Chapter 3-Honor
I’m halfway through flipping chicken on the grill when I realize two important things.
One: I’m trying way too hard to act normal.
Two: Whatever normal is, I’ve clearly forgotten how to do it.
Rosalind steps out onto the back patio like she belongs there, and my brain immediately shorts out.
She’s fucking perfect.
Indoors I noticed her clothing, but out here? It’s lighter somehow, softer maybe.
And I sound like a fucking moron.
But she’s wearing jeans that fit like they were designed specifically to ruin my concentration. And a fitted tee that makes it very clear she’s not kidding about being a big girl.
My mouth goes dry.
I remind myself to breathe.
To act like a normal human who grills food and does not stare at a woman like a caveman discovering fire.
“So,” I say, because silence feels dangerous, “Hope tells me you two are friends from high school, but I don’t remember you.”
Smooth.
Nailed it.
Rosalind’s smile stutters.
“Shit, I’m sorry—”
“No, that’s okay. I’m not at all insulted that you don’t remember me. I spent a lot of time in the library, not on the field, Mr. Quarterback.”
Her lips quirk, and now I feel like a bigger idiot.
“Wow. I sound like a prick,” I mutter.
Thankfully, she smiles again, but there’s something careful about it.
Like she’s choosing the expression instead of letting it happen.
“Actually, Hope and I were more like acquaintances. We reconnected recently at her job.”
“And,” I say. “So this is less besties and more we once shared oxygen in a waiting room.”
That earns me a real laugh.
Bright. Warm.
The kind that hits me low in the gut.
“Something like that,” she says, leaning against the outdoor counter. “You always narrate while you cook, or is this a special occasion?”
“I’m trying to distract myself,” I admit. “If I don’t talk, I’ll start overthinking. And nobody wants that.”
“Overthinking what?” she asks, eyes glinting.
I gesture vaguely with my tongs.
“Life. Chicken temperatures. Why my sister looks like she swallowed a Pinterest board. You know. The usual.”
She snorts. “She does seem really domestic.”
“It’s unsettling,” I say. “I keep waiting for her to reveal it’s all an elaborate prank.”
As if on cue, something thumps inside the house.
A muffled crash.
Followed by Hope’s voice yelling something I can’t quite make out.
I don’t even blink.
“And there it is. Balance restored.”
Rosalind chuckles, but her gaze flicks toward the house—sharp, assessing—before she schools it back into amusement.
I miss it completely.
Because at that exact moment, something howls in the woods behind the yard.
Low. Long.
Not close—but not far, either.
I frown.
“Huh. That’s new.”
Rosalind goes very still.
Probably just a coyote, I tell myself. Or a fox.
Or Jersey wildlife doing whatever the hell it does when it thinks no one’s listening.
“Don’t worry,” I add quickly, because apparently, I’m now reassuring this beautiful stranger in my sister’s backyard. “We get all kinds of weird noises back there. Owls. Deer. Once I swear, I heard something that sounded like a woman screaming, but it turned out to be a bear.”
I laugh.
Rosalind does not.
She’s gone pale.
Not dramatically—just enough that the color drains from her cheeks, her posture tightening like she’s bracing for impact.
I’m too busy trying not to think about how good she smells—clean, warm, with something deeper underneath—to notice.
“Nature’s metal,” I continue. “Really commits to the bit.”
Another sound rolls through the trees.
A rustle.
A crack of branches.
I flip the chicken a little too aggressively.
“Anyway. You hungry?”
“Yes,” she says quickly. Too quickly. “Very.”
Her eyes are still on the forest.
I finally glance up—just long enough to register that something about her expression doesn’t match the joke I’m telling.
Concern flickers.
But then she looks back at me, smiles again, and whatever thought I had disappears completely.
Because her eyes are blue and steady and doing very bad things to my self-control.
“Looks good,” she says, nodding at the grill.
“Thanks,” I reply, throat tight. “I like to think I have two skills. Cooking meat and pretending I’m not a mess.”
Her smile softens.
Warms.
For half a second, it feels like she sees straight through me.
“Oh,” she says quietly. “You’re doing fine, Honor.”
My chest does something stupid.
Behind us, the woods go silent.
And for reasons I can’t explain, the hair on the back of my neck stands straight up—like something inside me just decided to pay closer attention.
Hope joins us a few moments later, and she calls Rosalind over.
Now, I’m jealous of my sister and feeling like a jerk.
I finish the meat pretty quickly and by the time I look up the women have the outdoor table laid with side dishes, paper plates, and utensils.
“Here, Honor—sit right over here by Roz.”
I stop mid-step, plate in hand.
“Roz?” Rosalind cuts in, brows lifting.
