Chapter 33 Phoenix
PHOENIX
It was past ten by the time I finished hacking through the last section of the tree. The manual labor had helped. So had the drop in temperature, which cooled more than just the sweat on my skin—it calmed the adrenaline still buzzing from my conversation with Jagg at Frank’s.
I'd come here ready to go ten rounds the moment Rose got home.
I'd been primed for questions, accusations, hell, even a fight. I’d spent half the day angry—at the unanswered questions, the secrets, the mystery midnight visit to that damn ranch house.
At the feeling that she was keeping something from me.
But then she showed up.
Jogging down the hill in those little boots, smiling like I hadn't been two steps from losing my mind a few hours ago.
And I’ll be damned if everything in me didn’t just… settle.
I forgot what I was even doing there. Forgot every sharp-edged question I’d been planning to throw at her.
She had that effect on me.
The chaos in my head went still the second she smiled at me. My heart slowed. My thoughts straightened out. Hell, she made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time—something dangerously close to peace.
It was hypnotic.
And it scared the hell out of me.
I set the chainsaw down, gave Spirit one last stroke down her sleek neck, and started toward the house. The porch light spilled a warm glow onto the yard, her silhouette visible through the living room window.
I ran a hand over the back of my neck, wondering how the hell to bring up what I needed to say without ruining the fragile thing that had just started to form between us.
Because for the first time in my life, I cared more about how she felt than what I needed to know.
And that truth—that shift—hit me harder than anything else.
The low melody of instrumental jazz music floated through the air as I pushed open the front door.
My gaze shifted to the blazing fire in the fireplace and pride swelled.
Rose had made, and maintained, her first fire, all by herself.
It was like a little piece of me was in there with her.
I liked that. I liked that I’d had a hand in that fire; that I’d made my stamp on the place.
The cabin was warm with the savory scent of something Italian lingering in the air. My stomach growled. A candle was lit in the living room.
An almost-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table next to an open book.
There was a warmth, a coziness to the place that reminded me of my own home growing up when my greatest worry was how to beat my brothers at a game of war that afternoon. When things were happier.
Her head popped around the kitchen wall. “Hi, there. Come in.”
She’d changed into a pair of flannel pajama bottoms, a sweatshirt that read ‘I get psyched for Psychology,’ and fuzzy slippers.
Her long, black hair was up in a messy bun, and dammit if she didn’t look sexier than she did in her designer suits.
In pajamas, Rose Floris was far sexier and more tantalizing than any woman on any page in Vogue.
And at that moment, I realized there was no place in the world I’d rather be.
My heart gave a little kick.
When I stepped into the kitchen, she was pulling down a plate from a cabinet filled with matching dinnerware sets, each stacked according to color.
She set the plate—only one—on the counter, then uncovered a glass casserole dish.
Steam unfurled from a lasagna, cheese bubbling over the sides.
She’d cooked for me, and despite the immediate excitement, I felt bad that she’d gone to the trouble.
She scooped a hefty amount onto the plate, then breezed past me and set it on the table in the breakfast nook.
“Sit.”
“Oh. No, it’s okay. I’m not hungry.”
“Yes, you are. Sit.”
“I’m good.”
“Sit, Phoenix.”
“Are you going to eat with me?”
“Sit.”
I did as I was told. She placed a tall glass of tea—with two lemons—in front of me. Her hand rested on my shoulder. I looked up.
“Eat,” she said, looking down at me.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know. We’ll talk about whatever it is that’s on your mind later, but you’re going to eat first. Based on the circles under your eyes, I’m guessing you haven’t eaten dinner today, or lunch.”
Or, breakfast, but she didn’t need to know that.
My mouth watered as I looked down at the food. Each bubbling layer was distinct and oozing with filling.
“You really made this?”
“That’s a hefty insult for someone with Italian blood.”
“Sorry.” I picked up my fork and dug in—and literally groaned in satisfaction.
She smiled widely. I loved that smile.
“Good?” She asked.
“The best I’ve ever had,” I muttered around a mouthful. And it wasn’t a lie. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“Already did. Wasn’t sure if you were going to come back inside or sneak off.”
“Heck of a dish on a whim.” I was shoveling the food into my mouth like a hyena. “Not that I’m complaining.” A string of cheese dripped off my chin.
She smiled at my vigor, then said, “When I cook, I make big batches to feed myself through the week. Lasagna freezes well.”
“You cook often?”
“Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays.” Because of course she had a cooking schedule.
“Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays,” I repeated. “I’ll mark my calendar.”
She looked down at the plate in front of me that was already half-empty. “Might need to add a few days then.” She winked.
“What else do you like to cook?”
“Italian food, mostly. It’s not all cheese and sauce you know.”
“Olives.” I wrinkled my nose.
“The man doesn’t like olives. Note to self.”
I wiped my mouth and sat back. “Italian because… your roots?”
“Yes.” She briefly looked down. “The only roots I know. I know my grandparents on one side were Italian.”
“And you’ve never been?”
“No. It’s on the bucket list, though.” She gave a small shrug and waved a hand in the air like it didn’t matter—but I caught the flicker of something wistful in her eyes. Longing, maybe. A hunger for more than just travel.
“Anyway. Eat.”
We slipped into an easy rhythm after that, conversation flowing with the kind of comfort that made it hard to believe I’d ever wanted to push her away.
I polished off the first serving, then a second—something in the way she watched me eat made it taste even better.
Like it mattered to her that I was enjoying it.
Like she needed to take care of someone and I’d somehow been voted in.
“Thank you,” I said, setting my fork down and meeting her gaze across the table. “I feel better. Like a million bucks, actually.”
“Good.” Her eyes were soft, steady. “You’re welcome.”
I started to rise and gather my dishes, but she beat me to it, standing quickly and reaching for my plate.
“No,” I said, my voice firmer than intended. “I’ll do it.”
Her hand stilled mid-air. Surprise flickered in her expression.
Her hand dropped slowly to her side as I picked up my plate and glass and carried them to the sink. I could feel her eyes on my back—curious, maybe a little affected—as I rolled up my sleeves and ran the water.
The warmth of the soap, the quiet clink of the dishes in the basin, the feel of being in her space—it grounded me.
Domestic, simple, normal. But it wasn’t just about the plates.
I needed to give something back. To do something small for her, because she'd already done too much for me tonight, and I was starting to feel the shift. The imbalance. The pull.
I washed them slowly, carefully, as if handling something delicate. And maybe I was. Because somewhere behind me, Rose Floris stood barefoot and silent, and I could feel her watching me like she didn’t know what to do with the man standing in her kitchen.
Truth was, I didn’t either.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done around here,” she said, her voice quieter now. “To be honest, I’m not sure I would’ve stayed tonight if it weren’t for the lights outside.”
I paused, dried my hands on the towel, and turned. “Because that’s all it takes? A few floodlights to make you feel safe?”
She gave a half-smile. “You said they’d help deter peeping Toms.”
I stepped closer, my gaze locking with hers. “I don’t think a peeping Tom is your biggest concern, Rose.”
The smile vanished. A flicker of fear darted across her eyes. “What do you know that I don’t?”
I took another step forward. “I have questions. I need you to answer them. All of them. And I need you to be honest with me.”
She stilled. Her breath caught. “…Okay.”
“What exactly was your relationship with Andrew McGregor?”
Her arms crossed, but not defensively. “First off, like I’ve already told you, we didn’t sleep together.
We bumped into each other a few times around town, and one day he asked me out.
I said yes to coffee. We talked. I felt nothing.
Turned him down for a second date. No kiss, no sex, not even a flirty vibe. That’s the whole story.”
“Then why go to him for help with the bear?”
“I remembered him mentioning a brother in forensics. I needed help. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.”
“And that’s the truth?”
“Yes.”
I studied her for a long moment. “What about Carl Higgins?”
Her expression shifted—something flickered. Guilt.
“I shouldn’t have called the cops on him,” she admitted. “But I did. He waited outside my work for hours. It freaked me out.”
“What was he coming to therapy for?”
“Anxiety. Panic attacks. He’d recently gotten sober and was dealing with the fallout.”
“Did he mention a girlfriend? Wife?”
“He said no. But honestly, patients don’t always tell the truth.”
“I want to see his file.”
Her back straightened. “I can’t. Confidentiality.”
“I want to see it, Rose.”
Silence.
Then a slow, reluctant nod. “Okay. I’ll pull it. Off the record.”
“Thank you.”
I let that hang in the air a beat too long before I said, “Do you think Andrew’s death and Carl’s are connected?”
She didn’t answer right away.
She didn’t have to. Her eyes said everything.
“Yes,” she whispered.
I nodded once. “So do I.”
A cold shiver rippled through her. She tried to mask it, but failed.
Then I said the part she hadn’t let herself say out loud.
“And I think you’re next.”