A Ring for Rosie

by Maggie Wells

  She gaped at him. “Seriously? You want to keep tabs on all the times we’ve hurt each other?” she demanded, her voice strident.

  James had the brains to surrender. “No. I know you’d win.”

  “Can you possibly understand why I might balk when you did this sudden about-face?”

  “My feelings for you aren’t sudden, Rosie.”

  “Maybe not for you, but they’re new to me,” she explained. “Until a few weeks ago, everything was status quo. Me loving you, and you pretending not to notice. Do we ask Mike and Colm to do everything in their power to pretend nothing happened?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe it’s part of what makes you guys great dads. You excel at make-believe.” Looking away from him, she sighed. “Ironic how you all ended up with women firmly grounded in reality.”

  “Reality is a matter of perception,” James insisted.

  “Sometimes,” Rosie conceded. “And sometimes things are what they are.”

  Impatient with the argument, James leaned forward on the table, folding his arms in front of him. “Let’s stop talking in circles. I don’t blame you for being wary. We both know if I saw a woman living the life I’m living, I’d run the other way as fast as I could.”

  She looked him straight in the eye. “Because you think you have weak moral fiber.”

  “I don’t think I do, I know I do.”

  “But you don’t,” she argued. “If you did, you wouldn’t have even attempted to raise these boys on your own. You’d have pawned them off on your mother or put them up for adoption or something—”

  “They’re my sons,” he interrupted.

  “Right. And because you have an abundance of moral fiber, you did what was right by them.”

  “Don’t make me out to be a saint. I’m not.”

  “God! A saint?” She scoffed at the thought. “If anyone knows better, it’s me.”

  “People act like we should get some kind of prize or something because we’re single dads raising our kids. They’re our kids.” He jabbed the table with his forefinger for emphasis.

  “Yes, I know,” she answered mildly.

  “And we’re not doing anything different from what thousands or millions of women have done.”

  Rosie nodded emphatically. “Damn straight.”

  “Then why do people treat us like we’re fucking unicorns or something?” He threw his hands out in frustration. “Or, like it’s a miracle we can keep the beasts alive.” He shook his head in disgust. “We don’t need pity and casseroles. We need to get laid once in a while.”

  “Well, we took care of one the other night.” She straightened in her seat. “I’ll let my mother and sisters know you don’t want their handouts.”

  “Don’t you dare,” he barked.

  “Which way do you want it, James?” she snapped.

  “Which way do you want it, Rosie? Should I want you or not? Tell me flat-out, because I have a shit-ton of laundry to do and these dishes won’t wash themselves.”

  “I thought you were having a Saturday.”

  “I lied.” His chair screeched as he jumped to his feet. “I lied about the Saturday thing, okay?” He ran his hand through his already disheveled hair. “The house is a wreck because it’s been all I can do to haul them out of bed each morning.” He turned a glare on her. “There? You happy?”

  “No,” she answered quietly.

  But James wasn’t listening. “For weeks, I’ve dealt with Megan living here and you dating every Tom, Dick, and Manuel on the Internet—”

  “There were no Toms, and Manuel was the only dick I dated,” she interjected.

  “And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. One minute my best friends are threatening to kill me if I look at you, the next they’re aiding and abetting their matchmaking girlfriends.”

  “Well, those women are a force—”

  He didn’t wait for her to finish. Turning to face her, he held out his hands, his palms outstretched beseechingly. “And I want you, Rosie. I love you, and you know I do.” His shoulders sagged and everything inside her melted. “Most importantly, I like you. You are one of my best friends, and I can’t afford to lose you.”

  “Oh, James,” she sighed.

  “Tell me what you want. Tell me what to do.” He curled his fingers into his palms and let his hands fall to his sides. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

  “Mike thinks I’m afraid of messes and the reason I bolted is because I don’t want complications in my life.”

  James snorted. “Mike’s a moron. You love messes. You live to fix things.”

