to give such a sweet name to the orneriest cat in the world.
Sweetpea, to put it politely, was an asshole.
But a lovable one. As long as he got his way.
It wasn’t his fault, though. He was a feral cat who wandered into my bedroom through the window one night, about a month ago, to come in from a storm.
At first, he refused to let me anywhere near him, but at some point that night, the loud thunder and lightning sent him scurrying into my bedroom in fright.
He took a flying leap onto my bed and curled up against me rather grudgingly.
But ever since that moment, he became mine. For life.
My hands and legs were covered in scratches and bites because, try as he might, Sweetpea couldn’t control his asshole side from coming out once in a while. But he made up for it with his warm cuddles and loud, rumbling purrs.
There was no sign of his sweet side right now, though, because right now, he was very, very hangry.
“Don’t you growl at me, you little furball,” I said sternly. “The vet said you’re getting far too chonky for your own good. How are you going to chase delivery men if your little legs can’t carry your fat body?”
Sweetpea lived to terrorise delivery guys and the postman. And any unsuspecting male who wandered into his orbit, because my sweet boy hated all men. Including Trevor, who was practically a cat himself.
I picked him up and put him on my bed before I took a quick shower, and put on a layered black tulle skirt and a forest green knitted sweater.
Long, golden dangly earrings and a stack of my favourite bracelets completed the outfit.
I dabbed on some purple and gold eye shadow, swiped on a coat of mascara, and some lip gloss, and examined myself critically in the mirror, wishing I could magick away some of my curves.
Sadly, no workout could compete with my steady diet of gooey chocolate and peanut butter cookies and chips.
Sometimes, I wondered what Joe saw in me.
He’d asked me out when I went to the car dealership as Trevor’s backup when he discovered his new car was just one breakdown away from being scrapped.
And even though I didn’t usually go for the overconfident, salesy type, his interest was a balm to my bruised ego after Dominic’s continued disinterest.
I wished Sweetpea would relax his equal opportunity hatred of all men in Joe’s case.
My life was going to be unbearable if my cat hated my soon-to-be husband.
Although I had to say the hatred was mutual.
Joe had ordered me to give my cat away ever since Sweetpea attacked his balls.
Well, that was never going to happen, of course, but I didn’t know if I could take his constant complaints for the rest of my life.
Still, it was a small price to pay for being married and having a little family of my own.
And I was sure Joe would come to love Sweetpea just as I did.
Lately, Joe had been hinting that he wanted more than a casual relationship with me. He was hinting at marriage and a happy ever after. One taste of my lasagna, and he’d be on his knees, begging me to marry him.
Can’t wait to see you tonight, I texted him before I could change my mind.
Me neither, came the reply. Just keep the mangy cat out of my way. If he goes for my balls again, I’ll rip his fat head off.
I set my perfume down on the dressing table with a thump that made Sweetpea squint at me balefully.
What in the name of Puss in Boots was that?
Did Joe Cheney just threaten to hurt my cat? And what was I doing trying to wrangle a proposal out of a man who hated my cat? Was I so desperate to be married? Also ohmigod! Was it too late to cancel tonight’s dinner? My head began to spin with so many questions having zoomies inside it.
My insides began to twist with anxiety at the thought of calling Joe to cancel.
Oh, he was going to be so mad. And I hated it when people were mad at me.
Besides, it was more than just dinner. Joe and I had never done the dirty.
He’d always wanted to take it further, but I’d always stopped him when the making out took a heavier turn because I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.
But today, I was planning to take it all the way, and Joe knew it. Darn it!
But the more I thought of it, I knew for sure that I couldn’t go through with it. Not with the sex, and definitely not with the marriage. I knew I would never find a man who’d love Sweetpea the way I did, but could I trust a man who openly hated him?
As if he knew I was trying to keep him safe, Sweetpea strolled over to me and jumped onto the dressing table. He went up on his back legs and put his front paws on my chest, purring like an engine as he kneaded his paws against my sweater.
“I won’t let anyone hurt you,” I promised, as I dropped a kiss on the top of his big, furry head.
He gave me a look as if to say he’d like to see anybody try to hurt him. Which was true. If he wanted to, Sweetpea could rip a man’s face clean off in three point seven seconds.
With shaking hands, I dialled Joe’s number. He sounded out of breath, for some reason. And his voice sounded odd.
“Can’t talk now, babe. But I’ll see you in a bit,” he choked out.
“Joe, wait! I’m very sorry to do this over the phone, but I don’t think you should come over tonight,” I said hesitantly.
“What? You’re joking,” he exclaimed.
“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t think this is working out.”
“But, babe…you’re making your famous lasagna!”
Shoot! I’d clean forgotten the pasta I’d left baking in the oven. A burning smell began to emanate from the kitchen, and I ran towards it.
“It’s ruined,” I cried. “I burnt the lasagna.”
“Oh! Too bad. But we can always order pizza. Let’s not overreact about a burnt lasagna,” he said heartily, and I wished I could thump him with a broomstick.
“I’m not overreacting, Joe,” I bit out. “This relationship isn’t working for me, and I think we should end it. I cannot marry a man who hates my cat.”
“Let’s not be hasty, honey,” he squeaked, and I frowned at the sound. “I’ll tell you what…I’ll come over right now, and we can talk it through.”
“There’s nothing to talk about, Joe,” I began, when there was a loud thump at my door.