Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ROSIE

I’m engaged to a rich sex god.

I’m engaged to a rich sex god, and we broke his bed.

Maybe I’ll believe it if I repeat it enough that it builds a new pathway in my brain.

I can still feel the brush of Anthony’s beard teasing against my thighs when he hooked my legs over his shoulders. The delicious ache of him inside of me. The push and pull of him. If I’m lucky, the memories won’t fade, and if I’m very lucky, they’ll be reinforced by many similar memories.

But a voice in the back of my head insists my good luck isn’t going to last. Because I should have at least waited to hear from Nicole before I plunged into this situation without looking over my shoulder. The voice is convinced I’ve screwed everything up, for both Anthony and for me, and it won’t shut up.

There’s also a feeling of disquiet about what I felt on his back. I never got a good look at it, but there was a raised line with smaller lines to either side of it. What kind of an accident would cause an injury like that?

But after we broke his bed, Anthony immediately pulled on an undershirt and his boxer briefs so he could examine the damage. He pronounced it unsalvageable, sounding pretty proud of it. Then I reminded him that I was famished, and we went downstairs to make sandwiches.

The kitchen is so enormous I wouldn’t be surprised if Hansel and Gretel were hiding in the oven. It looks like it’s hardly ever used, and Anthony admits that his mother’s cook usually makes food in her own kitchen and brings in individual servings. This feels sad to me—what’s the point of a mammoth, kickass kitchen that goes unused? It’s like a gorgeous man with big hands being stuck in a platonic marriage. I can’t stand the waste.

I may not be a baker like Claire, who’s as married to it as she’s about to be to my brother, but I do love to bake. All the better if I can rope someone into doing it with me.

“We have to make Christmas cookies,” I announce after we finish our sandwiches, consumed standing up at the island. “I won’t be satisfied if I don’t make a mess in this kitchen. Every kitchen deserves at least one mess in its lifetime.”

He grins at me. “I have some ideas for how we can accomplish that.”

“Good. We’re going to do all of it. But the cookies are non-negotiable.”

Anthony smiles. “Unless you want salami and cheese cookies, too, I guess we should go to the grocery store.”

I gesture grandly toward the door. “To the grocery store!”

He gives me an easy smile, all of his Nina-angst gone. “Your wish is my command.”

So we leave for the store, and I spend the car ride making a shopping list on my phone.

When we’re roaming the aisles, he gives me a sidelong glance and asks, “You have a thing about lists, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s a surprising quality in someone like me, isn’t it?” I add a few cookie cutters to the cart. Rudolph, a candy cane, Santa’s ass coming down the chimney. Yes, please.

“Someone like you?” he asks, watching me closely.

“Disorganized, a chaos tornado.”

He catches my hand and kisses it, sending warmth pulsing through me, especially when he glances at me over my knuckles—one of my favorite Anthony-isms. “Don’t talk about my fiancée that way.”

Worry about Nicole’s mission is still making me dizzy with anxiety, but I smile back at him and soak in the moment.

A few minutes later, Anthony catches me leaning my foot on the back of the cart. He grins and says, “You want to use it as a skateboard, don’t you? Don’t stop on my account.”

So I give him a mischievous look and do it, then say, “It’s your turn. It’s fun, Anthony. You have to try.”

He does, only to get reprimanded by an elderly security guard. Anthony answers him so seriously, so contritely, that I burst out laughing.

“She doesn’t mean it, sir,” he tells the man. “She has a medical condition that makes her laugh at inappropriate moments.”

“I’m unpopular at funerals,” I add through gusts of laughter.

When we return to the house, we go back to the kitchen to make our cookies. I’ve never had more fun making a pristine place dirty. I throw flour at Anthony when he objects to the way I’m measuring ingredients, and he tosses sprinkles at me in retribution. I catch a few on my tongue, and the rest fall to the floor in a rainbow.

We put the cookies in the oven, and Anthony lifts me onto the counter, steps in between my legs, and we make out in the middle of the mess like we’re a couple of teenagers, his hand rubbing me through my leggings.

