Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

Always nearby to offer help.

Always telling me to rest and feeding me.

And always keeping our topics of conversation light.

He’s been… perfect.

I smile into my bowl of canned soup. Happy to know there’s at least one thing he’s not good at.

When he apologized for it being canned, I made an offhand comment about having a bunch of homemade soups and casseroles in my freezer back home. And it wasn’t until Nathan perked up that I realized I probably shouldn’t have said that. It didn’t work out well the last time he went snooping around my apartment. But I am glad I can bring something to thisrelationship,even if it’s just my cooking skills.

But as my eyes roam around the condo, I concede that this isn’t such a bad deal.

Living in a penthouse.

Having a super fine man waiting on me around the clock.

I set my bowl on the side table as Nathan opens the front door.

There’s no need to glance down at myself to know I’m in a bit of a state.

My hair is oily and pulled back into a loose ponytail since I want it out of my face, but a tight bun still makes my head ache.

I’m wearing the same set of sweatpants and T-shirt I went to bed in last night. And the little body wipes Nathan gave me have only done so much.

All in all, I feel and look disgusting, and I can only hope this visitor won’t judge me.

“Thanks.” Nathan’s voice carries through the apartment, then he shuts the door.

Okay, not a visitor.

When he turns back, he’s holding three paper shopping bags in one hand, and in the other, he has a stool with a plastic top and metal legs.

He lifts the stool, showing it off. “Care for a shower?”

My mouth drops as I look at the item again. “You bought me a shower stool?”

“Technically, yes.” He smirks as he carries the bags over to the island. “But I can’t promise that I won’t take a seat on it next time I’m tired in the shower.”

A shower stool should hardly make me want to cry.

I have no idea how expensive they are, and with Nathan’s bank account, I’m sure he didn’t blink at the price. But the thought…

I lift the collar of my shirt and try to discreetly wipe at the corners of my eyes.

The stool is practical.

A tool to use in managing my hygiene.

And yet, it’s the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever bought me.

When I leave, I’m bringing it home with me. I don’t care if it will take up half of the tub in my bathroom.

“Want to use it now?” Nathan is still in the kitchen, but his tone has changed, and I suspect he caught me wiping my eyes.

I nod and scoot forward on the couch, grabbing my crutches from where I left them leaning against the coffee table.

I don’t bother trying to grab my dirty dishes—Nathan has scolded me enough for that—I just make my way toward the bedroom.