Chapter 36

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

ROSIE

When I wake up, the first thing I do is open the present from Anthony. It’s a gorgeous crystal unicorn that was probably unreasonably expensive, and when I perch it in my window, it sends rainbows cascading around my room. My heart feels enormous as I beam at it.

I need to share my admiration, so I hurry into Joy’s room so I can show her the gift, and after we both ooh and aah, we get dressed for the day and head downstairs for coffee and breakfast. It’s only then that we realize it’s past noon.

Declan is outside clearing the driveway, visible through the front windows.

“Let me get us some nice coffee,” Joy says, patting my hand. There’s no sign of Claire in the kitchen, so presumably she’s next door with Jake and Lainey.

We finish our first mug of life-giving coffee, enjoy some cinnamon rolls made by my lovely future-sister-in-law, and start discussing what, exactly, we can do to make tea parties interesting and unique if there’s no psychedelics involved.

We’re still in the thick of brainstorming— breakup parties, birthday parties, baby showers that don’t suck —when the front door opens.

Thirty seconds later, Declan comes into the kitchen, shedding snow even though he always stomps his boots just outside the door.

He grunts at us, and I go ahead and pour him a cup of coffee, because he obviously needs it.

He sits at the table, stewing in a dark silence, until Joy smiles at him and says, “Weren’t the roads nice and clear? What a beautiful job my man does. I’m tempted to take a photo of the roads and frame it.”

Damn, Joy. Way to go for it.

My brother grunts again.

“Something wrong with your throat?” I ask sweetly.

“I saw footprints outside of your window,” he tells Joy with plenty of accusation in his tone.

“And you know I had a nighttime caller,” she says with a moony smile. “He understands how much I love my romance stories.”

“Breaking into someone’s room is considered romantic?” he says gruffly. “Not much of a manly thing to do, if you ask me.”

“Yes, of course,” she says, lifting her eyebrows. “Role-playing adds a certain thrill. You should try it sometime. I’ll bet that lovely girl of yours would thank you.”

He leaves the room so quickly he nearly spills his coffee all over the floor. But the inquisition doesn’t end there. It continues when Claire gets home, asking for all kinds of details about Joy’s snowplow driver. And then Jake and Lainey come over demanding to hear the same story.

Now, it’s late afternoon, I’m surrounded by people, and Joy and I have made up so many lies about this snowplow-driving, dark-romance-reading hero that I feel like we’ve willed him into existence. Actually, the gusto with which she’s embraced this whole thing makes me wonder if she’s interested in dating again.

Finally, while Joy’s answering the question of how she and her snowplow driver met for the fifth or maybe sixth time—Silver Foxes, an online dating site for senior citizens—my phone buzzes with a message from Mrs. Rosings’s phone.

I pull it out, trying not to look too eager, then smile when I see the screen.

Come to me tonight.

I turn away from the others and head into the living room for some privacy before texting back:

With or without panties?

Shit, I hope that wasn’t actually from your mother.

I can neither confirm nor deny who this is.

Can I call you?

No, Mrs. Rosings. Anthony might get the wrong idea. ;-)

And there are people all around me. I’ll see you tonight. I want to properly thank you for the unicorn. It’s GORGEOUS, and its name is Sparklebutt.

You don’t have to thank me. I’m lucky you’re even talking to me.

Oh, but I want to thank you. Also, I hope we’re still doing the bucket lists?

Yes, I think we should.

Five is marrying you.

Kissing’s not enough?

No. Not anymore. Not unless I know I can do it whenever I want.

A fire burns inside of me, and I find myself smiling at the tree for a good ten seconds before I respond.

The feeling is mutual, and I’m stealing your number five. And I know what I want number four to be.

I want to find Joy a lover.

What about Gene?

Very funny.

Follow-up idea: Pat the Snowplow driver? Maybe Joy’s lie to your brother was a manifestation.

A silly grin crosses my face as I type back:

Funny you should say that. He’s exactly who I was thinking about. She’s gotten really into this whole snowplow driver story. The level of conviction suggests she wouldn’t be opposed to giving it a try.

I’ll see what I can do. He gave me his number.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU. What’s number four on your list?

Cutting down a tree.

You do know you missed the window on Christmas, right?

Different kind of tree. See you tonight. I’ll be thinking about it all day.

