When he texted her, her response was uninformative and yet terrifying:Went into town with Boyd.
So Tom spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone with potential contractors, frequently looking out the front window of the inn toward the dark windows of the cottage across the street, waiting for Rosie to come home like Jay Gatsby monitoring the dock light at East Egg.
He didn’t see lights on in the cottage until almost six, and he immediately called it quits for the day. At the bottom of the main stairs, he happened to stop, look right through the kitchendoorway, and spy Boyd with the two nutjobs he’d tossed off the front lawn this morning. They were looking at a laptop on the island countertop, pointing and discussing something in low voices.
Tom froze, wondering if they’d noticed him. Boyd was difficult enough to deal with, but Boyd and his fans together were nearly insufferable. Maybe he could edge out of the inn without any unpleasant interactions.
Still—
Right, he was playing the responsible adult now.
“Uh, those girls look real young, Boyd. Do their parents know where they are?” he called.
Both girls turned to glare at Tom, as thoughhewere the pervert for thinking that maybe Boyd shouldn’t be left alone with two possible minors.
“We’d never try to get between the two of you,” the blonde said haughtily.
“And neither of us would allow anythinginappropriatein light of thepower dynamics,” the South Asian girl declared.
“It’s okay, I know they’re fans,” Boyd said, blinking innocent brown eyes at Tom and pantomiming his hands in the air. Tom and Ximena had previously had a conversation with Boyd to the point ofDon’t show your penis to any groupies, so that was a good acknowledgment. “They’re going to help with Rose’s design vision.”
“Rosie wants them here?” Tom clarified, eyes widening.
Everyone nodded, but Tom frowned. Weren’t Boyd’s fans responsible for most of her incorrect ideas about him and Boyd? Did Rosie really want to be exposed to more of that?
Near the door, Tom spotted a large binder on the front table. Thinking it might have been left there by Rosie or one of the contractors, he picked it up.
Inside the binder were several folders and a hand-bound leather book. The lowercase title of the book was embossed in gold foil on the cover:you’re the one (who tried to burn it down).Although he should have known better, Tom flipped to the title page, which declared the book to have been composed by Snow Wolf for the Great Puffin. All rights were reserved to Boyd Kellagher, Tomasz Wilczewski, and the Toronto Maple Leafs. The author specifically and emphatically disavowed any infringement of the Maple Leafs’ trademark on the second page. The third page contained excerpted lyrics from a Phoebe Bridgers song. The fourth page contained a highly stylized, anatomically suspect, and beautifully colored illustration of Boyd and Tom engaged in a ménage a trois with a hockey stick.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” muttered Tom. He slammed the book shut. Casting a baleful look at the kitchen, Tom hurried out of the inn. It seemed likely that Rosie had spent the whole day with Boyd and his groupies, and God only knew what she’d heard about him.I am not dating Boyd. I am not sleeping with Boyd. I have never had carnal knowledge of a hockey player, let alone a hockey stick.
“Rosie?” he called cautiously as he approached the cottage. He was braced for anything.
“Come in!” she responded, sounding reassuringly upbeat.
The scene inside hit him right in the heart.
Rosie was curled up on one of the love seats in her pajamas—dainty baby blue satin this time. Her face was flushed, and hercurly hair was wet from the shower and combed loose across her shoulders. She’d acquired a breakfast tray and set out a wedge of brie, an open jar of raspberry jam, and a package of fancy water crackers on the coffee table. In semicircular array around the cheese plate, she had a big bottle of Evian, a glass of white wine, the TV remote, her embroidery hoop, and a stack of home design magazines. The TV was playing last season’sDrag Racefinale.
Oh, it was just the scene he thought he’d come home to every night for the rest of his life: Rosie with her little snack, her little drink, and at least three ongoing projects. Tom halted in the doorway, mouth trying to pull in multiple directions as he felt joy and piercing regret at once.
“Are the bees gone?” she asked, eyes flicking to the Band-Aid on his neck.
Tom grinned. “The bees are all gone.” He felt like a Spartan warrior coming back from battle, and Rosie looked like a hero’s reward: the satin of her top was stuck damp to her skin where her hair had soaked it, and the shape of her breasts and the points of her nipples were visible through the thin fabric.
He dropped onto the love seat, wedging himself in next to her. She wrinkled her nose, probably because he was filthy from construction grime while she smelled like shampoo and wine, but she scooted to the side to make more room and gestured that he was welcome to her tray.
Tom knocked his denim-covered knee against her bare one, admiring their legs stretched out next to each other, then helped himself to some of her cheese board.
“Did you have an okay day?” he asked through a mouthful of crackers.
“A really good day,” Rosie said.
The way she smiled was familiar, stirring up a swirl of old memories. For a moment, Tom thought maybe she looked younger with her hair combed out and no makeup on. It took another moment, and a tilt-turn jolt of guilt, before he realized that no, this was just what Rosie looked like when she was happy, and it had been a while since he’d seen that.
She knocked back another sip of wine. “We were so productive. We made tons of progress.”
“We?” Tom asked.
