Chapter 48Rafe
Chapter 48
Rafe
I sit bolt upright, throwing off the covers. Sunlight’s shining through the window—must’ve stopped snowing in the night. Fuck. That means I’m late. I lean over to nuzzle Rose awake, but she’s not there.
No Princess or Pirate around either, their bagel bed and its pile of blankets deserted. Grab my phone from the nightstand to check in with Rose—she’s probably opening the café. It tells me I’m blocked—that can’t be right. The damn thing dies—that explains why, forgot to charge it.
I can still catch her if I’m quick. Sure, it’ll be cold without clothes, but gotta get going. Throw open the bedroom door and stop. I hear a woman singing, sweet and sultry at the same time. Familiar, can’t make out the words yet. I follow the sound downstairs through the dining room to the kitchen.
Two spots are set at the butcher block island. Plates and forks on cute-as-shit placemats with Lab pups romping around. Before I get there, Pirate jumps up on me, licking my face, one paw on each shoulder. Where’s Princess? There she is—running around the island toward me, barking like a loonball.
Rose stands at the stove, waving a spatula, singing something Elvis. No surprise. She hasn’t left yet, not in that getup. Thank fuck. Got my T-shirt on—it’s supersized, hanging below, but barely covering, her heart-shaped ass. A little unsteady on her stilettos, but keeping her balance. As always.
She looks over her shoulder. “How do you want your truffles?”
“My what?”
“Your truffles, sweetheart. Milk, dark or caramelized?”
“I’m not sure I’m hungry right now. Rose, I need to tell you—”
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, Rafe!” She puts a fist on her hip and points the spatula at me. Ready to take me on.
“Okay, okay. You choose—whichever you decide to have.” Maybe I’m not too late.
She motions toward a stool at the island, and I plant myself on it, Princess and Pirate settling at my feet. Hoping for a handout, but I know that chocolate is bad for dogs.
“Bacon’s in the oven. It wouldn’t be Christmas morning breakfast without bacon and truffles.”
“And coffee.” Going with the flow.
“Of course.” She pours me a cup from the French press with her free hand and passes it my way.
“Your very own Santa Paws blend, Rafe.”
I toast her, trying to wait patiently until she sits down. Hoping I’m not too late.
Rose flips off the burner and switches off the oven. She pulls out the bacon, piling it high on a serving dish. She struts over with the skillet to scoop out a half dozen dark chocolate truffles on each of our plates. The dogs spring up when she lands the bacon dish between us.
“Toss them some strips, Rafe, and take some for yourself.”
She gets her cup off the counter and comes back to sit down.
Finally. I open my mouth to tell her I’m sorry I hurt you. I was wrong. You make me better. I want to come home.
I need you. I love you.
Before I can get my words out, she presses her fingers over my lips. Her sad smile doesn’t reach her sadder eyes.
“You’re right, Rafe. We can’t do this again. It’s too late.”
Rose, the dogs, the kitchen, all melt away. I’m on my knees in front of her house. Too late, I recognize what she’d been singing—an Elvis favorite, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.” If only in my dreams...
A cold nose nudged the side of my face, hard. I was flat on my back in bed, my cheeks wet. Had Princess been licking me? No. Tears had slid down onto my jaw and neck too.
A whimper had me shifting my eyes to the right. She sat on the other pillow, frowning at me with worry like dogs do.
“It’s okay, baby girl.” I dragged myself up to sit against the headboard and scrubbed my face with my palms. She whimpered again, and I pulled her in for a hug, twisting to the left to make sure the framed photo was still there on the nightstand.
It was normally the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I saw at night, but this was not a normal morning, and last night had been anything but normal.
My sleep had been fitful, at best, and I’d kept reaching over to light up my phone. No joy then—and none now—when I grabbed it to check for messages, voice mails, anything from Rose. My screen informed me it was Sunday, 9:22 (or 8:22 Portland time), and that was it.
Radio silence, again. I closed my eyes and slumped over for a few minutes—until the chiming started.
One alert sounded after another, after another, after another. I opened the phone to see texts from Finn, Mateo, Lauren, Jean-Luc. Hell—I was surprised I didn’t see one from Pirate.
Finn’s set the tone for all the others:
Sunday * 9:42 a.m.
Finn
What The Fuck, Rafe? Why is my mother crying her eyes out? She says it was her decision. I thought you were going to do the right thing. WHAT THE FUCK?
Running downstairs, Princess on my heels, I made one last decision on my own. Then I replied to everyone’s texts:
Sunday * 9:54 a.m.
Me
I fucked up. I hurt the woman I love. I need your help. Please.
Before the news could work its way to Pete (Mateo to Liliana to Pete) and he called me, I called him.
“Pete, I screwed up big-time with Rose. I need your help in making it right. Can you keep a secret?”