Hope doesn’t miss a beat. “No? Just trying it out.”
I scrunch my face before I can stop myself.
Something about the nickname doesn’t sit right.
Too casual. Too familiar. And also wrong.
She’s not a Roz.
She’s sweeter than that.
More like a Rosie. Or maybe Rosa.
Something soft. Something that fits the way she holds herself. Strong, but careful. Vulnerable when no one’s looking.
Then again, I don’t know her well enough to be handing out nicknames like we’re old friends.
I take the seat anyway, because Hope is already grinning like she’s won something.
Miles sets down a basket of rolls and glances between us.
“What do people call you for short, Rosalind?”
Blunt as always.
No warning. No social warm-up.
Rosalind stiffens.
I frown harder now, because I can see it—her shoulders tightening, the way she straightens like she’s suddenly on display.
“Oh. Um.” She clears her throat. “Rosalind. I mean… no one’s really ever called me a nickname before besides my father.”
Hope blinks. “Seriously? Never?”
She shakes her head. “Nope. Not really.”
“That feels illegal,” Hope says. “You’re very nickname-able.”
Rosalind laughs politely, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“I guess nothing ever stuck long enough.”
Something about the way she says it makes my chest tighten.
Miles shrugs and reaches for the salad.
“Rosalind it is, then.”
I nod, relieved. For some reason, I don’t want anyone else calling her a nickname.
“Yeah. Rosalind works.”
“It’s a pretty name,” I agree.
Her gaze flicks to mine—surprised, maybe—and for a split second, the noise of the table fades out. It’s just us. The air between us charged with something unspoken.
Hope breaks it by passing the potato salad.
“Eat your chicken before it gets cold. Ooh, look at the fancy lines. Honor grilled like he was trying to impress someone.”
I choke on a laugh.
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” Miles says. “You even checked the internal temperature.”
I glare at him.
“Food safety is important.”
Rosalind smiles at that. A real one this time.
“It smells amazing.”
“Thanks,” I say, suddenly too aware of my hands again. “Chicken’s simple. Veggies are just olive oil, salt, pepper. Bread’s from the bakery on Main.”
She nods, taking a bite, then hums softly.
“Okay, that’s actually really good.”
That hum goes straight through me.
Hope watches us like she’s observing a science experiment.
“So, Rosalind, is the Jeep okay?” Hope asks.
Rosalind’s fork pauses midair. “Oh—yeah.”
“Jeep?” I ask, because suddenly I want to know everything. “What kind?”
“Purple Wrangler,” she says automatically, like it’s muscle memory.
I grin.
Hope grins too. “Of course it’s purple.”
“Soft top?” I ask, genuinely interested now.
“Hard,” Rosalind says.
And fuck me—something in my brain short-circuits at the way she says it.
Calm. Certain.
Like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
She licks her lips and glances down.
Lucky for me the table is keeping my secret boner from her pretty blue stare.
Eyes up here, I want to say.
But I don’t. Not with an audience.
“Purple Jeep with a hardtop,” I say instead, nodding appreciatively. “That’s fire. I gotta see that.”
Miles snorts into his drink. “You should see her run it through the mud.”
Rosalind stiffens.
Just barely—but this time, I catch it.
“You’ve seen me off-road?” she asks, voice light but careful, like she’s testing the ground.
Miles shrugs. “Once or twice.”
Something tightens in my chest.
I don’t know why that matters.
I don’t know why I notice.
But I do.
And whatever just passed over her face—whatever made her shoulders go rigid for half a second—it tells me there’s more to Rosalind than she’s letting on.
Which only makes me want to know her more.
“Ooh, I know what I wanted to ask you. How’s your work at Furry Smiles?”
“It’s great, thanks. Though we were hoping Orson Outdoors might want to get a bid in on the new kennels and dog runs we need,” she says with enthusiasm, and now I can’t stop staring.
Hope and Rosalind talk about her job at this non-profit therapy animal training shelter for a bit more before conversation rolls on—work, town gossip, Hope teasing Miles about the store run—but I’m only half there.
Every time Rosalind moves, every time she laughs or glances my way, my body reacts like it’s forgotten how to behave.
And the weirdest part?
Every now and then, I swear I hear something from the woods behind the yard.
A rustle. A low sound that doesn’t belong to any animal I recognize.
No one else reacts.
Rosalind goes quiet for a moment, eyes flicking past me toward the tree line, her grip tightening on her fork.
I don’t notice.
Because Hope is asking me if I’ve considered moving permanently to Barvale.
And Rosalind is sitting close enough that I can feel her warmth.
And for the first time in a long time, dinner doesn’t feel like something I’m just surviving.
It feels like something I might want more of.