Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)

by Elsie Silver

I’m in the kitchen, wearing a baby-blue lounge set—too-short shorts and a skimpy spaghetti-strap top—with the coffeepot in one hand and a mug in the other. Just as I’m mid-pour, a shirtless, chiseled Rhys appears in the doorway, prompting me to gawk and then spill piping hot coffee all over my hand. “Fuck, fuuuck,” I hiss, setting the coffee on the counter. I shake my hand out, sending a smattering of droplets over my clothes. “Shit, Tabby.” His voice is rough and heavy with sleep as he rushes forward and grabs my scalded red hand, turning it over gently for inspection like he’s a doctor and not a porn star.

“There,” he says quietly, turning my hand over again to assess the damage, water streaming over the opposite side. “I’ve had worse burns,” I mutter. And it’s true. Burns are a fact of life when you work in a kitchen.

“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. “At… at… uh…” I stutter, and his gaze drops to the hem of my shorts, eyes skirting the curve of my ass. My cheeks flare. God. Who knows what he can see from that angle? “At the back,” I say, forcing the words out through a dry throat.

He slaps the tap off, and then his hands are on my waist, the contact like an electric current zipping across my skin. It makes me hiss out a breath that he mistakes for pain. “I’m fine,” he mutters, mimicking me while shaking his head. Then he hoists me up onto the counter like I’m a feather and steps close enough that my knees bump against his steely quads.

He’s still inspecting my burn with an expression that makes it seem like it’s offended him.

Deep down, I feel like I don’t deserve the level of doting. He’s too gentle. So handsome that it hurts. I’m forced to look away from the way he tends to me. Stupidly, I opt to soak in his naked torso inste...

Just below his right collarbone is a heavy bruise, its edges fading to yellow. Without thinking, I reach up and run my fingertips over it, as if I can wipe it away. But it does no such thing. “What is this?” “A bruise.” Leave it to Rhys to give me nothing. “From what? What the hell kind of porn are you filming?” “I don’t do porn, Tabby.” Despite his harsh tone, he continues rubbing my hand gently. “I already told you that.” “You did. But I don’t believe you. Are you okay?”

Rearing back at that, I regard him more coolly now, yanking my hand away with enough force that I finally break free from his hold. Of course, his body still has me caged in where I’m seated. “The feeling is mutual, and yet you hauled me up here to fix what wasn’t your business.” “You need help.” A dry laugh crests my lips. “What?”

“With Milo. I’ve been here for all of three days, and it’s been busy with both of us taking care of him. I can see you’re doing too much for one person. You’re tired. You’ve lost weight. You need help.” Now it’s my turn to go rigid. Sure, I’m tired a lot. And yes, sometimes I forget to eat more than coffee. But that’s not why I spilled the hot liquid on myself.

“Oh, and you think you can do better?” One firm nod from the mountain man. “I can afford to hire help.” My jaw goes slack. He hit me right where it hurts. In the finances. “Are you kidding me right now? That’s your grand plan? Take Milo away from everything he knows and hire help to care for him?”

“No.” His one-word answer is enough for me. I hop off the counter and shove past him to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee. Then I march outside like I wanted to do before his naked torso walked into the kitchen and fucked everything up.

The next day, he leaves, and we don’t see each other or say goodbye. The weird part is, I feel guilty about it.

It’s been another two weeks since I was last here, and all I did was worry about Tabitha and Milo while I was away. It’s fucking insane.

I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night questioning if they were safe. Wondering if Tabitha’s burned hand is okay. The only saving grace is that she texted me photos of Milo. Never many words, though. Which means I know they’re alive, but not how they’re doing. Not that I should expect much else after the way I left things. Flaunting my money and saying shit I shouldn’t have while keeping her completely in the dark was a real dick move. But hashing things out is not my forte.

It’s clear I’m not needed. Yet, I feel contractually bound. And what’s worse is that, for some unknown reason, I’m eager to get back to them. As long and inconvenient as the trip to Rose Hill may be, I’m always relieved when I see Tabitha roll her eyes at me and hear Milo’s tiny footfalls running my way.

So I keep coming back. However, this time my relief at walking up to that front door got overshadowed by finding it unlocked. Again. Which turned into another clash between Tabitha and me.

“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.

She doesn’t spare anyone a single glance except the bartender, Frankie, who she greets with more joy than I’ve ever seen her give anyone other than Milo. I assume he’s with her parents tonight, but I don’t know because we don’t talk, and I have to fight the urge to rush over and ask her.

She gives him more hell. He gets a kick out of it, and everything between them is incredibly good-natured. Once, I thought there was something there. Now all I hear is two people bantering like siblings. It’s nothing like the jabs she and I exchange. Not even close.