Me too.

“You’re planning a secret rendezvous with Mrs. Rosings?” my brother says gruffly from the other side of the couch. “I don’t much care if you go public with it. I try not to be the judgmental type.”

I tuck my phone away and shoot him a murderous look.

“I think we need to talk,” he says, adjusting his weight on his legs.

“You’re right about that,” I mutter.

There I go, thinking Joy and I got away with something.

I follow him into the downstairs office, feeling my nerves prickling, as if I’m a teenager who could get grounded and not a twenty-eight-year-old woman.

When I get into the office, I close the door behind me and turn toward him, crossing my arms. Might as well come out and say it. “I’m not going to New York.”

His face creases in anger. “Did that asshole sneak into my house in the middle of the night and hide behind an old woman?”

“Joy has a snowplow-driving lover,” I insist tightly. “He snuck into her window because she has dark romance fantasies, and they went to pound town until he left the same way he showed up.”

“I heard the snowplow horn,” he says, giving a dramatic pause that makes me want to roll my eyes. “And footsteps and a thump upstairs at the same time. That’s some guy, if he can be in two places at the same time.”

“He is. He’d need to be to be worthy of her,” I say loftily. “It’s a total crazy coincidence that Anthony and I have also worked things out.”

“Rosie,” he says, pacing a little and then squeezing the back of his office chair. That poor chair is probably not long for this world. I once got Declan a collection of a dozen stress balls for Christmas, and he went through them in a week. A week. I mean, maybe they were shitty quality, but even so.

“I’m allowed to have visitors, and so is Joy.”

“We’re going to New York,” he says, his voice gravelly. “I’ll carry you out to the car if I have to. You don’t want to get in the middle of this mess.”

“You’re worried our identities won’t hold,” I ask, because that’s a question that’s lost me sleep.

“No,” he says, then swears under his breath. “No, I’m not. If Nicole says they’re good, they’re good.”

Relief washes through me with the sweetness that can only come from hearing exactly what you wanted to. “Anthony knows about us, and he still wants me. Me, and no one else.”

“We’re not staying. It’s dangerous. Someone’s after him. I’ll—”

“I can’t really see Claire agreeing to marry a man who’d kidnap his own sister,” I say, not giving him an inch. “And last I heard, it’s illegal to kidnap anyone, blood relatives included."

His expression changes, and he releases the chair and takes a step toward me. “Rosie, I just don’t want you to get drawn into that family’s messes. Haven’t we all been through enough?” His jaw works. “And I don’t think it speaks well of him that he still hasn’t approached me, man-to-man. If he wants to marry you, he should—”

I shove his stack-of-bricks chest. “Don’t you dare say he should ask you or Seamus for permission. I’m an adult woman, and I can marry whomever I please. Besides…he does want to talk to you. I’m the one who told him you were going to be an ass about it. And if he did sneak over here last night, it’s only because his phone was lost. He couldn’t reach me, and he didn’t want me to go to New York without knowing how he feels. Dec, no man has ever done anything like that for me before. Ever . Don’t you want Seamus and me to have what you have with Claire?”

He looks slightly contrite, but it’s obvious he hasn’t given up. “Yes, of course. I just wish… It’s one thing to meet this guy and want to date him and another to jump into marriage. Please just tell me you’ll take another day to think about it. We can leave on Thursday. And…” He swallows. “If you decide you’re going through with it, Seamus will still have time to come. And we’ll tell Claire and the others, of course.”

“I’ll take another day,” I say, because I won’t move forward with the marriage, however much I want to do this, if Nicole’s guy isn’t able to erase my prints from the database.

“Thank you,” he says, dipping his head.

“Does this mean you’re going to stop interrogating poor Joy about the snowplow driver?”

He gives me a wicked look. “No. She deserves it. Besides, she seems to be enjoying it.”

“She does, doesn’t she?” I say with a smile.

He holds out his hands, offering a hug, and I step into them for what must be the millionth or maybe billionth time. I take in the comfort of my big brother and hopefully give him some too. “I love you, Declan.”

“I love you too,” he says after a moment. “So damn much I’m still tempted to try kidnapping you.”

“I’d probably kick your dick off.”

“Probably,” he agrees.

