Wild Love: Chapter 14

I regret thinking it was a good idea to work directly across from Rosie all day. Keeping my eyes off of her is torture. Every sigh she lets out—and there are a lot of them today—draws my gaze.

But she never looks back, her focus entirely on the laptop before her. It’s not even natural. I know she’s refusing to look at me. And the only things she’s said to me were work related. She hasn’t mocked me once.

So, I guess that’s why we start emailing, even though we’re both stuck here, facing each other.

Good morning, Mr. Grant,

I’m creating a budget for the renovation. How much do you have slated?

Please advise.

All my best,

Rosalie Belmont

Business Manager at Rose Hill Records

Hi, Rosalie,

Whatever it takes.

Ford Grant

CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records

Mr. Grant,

I need numbers if I’m going to make you a budget.

And you need to add a closing greeting to your email signature. Otherwise, people will know you’re a total dick.

All my best,

Rosalie Belmont

Business Manager to His Royal Dickness at Rose Hill Records

Hi, Rosalie,

I don’t especially care if random people think I’m a dick.

Numbers are attached here.

Have a happy day!

His Royal Dickness

CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records

I hear a light chuckle when that one lands in her inbox.

Then we work in silence. She hums now and then, and I chew on my pen as I try to schedule sound engineers around a constantly moving timeline. I field an inquiry from a record label on the album I did with Ivory Castle. I scroll through more and more inquiries from interested artists as news of the new company spreads. A country starlet with a PR problem catches my attention. I’ve seen Skylar Stone in the news—everyone has. But that one email piques my attention all the same.

I’ve got a thing for rescues.

My pulse ratchets up when I see another email come in from Rosie.

Good afternoon, Dark Lord,

Attached is a spreadsheet with my anticipated budget for the office and recording studio renovation. One tab is budgeted, the next is projected. I will work with the contractor and subcontractors to complete the latter.

Please advise on the feasibility and feel free to point out any issues you might find since I know how much you love to create problems where none exist.

All my best,

Rosalie Belmont

Business Manager at Death Eater Records

P.S. I’m hungry and leaving for lunch. You have a free hour to harvest souls or whatever while I’m away.

She’s up and walking out the door when I fire off:

Rosalie,

Thank you for this. Lucky for you, I can multitask eating souls for lunch at my desk while I work.

Have a happy day!

Tom Riddle CEO and Producer at Rose Hill Records

I know she has her email hooked up to her phone, so I’m not surprised when I hear her laugh from outside the door. Then she shouts, “It’s really the have a happy day that gets me.”

And I shake my head because it’s hearing her laugh that gets me.

I wasn’t lying when I said I don’t care if random people think I’m a dick.

But Rosie Belmont isn’t random people.

I’m snapping photos of the outside of the barn-slash-office so I can send them to the designer I used in the city for my bar. The goal is to maintain the mountain chalet feel of this place by preserving the barn’s old wood.

I don’t want it to look shiny and new and cookie-cutter.

I want character. I want music with character and a space that inspires it.

I’m imagining charming, matching cottages nestled in the trees where artists can use this space as a retreat. Mountains, lake, wilderness—a serene space to calm their minds and focus on their art, away from the glitz and glam of what can be an ugly industry.

The quiet out here. It’s… profound. And I didn’t realize how badly I needed it until I got here.

That’s why the piercing sound of the office line ringing from inside makes me wince as it slices through my moment of peace.

Then it stops.

Then, “Hello, Ford Grant Junior’s office.”

My molars clamp down at the use of my name. I love my parents, but seriously, fuck them for keeping with that tradition.

“Oh my god, the real Ford Grant?” Rosie lets out a fake little squeal, and I freeze.

“Mr. Grant! It’s been too long. How are you?”

My legs carry me over the craggy grass that surrounds the building and I march up the front steps, skipping one here and there to get inside faster.

When I fling the door open, I’m met with Rosie’s wide, blue eyes, her hip cocked against the desk. It’s brisk out today—it feels less like spring and more like winter—which is probably why she waves a hand at me to shut it.

“Oh, baby Ford? He’s good. Working hard on this place and his scowl, as the case may be.”

A beat of silence as her eyes wander over my features.

“I’m sure he’s not ignoring you. Just—well, no, I’m here because he hired me.”

Her lips press together, and I rake a hand through my hair. My dad means well, but he’s fucking bossy sometimes, and we’ve butted heads many times.

“I hear what you’re saying, Senior. But Ford’s a big boy now, even though he sometimes acts like a little one, and if he requires your input, I’m sure he’ll ask. He’s a smart, responsible man, so we gotta trust him to make wise decisions. He’s not actually dumb, even though he’s pretty, ya know?”

