49. Rosalyn

FORTY-NINE

ROSALYN

Nathan locks his gaze on mine as he hands me one of the drinks.

The cold glass is heavy in my grip.

He lifts his own. "To marshmallows."

A small sound leaves my throat, and I press my lips together.

Then I tap my glass to his. "To marshmallows."

Together, we raise our glasses and drink.

The fresh taste of watermelon splashes over my tongue, followed by mint and the mellow heat of expensive alcohol.

It's dangerously good.

I take another sip.

Nathan lowers his glass to the table and turns even more toward me, placing his hand on the back of my chair.

I shift so I'm facing him too, sitting sideways on my chair, just like he is, putting my knees between his.

"So, Miss Rosie Edwards, when did you get into cooking? And when did you start going by Rosalyn?"

I take another drink, delaying my answer, wondering how much truth to give him and deciding on my own question.

"When did you start going by Nate? "

He smirks but still replies. "High school. We'd moved—just to the next town over—and I thought it sounded cooler."

My heart twinges at the thought of him having to move again.

"It does sound cool," I say seriously.

Nathan shakes his head. "It was a teenage impulse that followed me the rest of my life. But now most people just call me Waller."

"Should I?—"

"You call me Nathan," he answers before I finish my question. "Just like I'm going to keep calling you Rosie. Now it's your turn."

With nowhere else to put them, I rest my hands in my lap. "When I moved to the Twin Cities, I decided to go by my full name. It sounded more grown up, and it felt like a good way to start the next chapter of my life."

"When did you say you moved here? When you were nineteen?"

"Yeah." I remember him asking this before he knew who I was. And even though I knew it would come up, I don't really want to talk about it.

I concentrate on relaxing my fisted hands and change the topic by answering his other question. "I'd been working in different restaurants since I was sixteen. And so I found a job here as a line cook and started working on my plan for my company."

Fingertips trail through the ends of my hair, and I feel myself tipping my head toward his hand, wanting more.

"Did you go to school for cooking?" He leans closer to me so I can hear him better.

"Just self-taught."

"Impressive." His eyes move to where his fingers are still playing with my hair.

"Not really." I lift a shoulder. "I just couldn't afford college."

His gaze moves back to mine. "You didn't let it stop you. And I've tasted your food, Rosie. It's fucking delicious."

"Thanks," I say quietly.

"Did you end up working in restaurants because you already liked to cook? Or was it working in them that made you like it?"

"I started cooking at home when I was younger." I reach for my glass. " I found an old cookbook in that Goodwill over by the library." I pause, taking a drink as cover. Nathan's family wasn't the type to go to Goodwill, and I feel a little weird having brought it up. "It was a thick Betty Crocker cookbook that was a little banged up and a lot old, but the previous owner had written all sorts of notes around the edges of the pages."

"What sort of notes?" Nathan sounds genuinely curious.

"Random stuff. She—I assume it was a she—would cross out cook times and write in what she thought was better. There were notes on ingredients to add if you wanted to make it sweeter or less salty. Substitutions she'd used if she was out of something. The notes weren't profound or anything like that, but it caught my interest. I'd never really thought about food that much since there wasn't much…" I catch myself. "Since we didn't have that much variety at home."

We didn't have much food in general. Or at least I didn't.

I was stuck with instant packets of soup and peanut butter sandwiches mostly. But I don't really want to talk about that.

Even though I think Nathan knew. I'm pretty sure that's why he started bringing me marshmallows.

Appreciation fills my chest.

He was such a good friend to me.

And I want to tell him.

I was never a scrawny kid. Even when I chose hunger most nights, preferring to stay in my room rather than be near my dad, my body has always just been… thicker.

But Nathan still knew I could use the treats.

Of course, once I figured out how to cook, I finally got to eat my fill, and I filled out my curves even more.

Of course, Dad, classic piece of shit that he was, never missed an opportunity to call me fat. Tell me I should go for a run or that I'd never get a boyfriend if I didn't start cutting back on the calories.

As if I'd wanted a boyfriend.

I'd wanted fewer men in my life. Not more.

A warm hand slides over my shoulder. "What was your favorite thing to make?"

"Soup," I tell him, then I take a long drink of my mojito .

Nathan's brows go up. "And yet you didn't make any for the Lovelace party or for my picnic."

Mentally, I brush away the cloying memories that threaten to pull me under and smile. "Soup doesn't exactly qualify as summer finger food."

Nathan purses his lips. "Fair enough, but I want to try some anyway. I've never met a soup I didn't like."

"I'll make you soup someday, Nathan Waller," I say, even though I'm sure it's a lie.

I doubt we'll see each other after whatever happens tonight.

He takes the glass from my right hand and puts it in my left, then holds his hand out between us.

I lift a brow. "What are you doing?"

"Shaking on it." Nathan holds his hand closer to me.

I roll my eyes, but I place my palm against his. "Is it even binding if we don't spit in our hands first?"

Nathan lifts our joined hands toward his mouth. "If you want me to spit, Rosie, just say so."

His gaze is molten, and I press my knees together tighter and whisper, "Not at the moment."

Nathan drops our joined hands onto his thigh and tips his head back with a groan. "Dammit, Rosie." His hood slides off his head as he shakes it. "You're gonna be the death of me."

A small laugh leaves me at his dramatics. "You started it."

He straightens back up so he can look at me. "And you made it worse. Better. Pick your poison."

I grimace at the word poison while I swallow down more alcohol.

I set my glass down and slide my hand out of his grip. "You've lost your disguise."

Feeling bolder now that my glass is nearly empty, I lean toward him and reach up, my fingers catching on the material of his hood.

Nathan hunches his shoulders, lowering his frame enough so I can pull the material back up over his hair.

The black hood stops at the top of his forehead, but pulling it forward causes some of his hair to hang down into his eyes .

Keeping my attention on my hands, I gently tuck his hair back under his hood, the strands soft against my fingers.