by Faber, Elise
Just . . . not ever again.
Thirteen
Rex
Outside looking in, that was the theme of his life, and it was no different watching his brother with his family.
They hadn’t even saved him a seat, for fuck’s sake.
Justin had just swept in and taken his spot . . . along with his fucking breakfast. Well, that was nothing new, but that apple turnover looked heavenly. And apparently, his brother thought the same because he picked it up from the plate Tilly had situated at the end of the table and took a giant bite, even though she’d also set a plate with Justin’s usual omelet in front him.
Fucker.
Tilly flicked a gaze in his direction that he pretended not to see, even though he noticed everything about her, including the kiss-swollen lips and the way her cheeks went pink when she glanced in his direction, but most especially the way she slipped away from the table as quickly as possible when she noticed him staring.
She disappeared through the swinging doors with barely more than a flash of her blond ponytail.
Rex sighed and pushed off the wall. His brother had moved onto his cinnamon roll, and he barely glanced up when Rex came over to the table, Henry having finally departed the table. Abigail had a whipped cream mustache, Justin was in his seat, and the twins were covered with their respective muffins. Rex crouched next to the table to fist bump Abigail then waved at Jax and Jess, thus avoiding chocolate and blueberry coated palms.
Kel’s face clouded. “You don’t have to go, Rex—” She nudged Justin. “We’ll pull up a chair.”
“I’ve got a few calls to make,” he told her. “Enjoy the crew.”
“But you haven’t eaten your breakfast . . .” Her voice trailed off when she glanced down at the crumbs that were all that were left of his apple turnover and cinnamon roll.
“I’m not hungry anyway.”
“Oh, sorry,” Justin said, finally coming out of his sugar and carb stupor and staring up at Rex. “Was this yours?” It actually sounded like, “Sho, smorry. Smwas fish hors?” but Rex was well-versed in his brother’s full-mouthed speech to deduce the words without an issue.
Kelly rolled her eyes, wiping a napkin across the table to clean up the crumbs her husband had spit on the table. “And they say romance isn’t dead,” she muttered, but her eyes twinkled as she pressed a kiss to Justin’s mouth. “Should I wipe your face for you, too?”
Justin slid an arm around her shoulders. “You love me,” he teased. “Even in my Hoover mode.”
Thinking that sentiment could definitely be applied in a different way from what his brother was implying, Rex called his goodbyes then walked out the front doors of Henry’s Diner.
Main Street of Darlington was probably his favorite thing about the small town. Brightly colored buildings lined both sides of the street, each a different shade of the rainbow, but all of them somehow fitting together. Maybe it was the crisp white trim or perhaps the eclectic mix of architecture, but whatever the magic mixture was, it had a way of relaxing him like no other place on the planet.
Probably why he’d decided to sublet one of the apartments over the empty shop just a few buildings down.
He’d stayed all of one night with his brother and Kelly before making the decision to get his own place, however temporary that might be. And because it had been the peak of summer when he’d chosen to stay on and the B&B had been full, subletting his own apartment had seemed the smartest option.
Today’s perk was that he didn’t have far to walk to get home.
Though later, he’d have to figure out how to get his car.
Darlington didn’t exactly have Über.
There. Maybe that was what he should do with his life. He’d played at being the screw-up for so long, stepped right into that image and didn’t correct anyone—read: he didn’t correct his brother—when they’d assumed he’d failed. He wasn’t a great businessman like his father or even the noble, hardworking sod like his brother.
A mediocre, fifty-percent successful man, that was him.
Some of his plans succeeded, some crashed and burned. Same as anyone.
The difference, he supposed as he strolled toward his apartment, was the Roosevelt name. Ubiquitous with success and definitely with old money. And . . . the truth was that for a time, Rex had loved pissing off his dad and brother. He’d wanted to be the black sheep, going his own way. So, he didn’t tell his family that his production company had a hand in the last four Best Picture Oscar winners, nor did he pass along the information that the small startup he’d invested in had received a patent for a lifesaving blood pressure medicine. He shared the horrible documentaries, the failed cruise line that he had merely loaned a friend a few thousand to help settle debts. He bought a failing ranch on a whim from a rancher who wanted to retire but didn’t have the means to.
All because he’d like this little strip of Americana.
Rex’s persona had one thing right. He was impulsive.
Dropping several million on a ranch and several million more on the horses, falling for the woman who cared for them, and then when things had gotten too serious with Kelly, bailing.
Well, panicking then bailing.
But this thing with Tilly was different. Panic was the least of his emotions—needing, wanting, fucking hard as granite any time she was in the vicinity, they were all infinitely more common.
And more . . . she called to a part of him he’d thought hadn’t existed.
The Roosevelt Rescue Gene.
His father had it. Justin sure as shit possessed it as well.
Rex had always figured it had skipped over him. Until Tilly, that was. Because from the moment he’d seen her bashing her head against her steering wheel, the pale blue lights of her dashboard haloing her face, he wanted to both fuck and rescue her.
In equal proportions.
