Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

A good guy but one who doesn’t always think about the consequences.

“You can’t just open someone’s door. What if they’re home?”

He shrugs. “I’ll tell them I had the wrong number.”

“You’re an idiot.” I look back and forth between the doors.

“Do you have a better idea?” Tony leans his shoulder against the wall.

“I do.” I lower to the floor and crawl over to the closest door.

“The fuck are you doing?” Tony sounds like he’s trying not to laugh.

I ignore him, put my nose to the bottom of the door, and sniff.

“I need you to appreciate my restraint right now,” Tony says flatly. “If this were any other situation, I’d be recording this.”

“Uh-huh,” I say absently.

I don’t know if I expected to smell scents of her cooking or her shampoo, but the inhale of incense is an even better answer. If she lived here, I would’ve smelled that on her.

I point to the other door as I lean back onto my heels. “That one.”

Tony pushes off the wall, and by the time I’ve gotten to my feet and crossed the hall, he’s pushing open the now unlocked door.

He steps aside, and I walk into Rosie’s apartment.

I’m tempted to look around. To touch everything. But I need to get her stuff and get to the hospital.

The fucking hospital.

The apartment is small, and I can see the door straight ahead that must lead to her bedroom.

I stride for the door.

“I’ll wait here,” Tony calls out as I hear furniture creak under his weight.

I don’t answer. And alone, I step into Rosie’s bedroom.

Turning on the light, I stand in her room and take a heartbeat to calm myself.

On the way over, I thought through what sort of clothes Rosie will need. I just need to focus and find all the comfortable things.

I start with the dresser under the window.

I pull the top drawer open. Underwear.

Reaching in, I grab a handful, then drop them because I need something to carry everything in.

Cursing myself for not bringing a suitcase, I turn to Rosie’s closet.

The doors fold open to either side, revealing a standard closet with one shelf up top and a bar to hang clothes on.

Shirts and dresses hang from the single bar, and plastic storage bins line the floor—stacked three high.

I huff out a breath, then spot the large duffel bag on the top shelf.

Good enough.