CHAPTER 16 - Rosie

S mall-town woman with shining gray eyes and a personality to match who also loves dogs is seeking a handsome man to make her swoon over hamburgers and fried chicken while he promises to take her son buck hunting in the fall. She is a bit dramatic, dresses like a teenager, and is perpetually optimistic. He kisses like a prince, fucks like a villain, and she wants him to take her right now because he said all the right things at the dinner table and deserves an extra-special helpin' of dessert for his efforts .

It's good. I am not a bad copywriter by any means. But there's a lot of room for improvement. I mean, ‘kisses like a prince and fucks like a villain' is pretty prime, but the rest can use some work.

It's Tuesday morning and I'm sitting inside my Bishop printshop wearing my favorite pretty dress as I chew on the end of a fountain pen, trying to come up with some enticing words.

My mind, however, is still stuck on the sex last night.

Amon Parrish was everything I thought he'd be and more. He was forceful, and dirty, and made me a little nervous if I'm being honest. But not in a bad way. More of a breathless way. The wall fuck on the first time?

It makes a lot of sense with certain guys. The alpha type. Which Amon definitely is—in his own way, at least. But he's not typical. I mean, the James Dean date definitely says alpha but would the alpha type put on the Colonial costume?

I don't think so. Amon isn't typical and every time I think about last night and how he just put me on my knees like that—oh, mah God. I fan myself with my vintage-looking paper because just thinkin' about it gets me all hot and bothered. And if he were to walk through this door right now, I'd sweep my arm across the set-up table and scatter all the printing blocks to the four corners of the room so we'd have a nice solid place to have a fuck.

Of course, a dress like this one doesn't lend itself to a lunchtime quickie and my mind starts wandering to how Amon might even find my sweet spot though all these underlayers, so my lewd daydream stalls. But still, it's a nice fantasy and one day I would like for him to give it a try.

Then I remember what he promised at the end. I'll take you from behind, Rosie Harlow .

So then I picture him pushing me forward over the table, and hiking up all my many layers of skirts, and pulling down my drawers and… oh, yeah. I fan myself again. That's a much easier scenario to imagine.

My eyes wander up to the clock, find that it is already eleven-thirty, and I snap out of it. "Focus, Rosie. If you don't get this ad written today, you're not gonna get this printed up tomorrow."

So I push my lust for Amon Parrish aside and concentrate on my response to his personal ad.

Gray-eyed girl is desperately seeking rugged and worldly man who kisses like a prince and fucks like a villain. He wants to spank me like a master, fondle me like a toy, and take me from behind .

I snicker as I read that first part over again. Of course I'm not gonna print this. I'm gonna use the dull one I came up with first. I still have to take out ‘fucks like a villain' and all mentions of dessert. I don't want to piss off Jim Bob and get my insert revoked. So it will probably just end with, ‘Kisses like a prince, plays hard like the Devil, and repents like a sinner in the Revival tent on Sundays.'

This will be my public ad and Jim Bob will loooove that last part. "All publicity is good publicity, Rosie," he used to tell me back when I first started getting cast as the plot twister. "The scandal is the lifeblood of good entertainment and good entertainment creates the building blocks of success."

Which may or may not be true, but it doesn't matter.

Now that I've got that ad settled, I go back to this one here, which will remain private. This is for Amon's eyes only because we got ourselves a little thing going on here and I like it. He's playing along with my little fantasy life and being a very good sport about it, so I want to play back, even if it's just a little seemingly impromptu speech as we're lusting for each other.

I chew on my pen for another moment, trying to think up the next part. Then smirk as the words come pouring out…

He is a wicked scamp with a pioneer spirit who spends his days dreaming about all the different ways he might press my pleasure button .

I start snickerin'. ‘Pleasure button' is rather good, I think. It's got a trashy novel vibe to it, which is exactly what I'm going for.

My eyes shift up to the clock again and I realize I've only got ten minutes before I have to change and get on down to the Bishop Inn to work. Come on, Rosie! Focus!

She is willing, and obedient, and loyal. And she will writhe, and moan, and scream out in ecstasy at his simple touch because this will be all it takes to light her up. If this sounds like you, please respond in the next issue so we can continue our correspondence .

I giggle as I read it again. I need to memorize this so I'm ready the next time we're together. I'm gonna recite it and get him all bothered so he's got no choice but to follow through with those promises he made before he left last night.

Then I put it aside, straighten up my desk, grab my bag and my parasol, and leave, locking up behind me. It's unbecoming of a woman to rush through the streets of eighteenth-century downtown Bishop, but I get to my little cottage as fast as I can. There is really no shortcut in taking these dresses off, it's always a good twenty-minute process because you've got to hang everything up as you go or it just leaves a mess.

