“Sorry, I saw you sitting there and just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she rushed out. “I mean, I know you’re not okay, but—”
“Thank you.”
She nodded, hovering. Why didn’t she know what to do with her hands when he looked at her? And why did she want to hold him again when she should just walk away to let him grieve? “Do you want to talk about George, or is it too soon?”
A small smile surfaced as he leaned against his car. “Not too soon. George helped start our program ten years ago. He’s funny, cocky, a lot like Chen. He made OrbitAll the company it is today.” His smile faded as he slumped against the driver’s door. “His death is my fault. I shouldn’t have let him leave. I should have offered him more money, more anything, to get him to stay.”
His pained, pinched face struck her heart. Rosie stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him in a hug. His muscular arms closed around her waist. She exhaled against his neck and thought she felt him shiver.
“Is that fair?” she asked softly. His large hands on the small of her back felt lovely.
“Probably not,” he replied after a pause. “He wanted to be closer to his family.”
“Understandable. Family is important.”
She felt his head shake. “For some people. For me, OrbitAll is most important.” Tate’s voice vibrated in her own chest. He dropped his hands from her waist, trailing a finger and his gaze up her arm; mindlessly or intentionally, she didn’t know. She took a step backward. His aqua-amber eyes pierced her. “What’s most important to you, Rosie?”
“Truth. Trust,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Then trust me when I tell you that you helped me today. I’m glad you were here. I’ve been glad since you first walked into the hangar.”
Rosie’s heartbeat accelerated. Grief lived in his eyes, but so did truth. And desire. Fire flooded through her body at the swirl of emotions in his eyes. Desire had found her, too.
Tate reached a hand toward her slowly, silently asking if he could touch her again. She recognized that the connection wouldn’t be for comfort this time. No, he wanted more. Rosie met his fingers with her own. He pulled her closer at that same agonizing pace, giving her ample opportunity to pull away. She didn’t.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she came to a stop against his hard body. What was she doing? She didn’t let men close to her anymore. She didn’t even know Tate. But she couldn’t concentrate on what she didn’t know or didn’t do as his arms brought her closer. She did know that he was stroking her hair mid-back and the sensation was driving her wild. She knew how high the fire inside her was climbing from his closeness. She felt singed yet safe. That’s what Rosie knew.
“Thank you for being there for me earlier,” he whispered. “Thank you for being here for me now.” She felt his breath on her jaw seconds before his soft lips and rough stubble met the sensitive skin of her neck.
A sigh escaped as she leaned into his mouth. Rosie’s chest arched into his, and her grip on the back of his shirt tightened. Heat pooled low. The kiss was chaste, brief, but it changed her.
He gently released her, running his hands down her bare arms. Rosie stepped back to stare into his perfect face, floored by what felt like an awakening. As if something dormant had been coaxed back to life.
8
Tate went straight from Seattle-Tacoma International Airport to his storage unit in Seattle’s SoDo district. Spring had sprung in Washington, but he barely noticed the late June foliage as the Uber driver navigated them through town.
The trip to Florida had been as hard as he’d expected. Wendy, George’s widow—Tate still choked on the word even in his mind—had been nearly inconsolable. She had clung to Tate and sobbed and said exactly what he’d been thinking: She wished George hadn’t left OrbitAll. But what Rosie had pointed out held true. George had never wanted to be an absentee grandfather; he was a hands-on man with lots of love to give. None of Tate’s offers had tempted him, but he didn’t want to add to the family’s guilt. He stayed for a few days, empathized, paid for the funeral expenses, and promised to visit.
At the gate of the nondescript storage facility, Tate entered the key code into the call box and headed inside. The facility was quiet. He seemed to be the only customer retrieving personal items that afternoon. He pulled the key out of his carry-on and shoved the unit’s door to the ceiling. The sight of his black-on-black Mustang greeted him. Another newer model. The only other items in the unit were two sets of clothes: one casual, one business.
He pulled the Mustang out onto the drive aisle and locked the unit door behind him. His cabin was forty-five miles northeast, nestled along the Skykomish River. He knew he’d spend the entire drive thinking about the noise Rosie had made when his lips had connected with her skin. He preferred daydreaming about her over thinking of George or his bereft family.
Rosie had sent a follow-up email, too. She hadn’t mentioned the fact that Tate had kissed her without permission the second time they’d ever seen each other. No, Rosie had shared that in her hardest times, the Harry Potter books had helped her through.
The admission had taken him entirely by surprise. If Tate had been worried that there was anything artful about Rosie Flynn, architect and stunning redhead—and he hadn’t been—the fact that she found solace in Harry Potter would have convinced him otherwise. He’d ordered the set immediately and had them shipped to his cabin.
He should not have kissed his architect. He knew better. But she’d soothed the dark, lonely place that had cracked open when George had died. Her words, the feel of her, had filled in his broken pieces. He didn’t know why, since they barely knew each other. He also didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that knowledge. With her. With the “legacy over love” motto hanging over his head.
Maybe a few days in the cabin would give him a clue. God knew he needed cool, tree-swept air, a dark sky full of stars, some solitude, and a giant fucking scotch with Donovan. His neighbor was a man who could turn any dark situation brighter.
Fifty minutes later, he pulled onto the fir-lined dirt path that served as the driveway to his cabin. His shoulders dropped and his heart lifted as the simple A-frame home came into view. The place wasn’t much. One bedroom, single bathroom, small kitchen, and a loft. He had shown up on an empty plot of land eight years ago with no idea how to execute the plans he’d printed from the internet. Over those eight years, the entire Case family had pitched in to help. Jennifer cooked, Donovan and his two boys built and bullshitted, while Maisie, their youngest, helped, too. She was handy with a hammer. They’d finished the deck, his favorite feature of the house, summer before last. Many an idle hour had passed there, a luxury for someone like him.
He killed the Mustang’s rumbling engine, grabbed his bag from the trunk, and headed straight to the deck. The sound of birdsong and rushing river filled his ears. Tate closed his eyes and inhaled. His bag dropped from his hand. For a few glorious minutes, all he did was breathe.
When he let thoughts creep back in, he realized he was fucking starving. All the food in the pantry would be expired by now. It had been eighteen months since he’d last visited. Eighteen months since he’d even checked in with the family next door. Still, maybe Jennifer would take pity on him and ask him to stay for dinner.