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Neither of them had discussed what had happened between them during that heated moment. Sometimes he thought he might have dreamed up the whole thing. But then he’d catch her eye and he knew exactly what Rose was thinking.
Dang it all! Why had he done it? Why had he let himself become so weak he kissed the one girl who was definitely off limits. She was as off limits as the area behind the yellow tape surrounding a crime scene.
There was a part of him that thought Ethan had caught on, but if Ethan knew, there would be more signs than the occasional stink-eye. Mike would have been sporting a shiner and a split lip for sure.
That meant only one thing. Rose hadn’t told anyone.
Ever since that kiss, Mike had been working even harder at getting the house fixed up so he could stop imposing on Ethan and his wife. If he were honest, he would admit he needed out from under that roof for one reason, and one reason alone.
The more time he spent with Rose, the more he wanted a repeat of that moment they’d shared. He wanted to know if it was a fluke or if the spark he’d felt was alive and well. At some point, two little visitors had popped up and taken residence on his shoulders. The little dude in white told him to stay far, far away. That was what he’d promised everyone, right?
But the guy in red had different plans, and he was getting stronger every single day.
Currently, Rose was busy painting the kitchen and the living room after he’d repaired some spots on the wall that desperately needed TLC.
Mike had opted to lock himself in his childhood bedroom so he could have a place to sleep and finally move back here. It wasn’t that Becca and Ethan weren’t welcoming. Okay, Ethan seemed a little colder than was necessary, but Becca had done everything she could to make him feel welcome. She’d set him up right.
To make matters worse, those weren’t his only problems. The supplies he’d taken from the hardware store seemed to mock him every time he passed them. He should have never stolen them. At the time, it had made sense. How else was he supposed to fix up the house without the basic necessities? Now, he felt like it was a time bomb waiting to explode—only a matter of time before someone figured out that he’d become the thief he’d worked so hard to reform from.
Guilt slipped among the other emotions churning within him over his desire to leave after Rose had done so much. But there were bigger things at play. He needed to put some distance between himself and Rose.
Still, as he stood in his childhood bedroom, he couldn’t bring himself to get to work. While there was plenty of stuff to remind him of his younger years, there were also several boxes of things he hadn’t even realized his grandfather had saved.
He found old school reports and bags of clothes he’d grown out of along with stuff that could only belong to his grandfather. In the closet, he’d found horseshoes and a bag of horse feed. Why his grandfather had stored the stuff in the house was beyond Mike’s understanding.
He sighed and headed over to the dresser. Beside it were boxes that stacked nearly to the ceiling. He pulled on the tower, finding words scrawled on the sides facing the wall. One said “photos.” But the one beneath it was the one that caught his attention.
“Rose,” written in his grandmother’s elegant handwriting, could only mean one thing.
The box contained things that related to the woman in the other room.
Glancing over his shoulder as if Rose might just materialize right then and there, Mike took a deep breath to settle the way his pulse reacted. He turned to the box and pulled it from the stack. The clutter in the room was everywhere, forcing him to step around it to reach the bed.
He placed the box reverently on the only space that was available and stared at it like something might jump out and bite him.
Why would there be a box of something that belonged to Rose in his grandparents’ house? That was strange, wasn’t it? Sure, there were several summers when both Ethan and Rose had spent time here. But he couldn’t recall a single time when Rose would have left something behind.
Shooting one last look toward the door, Mike pulled the top flap open. Resting on top of the contents was a painted canvas. The picture was of an old farmhouse, though one he hadn’t seen before. It was hyper-realistic and likely something she’d done when she was older.
Mike lifted it from the box, allowing himself to be immersed in the picture like he was there on the canvas himself. Something else caught his eye in the box and he carefully placed the canvas on the bed beside the box. There was a stack of sketches, all on separate sheets of paper held together with an elastic band. Beneath the pages were a few more canvases and some sketchbooks.
His fingers wrapped around a bright pink one with the picture of a rainbow pony on the top. A smile stole across his face as he flipped through it. Pictures of horses drawn by a six-year-old Rose filled every single page.
Time held no meaning as he continued digging through the works of art. At the bottom of the box was a professional-looking book. It wasn’t spiral bound or cheap looking in the slightest. Instead, it was bound in leather and the pages were heavier.
Mike opened the book, half-expecting it to be filled with glowing light since it seemed so special on the outside. He found sketches and colored pictures of horses, barn houses, nature, and cowboys. As he continued flipping through the book, he couldn’t help but wonder why Rose had never chased after the dream of being an artist. She had an eye most creators would die for.
As he turned the last page, he froze.
The black and white charcoal drawing was of a cowboy, but not of just any cowboy. This one was young and brooding, a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas itself. There was a sadness in his eyes, one that only a few had the pleasure—or rather displeasure—of seeing.
Mike traced over the familiar profile lightly with his finger. He couldn’t recall any memory of Rose asking him to sit for her. In fact, he knew she’d never asked him to because he would have told her to jump off a cliff. Back then, he hadn’t thought art was important. His grandmother would have gotten him with a switch if he’d said that out loud, so he’d kept it to himself.
No, Rose would’ve had to have drawn this picture without his knowledge—either from spying on him or from memory. The air in his chest seemed to leave his body, causing an uncomfortable tightening. He snapped the book shut. All these pictures, paintings, sketches—there was no reason for them to be here. He wanted to take them to Rose, but he didn’t know how to bring them up.
“What did you find?”
Mike jumped, spinning around with the book clutched tight to his chest. “Nothing,” he blurted far too quickly.
