Dear Rosie, (Love Letters #2)

Bundle in hand, I walk through the open bathroom door just as Nathan turns off his electric toothbrush.

He makes eye contact with me through the mirror as he spits into the sink.

The ache between my legs intensifies.

That should not be hot.

I look away and rush across the tile floor into the small toilet room, shutting the door behind me.

SIXTY-FOUR

NATE

I’m pouring coffee into two travel mugs when Rosie emerges from the hallway.

She’s no longer in my clothes, and even though she looks fine as hell back in her outfit from last night, I kind of hate it.

Charles bumps his head against my elbow, and I look down, seeing I’m seconds from overflowing my cup.

I set the pot back on the warmer and pat Charles on the head.

Some people think it’s gross to have a cat on the counter, but Charles is more than a cat. And I don’t limit his freedom.

I scratch behind his ears, and we both watch Rosie as she looks around my condo, taking it in.

It was pretty dark in here last night when we arrived. And I didn’t exactly pause to give her a tour. But now, with the kitchen lights on, and with the sky just starting to lighten beyond the glass wall, she can see the space clearly.

Maddox gave me so much shit when I hired an interior decorator, but I have zero regrets. Everything is exactly how I want it.

The light wood floors.

The soft white walls filled with art in tones of green and tan.

I see when her eyes catch on Charles’s space.

I press my lips together, wondering what her reaction will be.

Charles is my best buddy, and I’m not embarrassed that I had a custom cat tree built out of real branches that’s seven feet tall with half a dozen padded perches for him to sleep on.

It’s against the wall of windows, and some could say it’s blocking part of my million-dollar view, but I’d argue that Charles deserves the sunshine more than I do.

Rosie’s mouth pulls into a wide smile, and I let out a breath of relief.

I don’t know what I’d do if she didn’t like Charles, but now I don’t have to worry about it.

“That’s pretty impressive,” she says, still looking at the cat tree.

Charles purrs under my hand. “Thanks. Charles wanted a bigger one, but I told him we’d start small.”

She shakes her head, the smile still on her face. “Good of him to compromise.” She turns her attention toward me and the kitchen.

“How do you take your coffee?” I ask, but I’ve lost her attention.

Her lips are parted, and her eyes are wide.

I’m not a good cook, hardly passable, but I did want my home to have a chef’s dream kitchen. And from the look on Rosie’s face, I think I’ve accomplished that.

The island is… large. It seats eight comfortably on the white and gold stools across the white marble top from where I’m standing.