With my shoes unnecessarily and meticulously retied, the movement of a tall, lanky form striding past draws my attention. It’s the guy all the others call Stretch. He gives off slimy vibes, and it doesn’t surprise me that no one likes him. I’ve known my fair share of guys like him. Hell, I work for a guy like him. He approaches Tabitha, eyes leering, mouth twisted in a suggestive smirk. Where West is playful, this guy is not. I don’t like it. I don’t like him. I absently start a list of men I want to kill for looking at Tabitha like she’s their next meal. It’s irrational and out of character. But here I am, behaving irrationally and out of character.

Tabitha looks him over, eyes moving down and then back up like she finds him pathetic, and amusing, and entirely lacking. The way she looks at him hands me back a couple of shreds of my dignity that I threw away when I decided to march over here and interrupt them. All I know is that I don’t want him near her. And she doesn’t want him near her either.

Blow job. She says it with a confident smile. Jealousy licks at my spine. It’s both unwelcome and undeniable. I am jealous of every fucker who so much as glances in Tabitha’s direction, let alone one who’s had his dick in her mouth.

Ford chuckles and shakes his head as he regards me. I think he might be more observant than the others, which means he could be onto me and my wayward crush on Tabitha Garrison.

The one that just fucking blindsided me in the middle of a shitty dive bar. The one I’ve been ignoring for weeks to avoid all the complications that come with it. The one that’s one hundred percent doomed, because crushing on a girl who hates your guts is a recipe for disaster. No matter what a bad idea it is, it’s an idea all the same. One I can’t shake. Even bowling can’t clear my mind of her. Especially not when I know she’s here.

She’s having fun. It’s good for her. And if mocking me is what brings her joy, then whatever. I can take it.

I know I’m holding Tabitha before I look down. It’s in the way the pads of my fingers tingle and how she’s too short to even show up in my line of vision. “Sorry,” I breathe, looking down into her startled, slightly glassy eyes. “Are you? Or is this your big plan to take me out?” She makes no move to leave my grip. Instead, she inches closer, the peep of red paint on her toes butting up against my dorky fucking two-tone bowling shoes.

“You can stop making jokes about me killing you any time now. They’re getting old.” She scoffs. “You know what’s getting old? You waltzing in here full of fucking opinions about me and my house and how much money I have and how qualified I am to take care of Milo—like you’re the anointed expert on all things ever in the history of the world.” “Tabitha.”

Her palms stay flat, and warm, and distracting against my abs as she tears into me with renewed ferocity now that she’s seen the marks. “I’m done talking about me. Let’s talk about you, Rhys. Let’s talk about the bruises. Let’s talk about the secrecy. Let’s talk about how the hell you’ve gotten to a place where you’ve convinced yourself you’d be such a great guardian for a three-year-old when you have the emotional intelligence of a rock and a penchant for something that is clearly violent. You are one big red flag, my friend. And I don’t think being raised by a full-time staff will fix the damage you’ll do to Milo by forcing him to grow up in whatever fucked-up porno gangland world you live in.” Good god, this woman is infuriating.

I should tell her, just spit it out. But I’ve had it go south before. First, I had foster parents who made contact, which was borderline heartwarming until they asked for money. And the last time I was brave enough to tell a friend, it became a running joke I had to grin and bear. It niggled at me—embarrassed me. And I don’t trust Tabitha not to take this little tidbit and use it to hit me where it hurts.

So instead, I grip her waist with both my hands and flip us again. Now it’s my turn to push her up against a wall. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with me being a porn star. If you want to see me fuck someone, the bathroom is right there. Drag me in there right now, and you can watch in the mirror while I bend you over.” Her plush, pink mouth pops open, but no words come out. We’re both panting, our breath mingling between us. Hers smells like lime and tequila, mine adding something sweet from the cola I left at my table.

I can tell she’s extra uninhibited right now. Something that becomes clearer when she reaches forward and grabs my rock-hard dick. She squeezes, and I hiss, propping an arm on the wall above us as my head drops down over her. “I knew it,” she whispers, tilting her face up to mine. “It must be exhausting walking around my house with a raging hard-on all the time.” My hips thrust forward into her grip, pressing closer and trapping her hand between us. A shiver races down my spine, and a whimper spills from her mouth.

I’d feel bad for you, except I take comfort in knowing you want something that you can’t have.” Her fingers squeeze harder around my cock—almost too hard. “It’s like how I want you to just”—squeeze—“go”—squeeze—“away”—squeeze. Fuck. If she keeps this up, I’m going to blow in my pants.

Everything about her is ferocious. Commanding. Fucking hot as hell. If she weren’t so drunk, I would drag her into the bathroom and follow through. But she is, so I step away. Only for her to taunt me with a smug tip of her lips and a parting shot. “Too bad you’ll never get a chance to find out.” It’s just as well. I have a feeling we’d hate-fuck this entire building to the ground. And truthfully, I don’t really want Tabitha to hate me. I wish she didn’t.

Plus, my flight out is tomorrow, and I suspect if I go that far with her, I won’t want to leave at all. So instead, I turn around. Go back into the bathroom. Lock the door behind me. And fist my cock while imagining being inside Tabitha Garrison. Just to take the edge off.

