Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

“It pays well, which is part of the reason I don’t need you offering me money. And the artist hosting the event is the sister-in-law of a woman who plans lots of fundraisers each year, and I’d like to make a good first impression.”

I hate that she has good reasons. And I hate that I can’t just tie her to the bed to keep her from working.

“What sort of artist?”

“She’s a painter, and she’s auctioning off a special collection for the fundraiser.” Rosie inhales deeply. “Her work is amazing, and to be honest, I’ve been a fan forever, so really, I just want to meet her.”

Any urge I had to argue dies with Rosie’s admission. I can’t stand in the way of her meeting someone she admires.

Instead of showing my defeat, I ask one last question. “What’s her name?”

NINETY-EIGHT

ROSALYN

“You’re a lifesaver,” I tell Meghan.

“You saved my ass just the other week,” she points out, referring to the night Nathan walked back into my life. “I owe you.”

“One event versus eight. Not exactly the same.”

She makes a noise through her lips. “Yeah, I’m gonna cry all the way to the bank over the discrepancy.”

I laugh. “Well, I appreciate it. I’ll email my clients now, copying you in.”

When we hang up, I reach over to the nightstand and grab my laptop.

After Nathan and I had our post-sex cuddle chat, we got dressed into pajamas.

I chose to camp out in bed for my call to Meghan’s Moments to see if she could take the events off my hands. And Nathan said he had some work to do before bed and that he’d do it in his office to give me room for my call.

He’s been great company, but I really should find a way to make him go into his actual office. I’m sure he’s missing a lot, and it’s because of me.

NINETY-NINE

NATE

“Hello?” A stranger answers the phone.

“Orlando?” I prompt.

“Yes?”

“Sweet. You the guy who owns the studio doing that Savannah Vass fundraiser in a couple of days?”

This time when he says yes, he drags it out into a question.

“Can I talk to her?” I ask.

“Uh, she’s not… here.”

I roll my eyes. “Can I have her number?”

“I don’t, uh, I can’t do that.”

“Some sort of privacy thing?” I should have figured.

“More of a scary husband thing.”