“The cookies are going to burn,” I murmur into his lips.

“I don’t care.”

We’re pulling out the first batch when Mrs. Rosings finally comes home.

“Anthony?” she calls. “ Anthony ?”

“We’re in the kitchen,” he calls, then glances around, taking in the mess, and grins at me. “You think I’m about to get grounded?”

“Probably. But if you play your cards right, I’ll sneak into your bedroom tonight.”

“Nope, too dangerous,” he says, sweeping flour off my cheek with the back of his finger. “I guess you have to stay forever.”

Then he kisses me as a delicious distraction so he can lean in and tickle my side. I’m laughing so hard I’m doubled over when Mrs. Rosings comes in, which only makes me laugh harder. The look of shock on her face when she sees her proper, dutiful son in the middle of this massacre of a kitchen is classic. It should be framed and hung on the wall of the drawing room next to the portraits of her children.

Once she overcomes her shock, she clears her throat and says, “Is your plan to drive around town in a white van and offer prospective wives cookies?”

“That sounds hard,” I say. “I figured I’d save myself some effort and marry him instead.” My heart is beating hard for two reasons. Reason One: Mrs. Rosings is pretty intimidating, and if she doesn’t like me, she’ll be a fierce adversary. Reason Two: Nicole. I’ve only received two texts from her.

I’m here and it’s cold as fuck.

And:

Holy shit, Hershey Park is real? I thought it was a joke.

Mrs. Rosings’s eyebrows rise. “I do appreciate efficiency.”

“Want a cookie?”

She regards the slap-dash cookies with skepticism, then shrugs. “I suppose it’s unlikely to kill me. I’ll take some eggnog with rum, heavy on the rum. I’ll be in the drawing room. It seems to me that we have a good deal to talk about.”

“Mother,” Anthony says. “You can’t order Rosie around.”

Her lips quirks. “Who said I was ordering her around?”

Mrs. Rosings, Anthony, and I are deep into a discussion of the wedding, which is to say that Mrs. Rosings is monologuing, Anthony is making disinterested sounds, and I’m squirming in my seat. My fidgetiness has everything to do with the fact that I haven’t had a real Nicole update . I want to believe my fingerprints won’t be a problem. I need to believe it, because I can’t bear to think about stepping away from him now.

Anthony and I are sitting on the couch closest to the Christmas tree, and Mrs. Rosings is perched on the same settee she occupied when I was here last week.

“The arrangements were for Nina’s wedding, and they were designed to be unpleasant,” Mrs. Rosings says, taking a big gulp from her cup. “There’s no getting around that, although Lainey did find me another musical choice at the last minute.”

Anthony groans. “Did you at least pay her for helping?”

His mother waves him off as if it would be beneath her to reply. I suppose it would be. Based on what both Claire and Lainey have told me, she does pay very generously. “But the colors are still brown and orange.”

“ Brown? ” I ask, laughing. “Can we paint things? Or decorate them with glitter?”

She considers this and then smiles primly. “Perhaps. There are a few people I would love to see covered in glitter.” Then, turning to Anthony, she says, “Will you go fill my glass, Anthony? I’m absolutely parched.”

“Drinking alcohol won’t help,” he says, shooting me a look that says, Don’t worry, I won’t leave you with her.

“When you’re right, you’re right.” Mrs. Rosings gives him a sphinx-like smile. “Would you be a dear and run to the store to get me some of that sparkling water I enjoy?”

“No.”

I’m still uneasy, but I shoo him away with my hand. “I’m okay. Go get your mother her fancy water.”

He has a stubborn set to his jaw, but I take his hand and squeeze it. “Seriously, I’ll be fine. I’m at least ninety percent sure she won’t kill me. And if she does, then you can avenge me, Bunny.”

“Is that ever going to get old?” he asks, but I see the hesitation on his face. He doesn’t want to leave me. Good. I’m glad he cares. But he still has to go, because if his mother and I don’t get along, there’ll be hell to pay.