We spend the rest of the afternoon playing board games and stuffing ourselves with Claire’s baking. The snowplow driver is nearly mythical at this point, with Joy adding new details every time someone asks a question.

Pat owns an iguana and grows his own mulberry trees so he can make organic cough syrup.

He has a pet parrakeet that says Joy’s name.

He once saved a man’s life by plowing the way to a hospital.

Jake and Lainey go home, and since the cat is out of the bag with Declan, I don’t hesitate to tell everyone else that I’m heading to Smith House to visit Anthony.

“Are you still hoping to find him a wife?” Claire asks, with an innocence I don’t really believe.

“I think I might have found just the gal for him,” I say.

“If you’re not back by midnight, I’m storming the gates,” Declan tells me.

I salute him and leave, and ten minutes later, I arrive at the gates of Smith House and am admitted entry by a wizened guard in a fur-lined hat and the ugliest scarf I’ve ever seen. Normally, I’d ask him half a dozen questions, but my nerves are abuzz with the need to see Anthony.

Before I reach the door, it’s opened by a woman whom I only recognize from her portrait above the fireplace. Emma Rosings Smith. She has dark, shoulder-length hair, slightly wavy, and the same eyes as Mrs. Rosings. It’s frankly alarming in a person who’s probably only a couple of years older than me. She’s also wearing one of those fancy tunic dresses Mrs. Rosings loves, shapeless and bag-like yet classy.

For a second, it feels like I’ve walked through the door of Smith House twenty-five or thirty years ago. What secrets would I have found then?

I shake off the fancy, and introduce myself.

“Oh good, I’ve been waiting for you,” she says, which doesn’t discourage the strange feeling of timelessness. Then she ushers me into the familiar drawing room, which thankfully looks just as it did when I last left it, and asks if I’d like a drink.

When I hesitate, she makes her way to the bar and starts pouring one. “You’ll need this. Sit down, and I’ll swap you for your coat.”

I do, and she gives me the drink before disappearing into the huge house with my coat. There’s no sign of Anthony or Mrs. Rosings, just a fire in the hearth. Next to it, their Christmas tree stands sentry.

I take a sip of the drink, which is bracingly strong, and a moment later, Emma comes back with a sheaf of papers in a folder.

“You need to sign this,” she says briskly, slapping it in front of me. Then she sits across from me as if she wants to watch me do it.

“Aren’t you going to at least get yourself a drink?” I ask, disarmed.

“Oh,” she waves a hand. “I’ve been drinking all day. I don’t drink when I’m on the clock.”

“And you’re on the clock now?”

I open the folder, and something inside of me sinks. It’s some kind of prenup. It’s not that I have any issue with signing one—Anthony’s money is his—but I figured he’d talk to me about it personally rather than ask his sister to ambush me. Actually, that doesn’t sound like him at all…

“Does Anthony know about this?”

“No,” she says, staring at me with an open challenge in her eyes. “My brother is a bit of a romantic. He doesn't see himself that way, but I do. He’s sensitive. Sometimes too sensitive. He needs someone to protect him from himself. That’s going to be me. Is it going to be you, too? Or are you after the same thing Nina wanted?”

I stare right back at her, even as my heart bursts for him.

“Do you shop with your mother?”

“What?” she asks, confused, then glances down at the tunic and bursts out laughing. “It was a Christmas gift,” she says with amusement. “Everyone knows you only have to wear a bad Christmas gift once, in front of the person who got it for you.” Her smile slips into a firm look. “I can’t make you sign it. He won’t make you sign it, but—”

I flip to the last page without reading any of it and sign on the dotted line, then shove the folder across the table to her.

“Done.”

“You should always read the document before signing,” she says, lifting her eyebrows. “I feel the need to tell you that as your lawyer.”

“ My lawyer?”

“Yes.” She tabs the table. “You’ve just proven yourself worthy. Welcome to the madhouse. By the way, you’ll get a million if you get divorced. That was the deal.”

“I don’t want it.”

Her eyes meet mine, so similar to Mrs. Rosings, so weary. “They always say that. You might feel differently in six months. My brother can be a pain in the ass.”

“I heard you glitter-bombed him once because he stood up for you with some bullies.”

Her mouth hitches up into a genuine smile. “He can be a pain in the ass. I am a pain the ass. There’s a difference.”