But thirty minutes later I'm changed into my shorts and halter top. This top is made of suede and has fringe hanging down my bare belly, ticklin' it to no end. Which does drive me a little crazy, but I'm the kind of woman who doesn't mind small annoyances like that if it's for the sake of fashion. Besides, this top matches my suede clogs—which are thick, and chunky, and have wooden soles.

Now that I am not dressed like a prim and proper Colonial woman, I can rush through the streets without making a spectacle of myself and I land at the Bishop Inn promptly at twelve-thirty, right in the middle of the lunch rush when Bryn is in her worst mood and I am nothing but a gift from God when Jessica looks up from her hostess podium and nods her head in the direction of the kitchen. "You're in the kitchen, Rosie."

I wave as I pass. "I'm on it." I'm expecting Bryn to be cussing out loud when I get to the saloon door—dirty dishes everywhere, and an atmosphere of chaos. Like it usually is. But instead, I hear laughter. Bryn's laughter.

When was the last time I heard Bryn laugh?

I can't remember. She's always sour and focused.

But then I hear another laugh and this one I recognize. He brings joy everywhere he goes.

I push through the door and there he is.

Amon Parrish. Wearing light-green rubber gloves and up to his elbows in suds.

"What are you doin' here?"

Bryn and Amon stop their joke to look over their shoulders at me.

"There you are," Amon says.

"Here I am," both delighted and surprised. "But…"—I make a little motion between the two of them with my pointer finger—"why are you doin' my washin' up?"

"He came to take your shift," Bryn answers. "I swear, Amon Parrish, I had no idea what a romantic jerk you were. You've shattered all my preconceived notions that had been living in my head rent-free since you were ten years old and let two dozen frogs loose inside the Revival tent to mimic a biblical swarm."

I chuckle because I remember that day. What a sight. Frogs jumping everywhere, tourists screaming, Jim Bob losing his mind, and it was Collin's father who was preaching that day. He grabbed Amon up by the collar and threw him out with a swift kick to his backside.

If I remember correctly, Amon was laughing so hard, he didn't even feel it.

Amon pulls the plug on the suds, takes off his gloves, and hangs them up on a hook. "There. All done. Now you're free."

"I didn't realize the two of you were serious, Rosie!" Bryn is grinning at me from over her shoulder as she pushes some vegetables around on the grill. "You better dump whatever out-of-town rascal you're dating and keep him. Because if you don't"—Bryn pauses to wink at Amon—"I might steal him."

She's joking, I know this. But she's also not. She's telling me that I had better take this seriously because he's not messing around. When a man shows up to take your shift washing dishes for the sole purpose of freeing up your time so you can spend your afternoon with him, well… that's a whole other level of romance that goes above and beyond fucking a girl up against a wall.

Amon is looking at me when these words come out of Bryn's mouth. He winks. "Sorry, Bryn, but she already gave in to the idea that this is goin' somewhere. Better luck next time."

Which makes Bryn the Buzzkill practically cackle, she's that tickled by this new development between Amon and I. "Get out of here, you crazy kids!" Then she shakes her head and starts tossing her grilled vegetables.

Amon offers me his hand and I nearly blush when I take it. "My God, Amon Parrish. You're something else."

"Oh, I've got layers, Rosie Harlow. You've got no idea just how many."

His hand is warm, but not sweaty. So he's not nervous. But I might be. I mean, this is a serious courtin' effort and it's only been a week. As we make our way outside through the back door, and start heading not towards the street where he must be parked and I surely am, but into the maze, I say, "Can I ask you something, Amon?"

"Sure, Rosie. Hit me up." We make the first left in the maze, which is the wrong way to the middle and he and I both know this.

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why me?"

"Why—Rosie? That's a joke, right?"

"No, it's a serious question."

"Well, OK. I can see that I didn't explain myself properly when all this started. And it's probably because I was struck dumb with your many layers. That's my excuse, anyway. So let me start over and say this: Lady, you are cute as fuck. I'm talking… like… buttons, and puppies, and smiling babies kinda cute. So that's number one. Number two is a little bit contradictory, because don't take this the wrong way, but you're kinda slutty at the same time, Rosie."

I nearly come undone with laughter, that's how much this makes me happy.

