Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

I fucking feel it.

And I don’t know how it’s possible.

I don’t know if it will last.

But I feel it.

I feel the way I’m looking at her.

Like I already fucking love her.

FORTY-NINE

ROSALYN

Nathan locks his gaze on mine as he hands me one of the drinks.

The cold glass is heavy in my grip.

He lifts his own. “To marshmallows.”

A small sound leaves my throat, and I press my lips together.

Then I tap my glass to his. “To marshmallows.”

Together, we raise our glasses and drink.

The fresh taste of watermelon splashes over my tongue, followed by mint and the mellow heat of expensive alcohol.

It’s dangerously good.

I take another sip.

Nathan lowers his glass to the table and turns even more toward me, placing his hand on the back of my chair.

I shift so I’m facing him too, sitting sideways on my chair, just like he is, putting my knees between his.

“So, Miss Rosie Edwards, when did you get into cooking? And when did you start going by Rosalyn?”

I take another drink, delaying my answer, wondering how much truth to give him and deciding on my own question.

“When did you start going by Nate?”

He smirks but still replies. “High school. We’d moved—just to the next town over—and I thought it sounded cooler.”

My heart twinges at the thought of him having to move again.

“It does sound cool,” I say seriously.

Nathan shakes his head. “It was a teenage impulse that followed me the rest of my life. But now most people just call me Waller.”

“Should I?—”

“You call me Nathan,” he answers before I finish my question. “Just like I’m going to keep calling you Rosie. Now it’s your turn.”

With nowhere else to put them, I rest my hands in my lap. “When I moved to the Twin Cities, I decided to go by my full name. It sounded more grown up, and it felt like a good way to start the next chapter of my life.”

“When did you say you moved here? When you were nineteen?”