Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Romeo
The clubhouse was quiet at three in the morning.
Most of the brothers had disappeared into their rooms hours ago, and the common room was dark except for the glow of some late-night infomercial claiming a set of kitchen knives could cut through a penny.
I hadn’t watched a second of it. I was staring at my phone. Again.
Fiona had texted goodnight six hours ago.
Six fucking hours.
Apparently, that was long enough for me to forget every rule of normal human behavior and start wondering whether sending another text would qualify as charming persistence or make me look like a lunatic.
Probably the second one.
I left the phone face down on the cushion beside me. Made it almost thirty seconds before turning it over again.
Pathetic.
Before Fiona, I’d never wondered whether I was texting a woman too much. Hell, I’d rarely had enough to say to one for it to become a problem. Now I wanted to know stupid shit.
Did she sleep on her side?
Did she kick the blankets off?
Did she wake up cheerful, or would she threaten murder until she’d had breakfast?
I wanted the important things too. Her plans. Her fears. The things she never said because she’d learned not to expect anyone to stay long enough to hear them. Every answer she gave me only made me want another.
That was the dangerous part. The darker side of me wanted all of her at once. Wanted to close the distance between us, put her on the back of my bike, and take her somewhere nobody could interfere.
Somewhere I wouldn’t have to share.
I knew exactly how that would go. Those silver eyes would lose every bit of warmth when she looked at me.
Fuck that. Wanting her didn’t give me permission to take away her choices.
If the La Croix curse had taught the men in my family anything, it should’ve been that knowing who you wanted and having her choose you were two different things.
I knew what my heart wanted.
Fiona was still figuring out hers.
So I sat my ass on the couch in Nebraska and behaved.
Mostly.
The thought of her eventually leaving Rosewood for college still did ugly things to my imagination.
Some clean-cut college kid was going to notice her.
Of course he would. He’d be close enough to ask her out without planning a cross-country trip first. Her brothers would probably like him just because he wasn’t me.
I picked up my phone. Still nothing. The imaginary college boy was already getting on my nerves.
Christ. I’d officially become jealous of a man who didn’t fucking exist.
The old Romeo would’ve laughed himself sick over this.
The old Romeo also would’ve found somebody willing, scratched the itch, and forgotten her name before breakfast. I had no interest in doing that now.
That probably should’ve terrified me more than it did.
Instead, I opened Fiona’s text thread and reread the last few messages.
Me: Sweet dreams, Ma Belle.
Nothing after it. Because goodnight generally ended conversations. Reasonable people understood that. I wasn’t feeling especially reasonable. My thumb hovered over the keypad. One question. I could ask one question.
Me: Tell me something nobody knows.
I hit send before the smarter part of my brain had chance to interfere. Delivered. Unread. I stared at it. One minute. Two. Three. Well, genius, she’s probably asleep. I was about to put the phone down when three dots appeared. A grin spread across my face.
Ma Belle: Why?
Me: Because I asked nicely.
Ma Belle: You didn’t say please
Smart-ass. There was something seriously wrong with how much I enjoyed that.
Me: Please tell me something nobody knows.
The dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. This time I waited. Whatever she sent next mattered because she was choosing it. I’d asked for something nobody knew. Now she had to decide whether I belonged inside that circle.
Ma Belle: I sing when I’m alone at the Creamery.
I read it twice. She sang. Not some devastating confession. Not some secret meant to crack her open. Something small. Something hers. For some reason, that felt more intimate.
Me: Good singer?
Ma Belle: That wasn’t part of the question.
My lips spread into a grin; she was such a smartass and I fucking loved it.
Me: What do you sing?
Ma Belle: Whatever’s playing.
Me: I need proof.
Ma Belle: Absolutely not
Me: Voice message.
Ma Belle: No
Me: Ten seconds.
Ma Belle: Still no
Me: Five.
Ma Belle: You negotiate like a criminal
Me: I’m charming. People confuse the two.
Ma Belle: Tell me something nobody knows about you.
My grin disappeared. Well, fuck. I’d walked directly into that one.
What exactly was I supposed to tell her?
That I’d known the second I saw her that something inside me had shifted permanently?
That I thought about her more than any grown man had a right to think about someone he’d spent so little actual time with?