Probably that should have made him run away in terror, but instead he felt calm, at peace with the fact that his soul seemed to resonate with Tilly’s. Not love, definitely not that treacherous emotion, but more like . . . a woman he could sleep with and then not immediately want to throw out the front door, one who was sweet and hardworking and who’d refuse all the nice things he wanted to do for her.
One who might make his tough as boots, way overcooked pork chop of a heart not wither up and die further.
Pork chops.
Fuck, he hadn’t thought about them in ages. Not since his mother had passed. The one meal she knew how to cook . . . and cook was definitely a loose term for the shoe leather she’d managed to transform those chops into.
It was the reason his father had hired Rosa—the housekeeper and chef that he and Justin had grown up with, who now lived at Roosevelt Ranch—in the first place. His mother hadn’t been able to use a stove to save her life, and though she hated what she’d called “a ridiculous expense,” her three boys were thrilled to have edible food and a kitchen that didn’t smell like whatever she was attempting to burn—cough—cook.
Although, Rosa was getting ready to retire and Kel wasn’t great in the kitchen either, so perhaps Roosevelt men were only attracted to women whose talents existed outside of the kitchen.
Hmm.
He wondered whether Tilly could cook.
Tilly.
His cock twitched.
Tilly, who’d kissed him back without hesitation, whose fucking incredible breasts had been plastered against his chest, who—
“Rex!”
Was right behind him.
He turned, watched her close the distance between them. She had a gray hoodie slung over her shoulders, a small black purse held in one hand, a box in the other. And fuck, but he might be developing a fantasy for worn-in T-shirts and faded jeans because her diner uniform hugged those incredible curves exactly as his hands longed to. She blushed, that lovely shade of pink creeping into her cheeks as she walked toward him. Probably because his gaze was locked onto her, taking in every inch of deliciousness.
; “Hey, Angel.”
She stopped, box dropping to her side, hazel eyes sparking fire. “You know what? Never mind.” Tilly spun away, ponytail fanning out behind her as she turned, a little flash of gold on an otherwise cloudy day.
“No.” He grabbed her arm. “Why’d you come over?”
A huff and he couldn’t lie and say he didn’t like the thing that sigh did to her boobs, the slight jiggle even beneath the cotton. “I’m leaving, Rex.”
“Because of Angel?”
She shrugged. “It’s creepy,” she muttered, but then her voice changed, dropping in volume, becoming laced with something that sounded suspiciously like vulnerability. And they all knew where Rex Roosevelt stood when it came to this woman and anything approximating vulnerability. “And plus, I asked you to stop.”
I asked you to stop.
Why did he think there was a bigger story behind that statement?
Probably because of the haunted look in her gorgeous eyes.
“Tilly.” He cupped the back of her neck, met her stare straight on. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “It won’t happen again.”
She shook her head, silky hair sliding over the back of his hand. “What’d you tell me before?” A beat. “Oh, that’s right. You do you. It doesn’t matter what I want.”
Rex scoffed. “The fuck it doesn’t.” He squeezed lightly when her eyes darted away, bringing them back to his. “You matter. What you want matters.” She swallowed roughly, then shook her head again. “Sweetheart.”
A sigh before she slipped from his grip.
He could have held tight, could have kept her close, but they were in the middle of downtown Darlington and already risking a ride on the gossip train. Rex glanced around, surprised they had thus far gone unnoticed, but draw this encounter out any longer, and they’d be the talk of the town.
“What’s in the box?” he asked when she merely stood there and stared at him, shadows in her eyes.
“What? Oh.” She thrust it at him. “I noticed that Justin ate your breakfast.” A shrug. “So, I brought you some.”
He lifted the lid, saw she’d packed him two apple turnovers and a cinnamon roll.
“Bella said you could have the last two,” Tilly said, cheeks still pink. “Seeing as you saved her and all.”
He snorted. “She did as much saving as I did.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“I need to go,” he said quickly, not wanting to get into his supposed heroics. “I should get home.”
Tilly paused, and this time it was her turn to study him, and though Rex tried to keep his expression placid, he had the feeling this woman saw way too much: how he was drawn to her, the crazy connection he couldn’t seem to shake. How he had so much respect for her, despite just getting to know her, and other . . . deeper feelings.
Danger.
Her mouth curved. “Want a ride home?”
Fuck danger.
He tugged the end of her ponytail. “Sure.”
Fourteen
Tilly
They’d been driving for about ten minutes when Rex abruptly broke the silence and said, “Where are you taking me?”
She frowned, had the sugar from those two turnovers he’d pounded gone to his head? “Um. Home? To the ranch,” she added when he continued to look confused.
“What?” He glanced out the window. “Oh. I don’t live at the ranch.”
She turned right down the road leading out of town. They’d drive by her house in just a couple of minutes. “I didn’t mean live,” she said. “I meant staying. You’re staying there with Justin and Kelly.”
“No, I’m not.”
Tilly glanced over at him, sure he was messing with her. “What are you talking about? Where are you staying if not the ranch?”
She would have heard if he was at the B&B.
“Above the old bookstore.”
