Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)

by Elsie Silver

For anyone who has loved someone not because they are perfect but because you manage to find beauty in all their shades of gray.

She’s short—next to me, most people are—but there’s something about the way she carries herself that feels tall.

Yeah. Tabitha, sister of my new tenant, is hot, looks like she thinks I might have bodies buried in my basement, and has a mean handshake. Strangely, I’m into it.

I shimmy my shoulders and stand taller, crossing my arms and tipping my nose up like I’m the queen of something more than this partially updated craftsman and a semi-successful small-town restaurant.

It had almost moved me to tears, except West Belmont rolled in all smiles and chuckles and talking about his dorky bowling team, which provided the perfect distraction to keep myself together.

“I thought they weren’t in the picture.” “Seems like you thought a lot of things without knowing a single one.”

“Do they have a car seat?” I ask, realizing Milo’s is still in the back. She’s shoulder checking when she snipes back, “No, they just strap him to the roof of their Subaru like he’s a canoe.”

Sure, I have friends—like work friends—but those friends come and go. And sometimes the storylines at work start to feel a little too real, and the dynamic becomes strained. I like my massage therapist, and he seems to like me. But I also pay him, and I would never go bowling with him.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, reaching forward to shake Ford’s hand. He’s got polish. He’s dressed casually, but he screams money. I don’t know if the billionaire thing is a joke or not, but I opt not to ask. “Likewise. Even though it’s over bowling.” His lip curls as he looks around. “Hey, hey. Don’t disparage the charm of Rose Valley Alley.” “By charm, he means sticky floors,” Bash mumbles from behind the rim of his pint glass. “Why are they⁠—” West’s arm slices across the space. “Nah. You can’t slander the place like that. It’s an icon. A relic. An attraction.” His finger shoots up triumphantly. “A heritage site!” “A heritage site?” Ford looks appalled. “When the fuck did you become a thesaurus, West?” Bash stares at him with a tilt to his head. “I read a lot, Bash. It’s good for the vocabulary. Maybe being a fire pilot doesn’t require you to know many words.” “Oh, and training horses does?”

I wish I could say I don’t think about Tabitha. But that would be a lie. Because much like the very first time I met her, I can’t get the woman out of my head. Haven’t been able to for the past two years.

This woman needs a target for her anger. Someone to blame so that she hurts a little less. And without even thinking it through, I decide I can be that person for her.

I still left dinner out for him. In fact, ever since hearing his stomach that night, I make extra food and leave him a plate. And though we don’t talk about it, he always eats it.

“Just fucking let me take care of you. Where is it?” He glances up at me, and my stomach bottoms out. All those dark features homed in on me. Him on his knees for me. Wanting to take care of me.

I dread the thought of never seeing them again—adding them to the list of families I was never welcome to join.

“Tabitha is always leaving her door open,” I say. “Stupid,” Bash mumbles, reaching for his pint while shaking his head. “See? You get it.” West looks more confused. “Like open-open? Aren’t bugs an issue?” “No, intruders are, you idiot.” Bash takes the words right out of my mouth. “Perhaps an alarm system is a happy medium between an arsenal of guns and an unlocked door?” Ford suggests dryly. His delivery makes it hard to tell if he’s mocking me or offering a serious solution.

Usually, I see her looking casual, and that already makes my dick hard. So imagine his excitement when she strolls into Rose Valley Alley wearing leather pants, a cropped Rolling Stones T-shirt, and a pair of strappy black stilettos. The heels are pointy enough that I’m sure she’s at least considered attempting to murder me with them later.

My body is sore, and I look tired, but somehow I also look… relaxed. Maybe doing something other than working, performing, training, and holing up alone is good for me. The Ball Busters lost. Again. But I had fun. Again.

Apparently they text now. I’m not sure about what. It seems like texting grunts and scowls back and forth would be rather anticlimactic.

“Listen, this is still my house. Still my life. If you’re expecting me to be a subservient little wife, then I’ve got news for you, pal. So yeah, if I want a cat, I’ll get one. Just like how if you want an alarm system, you’ll get one.”

It’s great you found someone who doesn’t conflict with your solitude, even though it’s fucking me over. I’m happy for you.” Oh. She conflicts all right, but for some confounding reason, it doesn’t bother me at all.

this dress is what I’d choose on a longer timeline. Feminine, but not too frilly. Hell, I could have this hemmed shorter next week and wear it with a cute pair of cowboy boots for a night out.

I wasn’t expecting Doris, who I’m told owns the bar, to be the one marrying us, but Tabitha insisted, and I have a record of sucking at saying no to her. So here I am, getting married by a woman who reeks of cigarettes and looks like she’s worn baby oil in the sun for decades. But apparently she’s a registered officiant, so whatever.

Only Cora wouldn’t be put off by a plant named after a kid’s dead mom. Rosie calls her little storm cloud, and I can see why. “Perfect,” I mumble.