  Rosie nodded her head in concession but then shrugged. “I do, but he’s somewhat right. I did say I didn’t want the upheaval. My life is uncomplicated and the two of us being involved is nothing but a complication.”

  “I thought you wanted this.”

  She raised her hands in defense. “I thought I did, too.”

  “But now you’re not sure?”

  “Now, I’m more cautious,” she stated, choosing her words carefully.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve watched Monica and Georgie try to figure things out these last few months. Or maybe because it’s scary to get what you want and not know what to do then.” She looked down at her hands. “That’s the basis of Monica and Georgie’s theory. I got what I wanted, and I’m not exactly sure what to do now.”

  “So your first impulse was to say screw it all?” He asked the question without any rancor.

  “My first impulse was to run away,” she stated flatly. “I needed time to think. And I didn’t really know why until Colm came to visit. But he made a good point. This isn’t only about you and me. This involves all of us. You and me. Jamie and Jeffie. Colm, Aiden, and Monica. Mike, Georgie, Ty, and Chrissy. If I screw this up for me, I might screw everything up for all of us.”

  James tipped his head to the side and waited, as if letting the words sink in. “Did you know you switched to I?”

  Puzzled, Rosie frowned at him. “Switched to I?”

  “Somewhere in the midst of that whole bit, you went from ‘we’ to ‘I.’ Like I don’t have to play a part in this. Like it’s all on you to make things work.”

  “I didn’t mean to,” she protested.

  He started to pace the room. “Maybe not, but I think it’s what you’re really thinking. That everything is all going to be on you. Like I’m not going to do anything. Or worse, I’m not even a factor. Maybe I am your fill-in-the-blank man.”

  “I didn’t say that,” she countered, instantly defensive. “But what you’re saying is partly true. I’m the one who’s going to have to make the most life changes. I’m the one who’s going to have to find a way to fit into this.” She gestured to the messy kitchen. “Jumping in with you is scary.”

  He sighed and made a futile circle with his hands, all of the anger and indignation seeping out of him. “You’re right. And I don’t have any right to ask you to.” He turned to look at her. “But I want to ask, Rosie. I am.”

  Rosie blinked, but when she opened her mouth, no words came out.

  James crossed the room and pulled her from the chair, clutching her hands in his. “What the hell? I’ve got no pride left.”

  “James—”

  “I don’t care, Rosie. Pride doesn’t mean squat. But you mean everything.”

  His last statement stole what was left of her breath. She gazed at him, spellbound.

  “I want to ask you if you’re willing to give me a chance. What do I need to do to make it worth your while? What do I need to say to convince you to give us a try?” He squeezed her hand. “I’m going to do all those things Rosie. I promise. Because you’re worth every bit of effort to me. Tell me. What do I do first?”

  She gazed into his eyes, mesmerized by the intensity of his
belief in her. In them. Suddenly, she understood what made him such a damn good salesman. “Ask me out.” The words popped out, but once they had, she knew they were the right place to start. “Ask me to go on a date with you.”

  “A date?”

  “A real date where you pick me up at my apartment, we go out for a meal, and you drive me home. No Ryde shares, no meet-ups.”

  “Done. Will you go out with me?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but I think you can do better.”

  “Dinner. Tonight. Anything you want…except fondue,” he added hastily.

  “Tonight?”

  He raised a challenging brow. “Do you have other plans?”

  “No, but what about the boys?”

  “I will lock them in the playroom at Burger Boy if I have to.”

  “Or we could all go to Burger Boy together.”

  He blinked, clearly taken surprised by the offer. “Really? You’d be okay with having a couple tag-alongs?”

  She found herself suddenly breathless. “Think of them as chaperones. Maybe I’m being ridiculous given…everything, but I think we should take this slow.”

  James nodded. “I’m okay with taking things slow.”

  “I want us to date,” she stated firmly. “Like old-fashioned dating. We get to know each other. We let the boys get used to seeing us together. I want you guys to come to dinner with my family.”