Now, she did more than glance over. She stopped the car on the side of the road. Conveniently, this was in front of her own driveway, so she didn’t mind blocking it.
“You’re living downtown?” she asked, incredulous. “Then why in the hell did you let me give you a ride? You could have walked there in two more minutes.”
Rex held up the box. “Baked goods.”
She lifted a brow.
He looked like he was trying not to smile. “You offered.”
Tilly sighed, plunked her head back against the headrest. “How is this my life?” Then when he didn’t reply, she tilted her neck so her cheek was against the headrest and her eyes were on him. “Why do you look so amused?”
“What were you doing in your kitchen so late last night?”
The question took her aback—shock before the creep factor sank in. “How’d you know I was in my kitchen late last night?” she asked carefully, wondering if she might be able to execute some sort of throw the door open and speed away maneuver if his reasoning was as weird as his words.
“I drove by late from the ranch. Saw your light was on.”
The correct answer, a perfectly reasonable expectation, and yet it seemed a little too pat.
But before she could ruminate on that, Rex bopped her on the nose. “Not a stalker,” he reassured her. “Just curious.”
“I run an Etsy shop. Basic toiletries and home goods—candles, air fresheners, soaps, and hair products. Nothing super exciting,” she said. “Just filling a few big orders that came in recently.”
“That sounds promising.”
Her hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I hope so,” she told him. “I love Henry, but I don’t want to be stuck in the diner forever. I want—” She broke off, stifling the rest of that sentence because she was so far away from being able to think about what she wanted that it was almost comical.
Almost.
Rex’s fingers grazed her cheek. “What do you want?”
She almost told him, came a heartbeat within sharing the secret desire in her heart. To make her side-hustle something big and profitable and worldwide. How she’d dreamed it would start online and grow to storefronts. How it might one day allow her to pay off the stifling debts so she could travel or have a house where she wasn’t worried if the water heater was going to go out or whether the next big snow might collapse the roof.
But she was lucky. In so many ways.
Thus, as she’d gotten so damned good at over the last two decades of her life, since her seven-year-old’s dreams had been so thoroughly shattered, she shoved those dreams down and forced herself to smile.
“Oh,” she said, laughing lightly. “I want the same as anyone I supposed. Food, a place to live, some really good, really bad reality TV.”
“Really good and really bad?”
She shrugged. “It’s only really good if it’s really bad.”
His mouth curved up into a grin that should have been illegal. “And you like things that are bad?”
Since she wasn’t going to fall for that line, Tilly smirked. “I’m afraid that my enjoyment of bad, bad things ends with scripted reality television.”
“Hmm.”
Shifting her gaze forward, she prepared to turn the car around. “You can actually just drive me to Kelly and Justin’s,” he said. “If you don’t mind. My car is there since Kel drove me to town.”
“Well,” she muttered. “Since we’re almost there already . . .”
She scanned for cars then pulled back onto the road, heading toward the ranch once again.
“So, a soap-maker and a waitress,” Rex said. “Anything you can’t do?”
She snorted. “So many things,” she told him. “Starting with baking cinnamon rolls that are half as good as Bella’s.”
“But could you teach me how to make a candle that smells as good?”
A pause. No one had ever asked her how she made her products.
“Why would you want to know that?”
He drummed his fingers on the center console, the sharp rap-rap-rap drawing her attention to how close his han
d was to her thigh . . . and how she wanted it that much closer. On her thigh, sliding up the inside of her legs, pressing—
“I find that I want to know everything about you.”
“Oh.”
Not magical prose or a witty response. Just oh, after the most beautiful and fascinating man she’d ever met said he wanted to know everything.
Perfect.
“But I’ll start with your favorite type of flower.”
Her hands twitched on the steering wheel. “What?”
“I’ll start with the easy questions first.”
“Um . . .”
“Do you not like flowers?”
She loved them actually, but the strange turn in conversation had taken her for a loop. “No.”
“So, what kind? Roses?”
A shudder coursed through her. That was one scent and flower she couldn’t abide by, not when her mother had loved them so violently that it had taken her months to forget the cloying fragrance that had clogged her nostrils in the hospital, that had filled the rooms in her home. It had taken ages to get the smell out of the house.
“Okay, not roses,” he said quietly.
“No, not roses,” she murmured. “I like sunflowers.”
“Yellow?”
“For the sunflowers?” Her shoulders relaxed at his nod. “Yes, I like those. They’re cheerful, but I really love the rust-colored ones or the slightly reddened ones you find in the grocery store this time of year. It’s so fall and . . .”
“Cheerful?” he supplied.
Surprised, she glanced over at him. “Yes,” she murmured. “That exactly.”
“Fitting,” he said, then spent their last couple of minutes together quizzing her on her favorite food—chocolate, duh—favorite movie—she didn’t have one, but was a sucker for superhero films—and her favorite scent—which gave her ample opportunity to wax poetic about her love of bergamot.
And shockingly, he didn’t seem bored out of his mind.
In fact, when she talked about how she paired the fragrances together to make her products, he’d seemed genuinely interested and had actually asked a few insightful questions about her process.