We go up the old logging road and through a gate on Crazy Clyde’s land. I drop him off tea in exchange for access to this valley. And then Milo and I spend leisurely afternoons picnicking, looking for bugs, and tending to the wild roses. And on the mornings when I can’t get the noise of the kitchen out of my head, I’ll come here and read.

It’s a grand adventure about a small prince who looks identical to Milo. He uses his excavator to go digging for fossils, but what he finds is a portal to another universe where dinosaurs still exist, and he faces many perils. I wonder the same things I do when Milo watches Paw Patrol. How the hell does a child own and operate an excavator, and where the fuck are his parents?

I smile, even though it hurts. It’s nice to think that we can see Erika anywhere we choose to look. We pick out shapes in the clouds for I don’t know long. And when we go home that afternoon, I get busy cooking the boys what Rhys declares is “one of the best meals he’s ever eaten.” And I make way too much. Just in case he’s hungry again later.

We’re feeling complicated and inevitable all at once.

“Doris, please, I’m fine⁠—” “She’s fine all right. All the regulars are eyeing up her tits like they’re available to order off the menu or something. Guess she’s the busty one.”

All my hard work, all my sacrifice, it always ends up coming along with implications about Erika.

My accolades have always been attached to her in some way. Which not only makes me feel like shit, but it makes me feel angry on my sister’s behalf. Her mental health was a constant uphill battle, and she struggled, but she had a soft heart. It kills me that no one sees her the way I do.

I have a plant named after her that I talk to sometimes. If that’s not healthy, I don’t know what is.

Whatever it is, making the “guest room” feel like more than a dank dungeon eats up several hours of my day. It keeps me from being still, because if I’m too still, my mind will wander down paths I’d rather avoid. At this stage of my life, busy is good. Busy hurts less.

I get the sense he’s not used to someone taking care of him, and he’s a grown-ass man, so I know he doesn’t require it. But now that he’s opened up to me, his backstory has the “acts of service” part of me in its grip.

Without Milo here, I’m terrible at remembering to eat, which—for a chef—is hilarious.

using was never buried at the back of her mind. It was an urge that sat right on her shoulder, and she battled it so fucking hard.

It makes me realize she’s played this role in our lives for years now. The carrier pigeon. The eternal sunshine—even though I know she’s a scrappy little bitch at heart. Tabby is loyal as hell. I don’t think there’s anything I could do that would make her abandon me. And that knowledge is both reassuring and… infuriating? I don’t know if I deserve that kind of dedication. She’s just so damn good—so reliable—that I almost feel small next to her, even when she’s helping me. It’s that I look even worse in her shadow. Shiny versus tarnished. Maybe I’m jealous. I wish I could have been more like Tabby.

I never considered that she may have felt as though I was marching in some superiority parade by helping her. I just did what needed to be done to support her.

I did what needed to be done to keep her alive. I wanted her to live as if my own life depended on it.

I don’t think many people know the love of a sister the way that I do. One day, I’ll work up the nerve to tell her how much I appreciate her.

Still kneeling on the wooden deck, I drop my face into my palms, trying to figure out how to make this better. I realize that I don’t know, but I stood in a church, in front of a lot of people who care about her, and promised to comfort her. To nurture this relationship when life is simple and when it’s not. Right now, things are not simple. But the way I’ve come to feel about her is.

I’ve spent a lifetime thinking I don’t like talking. It turns out I just needed the right person to talk to.

“I wish you weren’t seeing me like this.” My brow furrows. “Like what?” “At my worst.” I tip my head toward her. “Then it’s all uphill from here, baby. It’s going to make seeing you at your best so damn special.”

This isn’t the time or the place—hell, there might never be the right time or place. But I’d rather live with knowing that than thinking I took advantage of a fragile moment.

He tells me almost nothing with his words, but everything with his actions.

in a strange turn of events, I also understand his choice. I understand it because it’s what I would have done. It’s what I’ve been doing for my family for years. I’ve just never had anyone twist a situation to spare my feelings. It’s a strange sensation to be on the receiving end of that kind of selflessness.

The rush of profound relief as I accepted the situation for what it was—beyond my control—soothed me. And I let it go. Then all I was left with was Rhys. Undressing me. Drying me. Every touch brimming with respect and dedication that I’m not so sure I deserve from him, but crave all the same.

I can’t think of a single reason to hold back anymore. Sure, he could hurt me. But after everything, something tells me Rhys would do anything in his power to keep me from feeling any pain.

I promised to comfort you, and I didn’t do it quite right, but I was trying the best I knew how.”

So much has hurt lately, but everything with Rhys feels warm and safe and delicious.

I’ve felt it with Milo, but not like this. Not where it hurts to breathe, and I can’t focus on anything because all I see is her. Tabitha would like this show. Tabitha would make a better version of this dish. Hell, I see another woman in a nice jacket, and think I should get that for Tabby. She’d look fine as hell in that coat.