“Yes, I haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about, and it’s already gotten old,” Mrs. Rosings says. “And I’m getting more parched by the moment.”

Sighing, he gets up. He gives me another glance before shifting his focus to his mother. “Behave yourself, Mother.”

She laughs even as she nods. “ Of course .”

“I mean it.”

“So noted,” she tells him, something like delight sparkling in her eyes.

Anthony looks at me one more time, his concern like a warm hug. When I nod and smile at him, trying to convey that I’ll be just fine and actually want this opportunity to talk to her, he leaves the room.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, she takes a sip of her not-empty drink. “I thought he’d never leave. Now…why have you agreed to marry my son?”

“I want to,” I answer, before I have a chance to second-guess myself.

She raises her eyebrows. “And does that have anything to do with the millions of dollars he’ll get in his trust fund?”

“Of course it does,” I say, which she clearly wasn’t expecting. “If it weren’t for the trust fund, we’d obviously try dating, the way most people do, but I don’t want to give him up, and I refuse to take his trust fund away from him, so yeah, I want to marry him.”

“And you’ll sign a prenup?”

“Of course.”

She studies me for a long moment and then gives a succinct nod. “I think you’re being truthful.” She lifts a finger and wags it in my direction. “Mind, I know you haven’t told me the full truth, but you young people never do.”

“Do you?” I ask, unable to help myself.

Her mouth tips up at the corners and she takes another sip of her supposedly empty drink. I suppose I have my answer. I glance at the fireplace, my gaze finding the three urns lined side by side.

“I suppose you’re wondering if what everyone around here says about me is true,” Mrs. Rosings says, her voice deep and throaty.

“I know it’s not. Anthony told me what happened to your husbands. You were unlucky.”

“And yet they’re dead, and I’m here, left behind with all of this.”

I glance at her, surprised, and the look on her face says I’m meant to be.

“Mark was my favorite,” she tells me. “I still miss him when I’m sitting out in our rose garden. He was a gardener like your brother. But Adrien was a hard, unfeeling man. He was a bad husband and a worse father.”

“Why didn’t you leave him?” I ask, because I can tell she wants me to say the words.

“I had a plan,” she says with a half-smile. “But then he died. You can’t imagine the uproar. There were people who wanted to blame me, but I wasn’t home when he fell. And Anthony, of course, witnessed the whole thing.”

I exhale sharply, the air whistling between my teeth. “He did?”

“I don’t think he’s ever fully recovered. Adrien may have been cruel, especially to Anthony, but he was his father. A boy’s father is important to him.”

“You probably shouldn’t have told me that,” I observe, feeling the emotion swell in my chest. “I would have preferred to hear about it from him.”

“Yes, dear.” She lifts her drink for yet another sip. How much liquid does that cup hold, for God’s sake?

Her eyes skewer into me. “But you need to know, and I very much doubt he would have told you.”

I’m more troubled by this than I care to show her.

The discussion shifts to menial things. Do I want anyone else invited to the wedding?

Seamus.

Does it bother me that my wedding was designed for someone else?

No, because it will enrage Nina.

And then I tell her a bit about our morning with them.

“Did she seem upset?” she asks, her eyes gleaming.

“Pissed off.”

“ Good .”

Anthony returns with the sparkling water, and he instantly pulls me out into the hall. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, reaching up to trace the side of his face. It’s cold, so I keep my hand there to warm him. “But I need to talk Joy into making the move to my brother’s house for the holiday. The longer I wait, the more Christmas will explode in my apartment. It’s better for everyone if I leave now.”

He glances at the closed door to the drawing room. “My mother didn’t—”

I cup his face. “She didn’t do anything. But she did mention you have a rose garden, so obviously you’ve been holding out on me. We’re going to have a picnic there tomorrow. It’s on my bucket list now, so we really have no choice.”

It’s cold outside, and it’s supposed to be colder tomorrow, but he doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll make the arrangements. Let me take you back to Joy.”