"Seriously, I don't mean it in a bad way at all. I mean… you're like… every man's dream. You're sweet in a ‘cookin' dinner, mothering kids, keeping a home' kinda way. But then you show up to work wearing this tantalizing halter top and last night you told me I kiss like a prince and fuck like a villain, and damn, Rosie. I mean… that right there was enough to up my interest level by a thousand. And the best part is that right now you're wearing clothes that could be removed in a matter of seconds and an hour ago you were covered neck to toe in a dress that might take me the better part of an afternoon to get off you. Don't even get me started about the diner uniform because I've had a thing for pink diner dresses since I was twelve."

I laugh and slap his arm playfully. "That's sick."

"You don't need to tell me. But listen, it all just came full circle last week when I caught you coming out of your little shop. I mean, one minute I'm just picking up some soup bones for my dogs and the next I'm caught in Charlotte's Web ."

"Well, now I've heard it all. I've lived here my whole life and I'm pretty fluent in colorful analogies, but I'm afraid you're gonna have to explain Charlotte's Web ."

"Ya caught me in your web, Rosie. And it's all sexy and shit. But it's sweet too. Like a fourth-grade chapter book."

I just shake my head. "How did you get along in the outside world with all these colorful comparisons, Amon? Because I'm trying to picture you in the marines talking about fourth-grade chapter books."

"Well, funny you should ask. Because I wasn't ever the wordsmith the way some people are around here. Collin, for instance, but Lowyn too. She's always got something cute to say. And you, of course. ‘Kiss like a prince, fuck like a villain.' I don't think I'll ever get over that. But I never talked like this until you and I met up. I gave up the accent long before Collin did and I never did have his vocabulary. That's why Charlie Beaufort, our DC contact, liked him better than me. But here in this place, it came rushing back the moment I saw you in that dress outside your print shop. I mean, where else in the world can I date a woman like you? Nowhere, Rosie. You're one in a billion. And that's my long, winding answer to your ‘why me' question. You're just one in a billion."

"Wow. I don't even know what to say to that, Amon." I look up at him, feeling slightly shy as our eyes meet. "But I would like to go on record here that I feel…" I let out a breath because I was gonna say ‘the same' or similar, but it's not enough. "I feel… like I just stepped into a fairy tale and I'm like… the star of the show. And I don't really know what to think about that. No man has ever said things like this to me."

"Well, I would also like to go on record here and say that I have not said these things to any other woman. And I know it's kinda abrupt and seemingly comin' out of nowhere. But I think that's just how love works for some people. Sometimes you get caught in the storm and there's no way to stop the lightning strike. You just get struck, ya know?"

I smile up at him, marveling at how this gorgeous, charming, honest, protective, and romantic man has become mine. "Yeah," I say. "Sometimes you just get struck."

"So, hey. I'm gonna be at the Revival this Sunday working security."

"You are? Well, how'd that happen? I thought you boys were washing your hands of the Revival for good?"

Amon shrugs. "Eh. Hatin' the Revival is Collin's thing. I actually don't mind it. I just wanted you to know I'll be there."

"This Sunday. That's Fourth of July."

"Yep. It's a big one, I hear."

"Oh, it's huge. It's as big as Christmas Eve. Lots of dancing, and a big garden party, and there's a massive rumble with the Revenant bikers."

"A rumble, you say?" When I glance up at Amon he's got one eyebrow raised in surprise.

"Yep. Oh, how the tourists love the fuckin' bikers. They come and crash the garden party and tear up the grass. Oh!" I look at Amon. "So that's why Jim Bob wants you there. You're gonna be a gangster and there's gonna be a shootout. There's almost always a shootout. Sometimes it's a knife fight, but mostly people like the shootouts."

Amon gives me another one of those winks of his. "Yeah, that must be it." But he's got a funny smirk on his face. "Anyway. Here we are."

We stop walking and I notice that we have ended up at a dead end under the big sugar maple on the edge of the maze and there's a bench here. Nice and shady too. "I don't think I've ever seen this bench. Now how can that be? I've walked this maze hundreds of times."

"Because you gotta take a wrong turn, Rosie. That's the only way to find this dead end. And most people don't like to take wrong turns." He points to the bench. "You wanna sit? Or do you have people to see and places to be?"

I let out a breath. Again. And once again I wonder just how I got here in the span of a week. "Oh, Amon. I've got all the time in the world for you."

And this makes him happy so we sit, and talk, and kiss a little. But I'm distracted because I'm thinking about what my next move is. Not to impress him, or anything. I just like this game because there doesn't seem to be any risk. He wants to be mine and I want to be his, so why not keep playing, ya know? Why not keep this going a little longer and stretch it out for as long as possible?

So I come up with a plan. I'm gonna print up two copies of the Bishop Busybody this week. One for the masses and one just for Amon Parrish. A bonafide version of my slutty side.

If he can make me all hot and bothered by being spontaneously creative, then so can I.