Rhys: Letting you know to expect company today. And a package. Tabby: Oh? Are you going to pop out of a bush again? Rhys: No. It’s not me. Rhys: And I didn’t pop out of a bush. Tabby: As long as it’s not you, I’m happy.

I’m too scared to ask about his plans, and I’m walking on eggshells around the subject. And he’s too locked up to share a single fucking thing. Though that could have had something to do with him offering to fuck me in the bathroom and me squeezing the hell out of his dick. His really, really big dick. Rhys has always given off big dick energy. But I know now it’s not so much energy as big dick knowledge. Big dick surety? Big dick guarantee.

It wasn’t their fault that Rhys, Legal Guardian of the Year, is an overbearing asshole. But then Bash showed up, arms crossed with a no-nonsense look on his face, telling me Rhys knew I was busy and had asked him to stay and supervise. Apparently they text now. I’m not sure about what. It seems like texting grunts and scowls back and forth would be rather anticlimactic.

Bash also told me it was okay to let people take care of me sometimes. And that one sentence struck a nerve I didn’t feel like standing around discussing. So I’d offered a watery smile, told him to mind his own damn business, and then taken off.

Turns out having anyone but Rhys show up at my house didn’t make me happy at all. Even the outdoor heater he had delivered for the back deck didn’t help. All it did was keep me ...

“I got hung up at the border today. One of the officers finally called me on overstaying my welcome. Had to call my lawyer and explain the situation at border services.” My stomach drops, and my hands grip my bare knees to keep from shaking, because I don’t like where this is going. “Okay,” I say hesitantly. “Tabitha, he’s recommending I take Milo with me when I leave this time. If I leave him here, he has no legal guardian.” “I—” His large hand falls over mine. And this time, I don’t shake it off. I let him steady me. I’m out of time.

I’m not saying I’m going to keep him from you. But changing the name on that form isn’t going to happen overnight. And if something happens to him and I’m not here, then social services will get involved.” My heart beats deep in the pit of my stomach, that sensation of life not being real overtaking all my senses. “You can’t.” His fingers tighten on mine, and I hear a pained groan rattle around in his chest. “I’m sorry, Tabby. It won’t be forever.” It won’t be forever.

And there’s something about the word forever that sparks an idea in my head. In this instant, I know that I’m about to make a very, very bad decision. But I figure that after being the sister who carefully thought out every choice in her life, I’m due to make a colossally stupid one. And if nothing else, at least being willing to do anything for my family is consistent. Which is why I blurt out my totally absurd idea before I can think it through with my usual level of care. “Marry me.”

“Yeah. No, of course not. That’s absurd. We hate each other.” I slap my hands together like I’m clearing dust—and all my dignity from them—before I get up, turn away, and take the steps toward the house. “I wouldn’t want to marry you,” I mumble as I open the screen door and pad inside. “Even if your dick is huge,” I add once I clear the doorway.

I wonder how he feels about those murder jokes now. Perhaps he’s considering the validity of those options. Getting rid of me would make his life a lot easier. I can’t imagine a world in which he likes coming all this way to see Milo, or one in which he enjoys spending time around me with how things are between us.

I scrub frantically and act like I’m removing a stubborn spot when he enters the house. He props a shoulder against the rounded entryway, crosses his arms, and stares at me. I fucking hate when he stares at me. It makes my stomach flop over on itself. The same dropping sensation you get on a thrilling carnival ride. Except those are short-lived. Those end. Rhys Dupris is the carnival ride that I just can’t manage to get off of.

“You need to make sure that Milo grows up understanding that a clean house is important. You can’t just send him out into the world thinking that paid staff will clean up after him and that his secret CIA daddy will pay for everything.”

“CIA?” I shake my head, moving to the next cabinet with an irritated huff. “You are secretive and covered in bruises. Porn doesn’t make sense anymore. And I’m tired of asking, so whatever. You go ahead and keep your weird secrets. Anyway”—I forge ahead, barely pausing to breathe—“men can’t just go out into the world as lazy slobs who don’t know how to cook anything. If he’s going to be a good partner one day, he should at least have some domestic capabilities. And I don’t know what your place is like, so if you don’t keep it clean, you better fucking star⁠—” “I’ll marry you, Tabitha.”

“But…” My brain searches for the words, but none jump out at me. He’s struck me speechless. Eventually, I come up with, “But why would you do this?” A shrug. “For Milo.”

I swallow the unexpected sting of those words. I’m not under any delusion about what’s between Rhys and me. There’s animosity and sexual tension, but not a lot of love. Which is fine. I’ve never been the girl who dreams about her wedding day with the perfect white dress and Pinterest-worthy decorations. But there’s still something hollow about the moment. A pang of longing for something I never knew I wanted. “Are you sure?” “Yes. Are you?” My lips roll together. I know I’m the one who suggested this. But still. What the fuck am I doing?

“Sorry. I just mean—we can get ’er done, high-five, and go our separate ways.” I’m talking, but it feels surreal. Like I’m outside myself watching the scene play out on television.