Wild Side (Rose Hill, #3)

by Elsie Silver

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.

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.

“Hey, asshole. I made you a bowl of carbonara so that I won’t have to hear your stomach all the way upstairs. I didn’t even poison it. Bon appétit and good night.” The door creaks as she closes it, but then it stops. Light spills down the stairs once again as she adds, “Oh, and I sleep with a gun under my pillow, so don’t try anything weird.” I drop my chin, and a smile curves my lips. Because I’m pretty sure that—in her own way—Tabitha Garrison was just nice to me.

“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.”

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

“Her name is Tabitha, not that you need to know. Because you? You’re going to keep my wife’s name out of your fucking mouth.”

Tabby: Nah. Millions of people are wrong. You’re actually married to a short, flat-chested, prickly chef from Buttfuck Nowhere, Canada. HAHA. Joke’s on them. Rhys: No. I’m married to a mega-hot brunette who makes the best carbonara in the world. Tabby: Oh, Wild Side, you’re so romantic.

“Hello, Duprises!” West says with his signature shit-eating grin. “Or wait. Are we Garrisons? I’m a modern kind of guy. I can see the merits of either.”

The energy is electric. They fall back on the classic chant of this is awesome over and over again as Will and I beat the hell out of each other. And the younger wrestler is a fantastic showman. This was his idea, or at least I think that’s what he meant when earlier in our showdown, he whispered, “Daddy, put me through the table. They’ll love it. Let’s bring it home.” I’d put him through the table for calling me “Daddy” alone. Goofy little fucker that he is. I stand over him, watching, still wanting to make sure that he’s okay. He moves his middle finger and flips me the bird subtly, the signal we worked out to communicate all good.