Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

I take the crutches from her and reach back to rest them against the wall.

Her reaction to the chair was nearly as comical as her reaction right now.

When I told her I’d been trying to talk to Savannah directly, she looked like she might slap me. So the concession on using the chair is worth her being wobbly for this interaction.

“Thank you,” Rosie says quietly. “Don’t let me fall.”

“Never.” I place my palm on her lower back where the skirt of her dress flares out from her waist. Then I bunch my hand in the fabric, holding on tight.

She lets out a snort, and I smile down at her.

Then I mouthYou got this.

Rosie presses her lips together and nods, then turns her attention forward.

Rosie quietly clears her throat, then she holds out her hand to the approaching woman.

I stay silent at her side as the women introduce themselves to each other.

The blond one—the artist—is in a sparkly gold jumpsuit, and the ice on her ring finger looks big enough to sink a ship.

After a few moments, Rosie introduces me as herboyfriend and helper,and I release her skirt long enough to shake Savannah’s hand.

“Oh, before everything starts and my brain goes to mush, I have something for you,” Savannah tells Rosie.

“For me?” Rosie’s voice is full of disbelief.

The blonde nods and looks around before gesturing to a big man across the room.

The man lifts his chin and strides our way.

He’s dressed in an all-black suit with a gold tie, and he looks about as chill as a puddle of lava.

I’m a big dude too. Still in decent shape even after retiring. So not many people intimidate me. But I’d be lying if I said this guy wasn’t doing just that.

As annoying as Maddox can be, I wouldn’t mind him at my side right now.

The man narrows his eyes at me, and I amend my previous thought.Tony Stoleman would be a better backup option.

I also don’t miss the fact that this man is attractive, so I use my grip on Rosie’s skirt to give her a tiny shake. Reminding her that I’m an attractive man too.

The big dude stops in front of me, holding my gaze. “The footballer, I take it?”

I release Rosie’s skirt again and hold my hand out. “Mr. Savannah?”

The man grins—and I can’t tell if it’s friendly or not—as he takes my hand. “Everything to your liking?” He tips his head toward the chair beside the dessert table behind us.

“It is.” I nod.

Savannah hooks her arm around her husband’s. “Do you have the postcard?”

He reaches into his suit jacket and extracts a piece of rigid paper, tucked inside some sort of clear plastic wrapper.

Savannah takes it, then presents it to Rosie. “I heard about the accident and that you’re a fan, so I wanted to give you a little something.” Rosie takes the tiny painting with shaking fingers. “You pushing your coworker out of the way was pretty amazing.”

My eyes move from the little painting to her husband, because I don’t remember mentioning that detail.

He lifts a shoulder. “Traffic cameras.”