  “I can do all of those things. I will do them all.”

  “After we date for a while, I want us to get engaged. Then married,” she added hastily.

  To her shock, James’s smile widened. “Are you proposing to me?”

  “Are you accepting?”

  He laughed. The man actually had the balls to laugh. She felt the vibrations of his happiness rumbling through his chest.

  “I think you can do better.”

  “Do you want me to go down on one knee?” she asked, feeling saucier now that she could feel his heart beating.

  “No, I want you to kiss me.” He lowered his head, offering his mouth.

  She kissed him long and deep, taking her time with him. He let her have her way for a minute, but the moment she wound her arms around his neck, he took over. When she felt the tip of his tongue brush the seam of her lips, she parted her lips on a sigh. This was where she belonged. In his arms. In this messy kitchen. This was everything she wanted, and she refused to be too scared to reach for the stars.

  Sliding her hand down his spine, she cupped the perfect curve of his ass and snugged him tight against her. This time, James moaned. He slid his hand along her ribcage. Rosie sucked in a breath in anticipation.

  “We goin’ to Burger Boy?” a squeaky voice asked.

  “Why you kissin’ Rosie?” a second chimed in.

  Their hands stilled, then fell away. Before she could catch her next breath, James was three feet away, his hands planted firmly atop each boy’s head. “Yes! We’re going to Burger Boy,” he cried a shade too loud.

  “Why were you kissin’ Rosie?” Jeff persisted.

  “To get her to say yes,” James replied without hesitation. Releasing his sons, he clapped his hands together. “Now, go find your shoes.”

  The moment the boys scampered from the room, Rosie turned and gave him an incredulous look. “Dinner at three o’clock?”

  Swooping in, he planted a smacking kiss on her lips. “Welcome to parenthood. Playground trips are Self-Defense 101. Grab your bag, Rosie, there’s a ball pit waiting!”

  THE END

  Meet the Author

  Maggie Wells is a deep-down dirty girl with a weakness for hot heroes and happy endings. By day she is buried in spreadsheets, but at night she pens tales of people tangling up the sheets. Fueled by supertankers of Diet Coke, Maggie juggles fictional romance and the real deal by keeping her slow-talking Southern gentleman constantly amused and their two children mildly embarrassed.

  For more please visit www.maggie-wells.com.

  Going Deep

  Don’t miss the first book of Maggie Wells’ Coastal Heat series!

  MAKING HEADLINES

  Brooke Hastings almost won a Pulitzer Prize for her hard-hitting reportage. Now she’s sitting on the story of a lifetime and wants to prove she’s not a one-hit-wonder. But in order to get the world to take notice, she’ll need the help of the one person she loves to hate—Brian Dalton.

  Brian Dalton stumbled into celebrity when he landed a show on the Earth Channel. But the hunky marine biologist never forgot the serious, studious boy who left Mobile a decade before. Now back in Alabama, he’s looking for the quiet life he always wanted and hoping for a chance with the girl he always loved. When Brooke asks him to help expose some of the lingering effects of the Gulf oil disaster, Brian jumps at the chance to help preserve the place both call home . . .

  Chapter 1

  “If I didn’t have Harley Cade and his ten million ways of making a girl happy on the hook, I’d cling to that man’s hull like a barnacle.”

  Brooke Hastings drowned a smirk in her martini glass. Twenty years of friendship did little to lessen the shock value of Laney’s declarations. Brooke took a cautious sip. The cocktail was pinker than a My Little Pony, but the triple sec and vodka packed a punch that more than made up for the girly color.

  Dragging her gaze from the former classmate-turned-television-hunk she was here to stalk, Brooke turned to face her best friend. “That man told Mrs. Wise you had your Spanish conjugation written on your thigh.”

  Laney refused to be put off by something as fickle as fact. “If I’d known he’d grow up to be rich, famous, and hot as Hades, I would have let him conjugate whatever he wanted on my thigh.”