That somewhere in the back of my head lived a very violent little bastard who hated the idea of another man putting his hands on her?
Probably not.
There were truths, and then there were truths you eased somebody into.
Me: I hate being ignored.
Ma Belle: That isn’t a secret
Me: Cruel girl.
Ma Belle: Accurate girl
I set the phone on my thigh and leaned back against the couch. She thought she’d dodged the question. Maybe she had. But so had I. Fair was fair. I looked at her last message again. Accurate girl. I could practically hear her saying it.
That was happening more often now. Her voice had started filling in the spaces between her words even though I’d barely heard enough of it to justify remembering the sound this clearly. I wanted more. I always wanted more. But tonight, she’d given me something nobody else knew.
She sang when she thought she was alone.
For now, I could be satisfied with that.
Sleep never happened. By the time the sky outside my window started turning pale, I’d given up pretending it would.
I sat at the small desk in my room with my phone charging beside me and a cup of coffee strong enough to dissolve metal.
At 5:47, my phone buzzed. I nearly knocked over the damn coffee grabbing it.
Ma Belle: You’re up early.
Me: Never went to sleep.
Ma Belle: Why not?
Because apparently text conversations with you every day still isn’t enough.
Because my brain has started planning arguments with imaginary college boys.
Because you’re miles away and somehow still manage to take up the whole damn room.
Me: Couldn’t turn my brain off.
Ma Belle: I know the feeling.
I stared at that. Did she? That question had enough possibilities attached to it to keep me awake another night. I decided not to torture myself.
Me: What’s your favorite dessert?
Ma Belle: I work in an ice-cream shop
Me: That isn’t an answer.
Ma Belle: Chocolate cake.
Me: Frosting?
Ma Belle: Chocolate.
Me: Ice cream?
Ma Belle: Vanilla.
Me: Predictable.
Ma Belle: You asked
The corner of my mouth kicked up. I could practically picture her rolling her eyes at me while she typed, pretending I wasn’t getting exactly the reaction I wanted.
Me: Favorite place in Rosewood?
Her answer took longer this time.
Ma Belle: Granny’s porch when everyone else has gone home.
My breath caught. Not the mountains. Not some overlook or restaurant or place people came to Rosewood specifically to see. Granny’s porch. When everyone else had gone home. That told me more about Fiona than half the answers I’d dragged out of her over the last few weeks.
Me: You like quiet?
Ma Belle: Sometimes.
Me: I can be quiet.
Ma Belle: I’ve heard zero evidence of that
Because we haven’t spent nearly enough time together.
Me: Invite me to Granny’s porch and I’ll prove it.
Ma Belle: Georgie would sit between us
Me: I own duct tape.
Ma Belle: Absolutely not
An image of Georgie taped to one of Granny’s porch posts came to mind immediately. Complete with the offended glare he’d probably wear while Fiona stood there laughing at him. Hearing her laugh would be so fucking worth it.
Ma Belle: I have to go. Granny’s making breakfast.
Me: Tell her I said hello.
Ma Belle: You really want me to do that?
My fingers stopped. Yes. Also, absolutely fucking not. Martha Steiner had watched me closely enough at Jack’s wedding that I doubted I’d fooled her for a second. I had no idea how much she knew or what conclusions she’d drawn. I wasn’t volunteering to find out.
Me: Maybe not.
Ma Belle: Goodbye, Jasper
Me: Talk to you later, Ma Belle.
I set the phone down and took a drink of coffee. Chocolate cake. Vanilla ice cream. Granny’s porch after everyone went home. I didn’t need to write any of it down. I’d remember all of it.
That realization sat with me for a moment. There’d been women in my bed whose last names I couldn’t recall. Fiona told me she liked chocolate frosting, and I knew there wasn’t a chance in hell I’d ever forget it.
The La Croix curse might explain why I’d known she was different the moment I saw her. It didn’t explain this. This was happening one message at a time, in stupid questions and late-night conversations and little pieces of herself she trusted me enough to hand over.
Maybe that was better.
The curse could tell me she was the one. But it couldn’t make her trust me. Couldn’t make her want me. Couldn’t make her choose me.
That part, I had to earn.
Fiona still got to decide for herself.