97. Nate

NINETY-SEVEN

NATE

I see it on her face.

What I've taken for granted my entire life, Rosie has never had.

No loving family.

No one to tell her they love her.

And it makes my fucking heart ache.

I hold her hand tightly.

It's right there, sitting on my tongue, to tell her I love her.

That I'll be her normal.

But I need her to believe me when I say it, and it's not time yet.

I inhale slowly.

And since I've already ruined the mood, I bring up another bad topic.

"How did your dad die?"

Her gaze lowers to my chin, and she presses her lips together before answering. "The final diagnosis was heart failure."

"Like a heart attack?"

She nods.

"Was it at home?"

"Yeah."

"Were you there? "

She nods again.

I squeeze her hand a little more.

She was nineteen when she wrote to me on the day her dad died.

Nineteen.

I can't imagine losing your only parent at that age.

And I can't imagine the mind fuck of that person also being your abuser.

The relief of them being gone but the unknown of being on your own.

"I'm sorry." I scoot a little closer to her. "I'm not sorry he's dead. But I'm sorry about… him."

"Thanks, Nathan." She shuffles her body a little closer to mine.

Fuck it.

I let go of her hand and grab her sides, dragging her to me.

Our naked bodies collide, but I keep pulling her until she's half draped across me, like how we wake up.

I wrap my arms around her firmly and kiss the top of her head—her hair nearly dry now.

"Nathan?"

"Hmm." I nuzzle her hair.

"I need to use your kitchen."

"Whatever you need." I close my eyes and relax into the change of topic. "What do you want to make?"

"It's not for me. I need to cook for an event."

My eyes open. "Rosie, you can't work yet."

"Nathan." She tries to lift her head from my chest, but I press my chin down, holding her in place.

"We can argue like this." I hold her tighter. "But you're also not going to win this argument. You can't work an event when you're on freaking crutches."

"One." She taps a finger against my side. "I literally became my own boss so no one could tell me what to do. And two." She dances her fingertips up my side this time, making me jump.

I slap my hand down on top of hers.

Rosie snickers. "Two, I can let Presley do all the running around."

"I don't care if you have help. Your legs and your arms and your everything will be killing you by the end of the night." I picture holding my weight up by my armpits for hours and pull a face.

"I need to work, Nathan."

"I'll give you whatever money you need."

She groans. "I appreciate that, but I'm going to pretend you didn't just offer me money."

"Why?" I ask, genuinely perplexed.

"Because I don't need money," she huffs. "I can pass off most of the jobs I have for the next three weeks and still pay my rent. But I need to keep a few. Presley can cook for most of them, but there's one in two days, and I need to do it myself."

"Why?"

"It pays well, which is part of the reason I don't need you offering me money. And the artist hosting the event is the sister-in-law of a woman who plans lots of fundraisers each year, and I'd like to make a good first impression."

I hate that she has good reasons. And I hate that I can't just tie her to the bed to keep her from working.

"What sort of artist?"

"She's a painter, and she's auctioning off a special collection for the fundraiser." Rosie inhales deeply. "Her work is amazing, and to be honest, I've been a fan forever, so really, I just want to meet her."

Any urge I had to argue dies with Rosie's admission. I can't stand in the way of her meeting someone she admires.

Instead of showing my defeat, I ask one last question. "What's her name?"