  “You told your mother you’d drown yourself in the ocean if she made you invite him to your birthday party in third grade.”

  The feisty redhead at her side pursed her lips and made a great show of scanning the room. “She invited him anyway.”

  Revisionist history or no, Laney wasn’t one who took being thwarted lightly. Nearly twenty years had passed since that birthday party, but the sour expression on her face said the sting of her mother’s betrayal hadn’t yet faded.

  “Do you have Harley Cade on the hook?”

  “I could,” her friend said, eying the crowded room. “I’d only have to give that line a little old tug.”

  Brooke smiled. She admired Laney’s confidence, but she wished they could be having this conversation anywhere but in the middle of one of Mobile’s most popular social gatherings.

  Glittering jewels and porcelain veneers shone in the light of the ancient chandeliers, adding sparkle to the mansion’s faded glory. The first floor of Putnam House, one of the ruthlessly preserved mansions that graced Mobile’s historic district, was crowded—every square inch packed with potential donors. Saints Preserve Us was the premier fundraising event for their alma mater, St. Patrick’s Academy, and one of Brooke’s mother’s pet projects. Her mother and her merry band of fundraising fiends plied their victims with Guinness, Jameson’s, and heaping helpings of flattery in hopes of getting them to write big, fat checks.

  Thursday night television programming may not be what it used to be, but Brooke had a reason for being here. She wasn’t in a position to donate the scraps of cash left over after she stretched her paycheck to the max. Frankly, she wasn’t interested in whether the football team could afford new jock straps or if the Drama Club had to—insert shudder here—rent costumes for their spring production. She wasn’t here because her mother insisted she come. No, she was trussed up in her Spanx for a reason. A motive she shared with 99.9 percent of the women in that room. She was there for Brian Dalton.

  “Any Tucker sightings yet?”

  The question jerked Brooke from her mini-sulk. The possibility of running into Jack Tucker was exactly what kept her miles away from the Gulf Shore’s social whir
l in the last few weeks. News of Jack’s return to Mobile after his divorce had lit a spark of hope inside her. The possibility of rekindling their romance seemed to lighten the miasma of loneliness that covered her like a heavy blanket. Alone in her bed, she allowed herself to spin a fantasy of marriage and family that was not only attractive but convenient, as well. Then she ran into him at her parents’ club and her thinking shifted from possibly-maybe to never-gonna-happen.

  Unfortunately, her mother had hopped onto the Jack Tucker bandwagon the minute the man crossed the city limits. Emmaline Hastings wasn’t a woman whose mind was easily changed. That meant Brooke’s best course of action had been to avoid Jack altogether. Eventually her mother would find a project more promising than the daunting task of marrying off her almost-thirty-year-old daughter.

  “No. Thank goodness.”

  “You used to get all twitterpated at the thought of seeing old Jack Tucker,” Laney drawled.

  “And you used to spend your entire study hall plotting ways to torment Brian Dalton.”

  Laney remained as impervious to criticism as she’d been in high school. It was one of her greatest charms. “He brought it on himself.”

  Hard to argue that logic. Back in those days, Brian did earn a good bit of his torment. His fall from social grace started the day he displayed a clock powered by a potato for second grade show and tell. His position as class pariah was written in the stars before Brooke scored the blue ribbon at the eighth grade science fair, but he cemented it in high school. Brian Dalton was worse than a nerd. He was a nerd who thought it was cool to be arrogant and condescending to anyone he considered his intellectual inferior. This meant practically everyone.

  He might have redeemed himself if he’d stuck to delivering the world’s shortest valedictory address. But then he planted a kiss on the salutatorian that shook the entire auditorium.

  Brooke never forgot the way her kiss-swollen lips tingled as he whispered the Alabama fan’s mantra of “Roll, Tide, roll” into her Auburn-bound ear. Nor would she forgive him for the scalding rush of humiliation he left in his wake as he walked away.