I feel like my jaw is about to unhinge. Rosie stares down at the desk, twirling her finger, like she didn’t just pay me two compliments and jump to my defense all in one breath.

“Are you and Gemma going to be out here this summer? Sure would be nice to see you guys. Been too long. Plus, rock stars age one of two ways: Sting or Keith Richards. Which way are you headed? I’m curious.”

I hear my dad laugh through the phone. Not a single fucking boundary in Rosie’s mind. In her head, he’s not the world-famous guitarist from Full Stop. He’s the dad from down the road.

“You’re not as old as them? Well, shit. Isn’t it funny how, when you’re a kid, you view middle-aged people as super old?”

She nods and hums along with whatever he’s saying.

“Sounds good. I’ll let him know. Bye, Senior.” Then she places the phone back on the receiver and looks me straight in the eye. “You owe me one.”

I swallow roughly and nod. “Why’d you do that?”

She seems tired when her shoulders sag and her chin dips down. “Sometimes we need a minute to get our bearings before we have the big conversations, yeah?”

I’m not sure what to make of that. I’m not sure if we’re talking about her or me.

Or us?

I brush that thought away. There is no us. Except in a work capacity.

“Plus, I’m allowed to rag on you, but I don’t really like it when other people do it.”

That sentiment should satisfy me. After all, she and I are nothing more than coworkers and reluctant friends. Or at least that’s all we should be.

It’s with that rule in my head that I round my desk only to stop when the sound of paper tearing fills the quiet office. A quick glance up confirms that Rosie is striding toward me, diary in one hand, ripped page in the other. She drops it on my desk and taps her fingers on the sheet twice before she says, “I owed you one,” and then spins on her heel back to her desk.

I watch her walk away, fingers itching to reach for the page. And when I do, I’m taken back to a day I remember well.

Dear Diary,

I’m having a bad day. Not as bad of a day as West. But it still feels pretty fucking bad to me.

I decided to take chemistry by correspondence this summer. Thought it would be cool to have a spare next year by getting ahead. And chem is hard. For some reason I thought doing it without all my other homework would make it easier. But I was wrong and now I realize that maybe I’m just a big, dumb masochist.

I failed my final. Failed the entire course. Had a big cry about it by myself. Partly because I’m disappointed in myself and partly because I’m dreading having to tell my parents because the report card requires their signature. I hate letting them down.

I almost did it too. Walked into the kitchen with the failing grade sheet in one hand and a pen in the other. Fully ready to apologize profusely for blowing it so badly.

Only to find them sitting at the table talking in very serious tones to West. There was a bag stuffed full of pot right in the middle of the table and Ford was standing in the corner looking like the human embodiment of a cringe.

I’m no chemistry genius. But I’m smart enough to piece together what was going on.

Still, my parents treated me like a baby. Asked Ford to take me out of the house because I “didn’t need to hear about this stuff.” And he’s such a goody two-shoes that he just nodded and obeyed.

We sat on the dock in an uncompanionable silence. Him waiting for West, and me waiting for my parents. I guess he got bored because he finally asked me about the paper in my hand. And I was feeling just sorry enough for myself that I decided—fuck it, I’ll just tell him. I’ve got nothing to lose.

So I did.

I expected him to make fun of me. God knows he probably hasn’t failed a single class in his life. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he took the pen and paper and forged my mom’s signature with alarming accuracy before sliding the sheet back across the dock toward me.

I just sat there staring at him like the slack-jawed idiot that I am while he gazed out over the lake looking debonair and intelligent.

Me staring must have gotten to him because eventually he said, “Sometimes we need a minute to get our bearings before we have the big conversations.”

I bet he read that in one of his high-brow poetry books along the way. But I still said thank you before I left. Even though he refused to make eye contact.

Pretty sure he was only nice to me because he feels bad about how dumb I am.

But at least I can give my parents a break before I deliver more bad news this way.

My chest twinges. I hate that she felt as though she had to swallow her disappointments just to make things easier for everyone else.

“I never thought you were dumb,” I announce, lifting my head to face her across the office. “And I knew your mom’s signature from watching West practice it so he could forge it on similar notices.”

All Rosie offers to that is a conspiratorial wink before focusing back on her computer screen.

“Did you ever tell them about the test?” I press.

Now she smiles but doesn’t meet my gaze. “Nah. That one’s our secret, Junior. I took it again the next semester and passed. Never did get that spare I was dreaming of though.”

It strikes me that she’s always been so committed to not letting anyone down that she may never have really learned to put herself first.

So that’s exactly what I tell myself I’m doing when I tag along to school pickup. Keeping her company, putting her first, and keeping the “perv dads” from getting the wrong idea.

Because Rosie might think she knows what our secret is, but mine is that I loved sitting on that dock with her even back then.