48. Nate

FORTY-EIGHT

NATE

Pitcher in one hand, two glasses in the other, I turn away from the bar and immediately catch Rosie's eyes on me.

Her expression is soft.

Warm.

And the calmest I think I've seen her.

I lengthen my stride and close the distance between us.

"What's that look for?" I ask, setting everything down on the table.

Her cheeks pinken, and she hesitates. Then she lifts a shoulder. "Just thinking how proud I am of you."

I open my mouth to reply, but no words come out.

How proud I am of you.

My throat tightens.

Fucking Rosie Edwards, walking back into my life after twenty-five years, appearing out of nowhere, saying shit like this, and flaying me open.

Sure, women have complimented me before.

Touched my arms or my stomach, telling me how good I looked. Or congratulating me on a win.

I force down a swallow .

But no one outside my family has ever told me they were proud of me.

And fuck if it doesn't feel good to hear that.

I lean toward the girl with pride in her eyes and press my lips to her temple.

It's all I can do at the moment without embarrassing myself.

Pulling back, I grip the back of the other chair at the table and drag it so it's next to Rosie's.

I keep my eyes averted as I sit.

I keep them averted as I pour us each a glass of watermelon mojitos.

I keep my gaze averted until I turn in my seat. Until my knees bump into hers.

Then I raise them.

And I feel it.

I fucking feel it.

And I don't know how it's possible.

I don't know if it will last.

But I feel it.

I feel the way I'm looking at her.

Like I already fucking love her.