A Ring for Rosie. Maggie WellsЧитать онлайн книгу.
carrots, and chunks of roasted potato frozen in a sea of rich mushroom gravy.
“Oh, Rosie.” He shoved the container into the microwave. He set the timer and fell back against the counter, rubbing his forehead with one hand. With the boys out of the room, he felt safe using the words he’d wanted to use earlier. “Crap, crap, crap, Rosie.”
The moment they were out, he braced himself for a reprimand from the other room. When no singsong accusations came, he pulled his phone from his pocket again and scrolled until he reached her contact info.
But what would he say? He was sorry? He hadn’t meant to kiss her? Anything he might say to take back what had happened would only hurt her. He’d sworn on everything precious to him he’d stay as far away from her as possible. Because if he got too close, he didn’t know what he might do. But one thing was for certain, whatever he did would hurt her. And he would rather cut off an arm than hurt Rosie.
Thanks to Rosie, her mother, and her three sisters, the freezer compartments of all three Trident Security partners were fully stocked. She bought their kids educational activity books and colored pencils. She made sure he remembered to take them to the dentist, the doctor, and occasionally to get a haircut. Their business ran like a top because of Rosie. Their lives were livable because she was in them. Hell, everything good and orderly in his world circled back around to Rosie. Which was exactly why he had to make sure he didn’t screw everything up. He might want her, but he needed her a hell of a lot more.
The doorbell rang at the exact moment the microwave chimed. James jerked open the microwave’s door before the timer beeped, then turned toward the front of the house. The thuds of small sneakers echoed down the long and narrow hall.
“Wait for me,” he called to them, pausing in his stride only long enough to straighten one of the framed photos of the boys. Photos Rosie had framed for him. Man, he was screwed.
As if to drive the point home, a high-pitched squeal rent the air. “Mommy!”
The squeal was followed by the telltale ch-chunk of lock tumblers, three ear-splitting beeps from the alarm panel, and another round of gleeful greetings from the boys. By the time James stepped into the foyer, the alarm’s chirping escalated into a demand, and Megan Simmons stood inside the solid mahogany door, an array of suitcases, duffle bags, and totes in a jumble at her feet.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, practically falling over the heap of luggage in his haste to get to the alarm panel.
“Mommy’s here!” Jeff cried, his face alight.
James froze mid-stride, mesmerized by incandescent joy shining from both of his boys. Shaking his head in automatic denial, he tore his gaze away from the twins and zeroed in on the woman standing in the eye of the storm.
“Are you stayin’ the night, Mommy?” Jamie practically wrested the enormous purse Megan carried from her hands. “You can stay in our room.”
“Yeah!” Jeff thrust his fist into the air.
James stared at his boys in amazement. The traitors. He wanted to tell them she couldn’t stay, wouldn’t stay, never had and never would. Hell, she’d walked out on them the day of her six-week postpartum checkup and barely glanced back.
He wanted to tell them she wasn’t here for them or him. She was here because she needed two things—well, three, really: money, a new sucker to take her on, and a soft place to land until she got the first two lined out.
And this was not the place.
“Yes, I’d love to spend the night,” she cooed. Megan shot him a look of triumph, flicked her streaked blond hair over her shoulder, and then leaned down to kiss each boy carefully on the cheek. Her movements were not natural, nor were they particularly affectionate, but his boys were apparently too starved for female attentions to be discerning.
Straightening, Megan smirked. “Hi, honey. I’m home.”
He opened his mouth to tell her no in every language he could conjure but was cut off when the alarm began to wail.
Chapter 2
The bell above the bakery door hit so hard the clapper clanked rather than chimed its usual tinkling welcome. Panting and disheveled, Rosie stared at the bank of glass-fronted cases, her chest heaving. The clump of heavy boots told her the proprietor heard the bell’s alert. A moment later, Georgianna Walters popped out from around the corner, her smoky-shadowed eyes wide.
“Rosie?”
Rosie’s heart rate started to slow when she saw genuine concern overtake the annoyance etched between Georgie’s perfectly ached brows. The thin silver ring in her left brow winked in the overhead lights. Once again, Rosie marveled at the joy Georgie brought into a room. No surprise this unconventional woman had won the heart of the world’s most conventional man. For a short time, Georgie and Mike Simmons’s love affair had given Rosie a sliver of hope. If stuffy, uptight Mike could fall for a free-spirited woman like Georgie, then the object of Rosie’s own affections might wake the hell up and smell her coffee.
But he hadn’t.
He never would.
Rosie needed to give up on this impossible love once and for all.
She couldn’t quite give him up, because no matter how many times she’d been there for him, James had never been hers.
Unable to muster even the most basic of greetings, she pointed. “Gimme one of those.”
Georgie blinked once, then followed the tip of Rosie’s trembling finger to the case where the trays of pink-glazed cookies shaped like penises sat on display. Understanding broke like dawn over the other woman’s face. Without a word, she popped a sheet of waxed paper from the box on the counter, wrapped the scrap around the base of the cookie cock, and handed the victim over the counter.
Rosie strained not to snatch the cookie from her hands. She wasn’t as successful at masking the relish with which she chomped down, breaking the shaft in half. She tipped her head back and cupped the hand holding the remainder of the cookie in her hand to her mouth, making sure she didn’t drop a morsel. She wanted to devour—consume—take from him the same way he’d gobbled up everything she’d given him over the years.
“You okay?” Georgie asked, her voice gentle.
Unsure she’d be able to give a civil answer to such an inane question, she shook her head.
Heaving a heavy sigh, Georgie extracted another cookie from the tray and offered it to her. “Of course you’re not. Stupid question.”
Rosie stared at the other woman’s blue-polished nails. She hadn’t used waxed paper this time, or even foodservice gloves. Georgie’s bare-fingered grip on the cookie violated any number of health codes. Rosie had enough family members working the restaurant business to know the drill. But, when she looked up, she saw the worry in the baker’s eyes and knew this wasn’t an attempt to tempt a customer into buying another cookie but the gesture of a friend.
She chewed fast and swallowed before taking the cookie. “Thank you,” she managed to croak at last.
Georgie acknowledged the thanks with a brisk nod, then moved to the cooler of cold drinks near the cash register. Without asking, she pulled two bottles of chilled water from a shelf.
Rosie finally found the ability to blush. “I’m sorry. This is rude of me.”
She hated when her voice came out all quiet and deferential. It was her mother’s voice, but not flavored with a bit of the accent Maria could never lose. Every once in a while, it slipped out of Rosie’s mouth, unbidden.
“No need to apologize.” Georgie thrust one of the bottles into Rosie’s hand. “Does this have something to do with the baby mama?”
Rosie stared in surprise. Georgie was dead-on, but Rosie hadn’t seriously expected to find an ally when she burst into the Getta Piece bakery. She’d only wanted to find a pair of cajones to crush. After all,