The moniker was a little cheesy, but also endearing, coming from Eddie. “I don’t mind—if you mean it.”
“Oh, I mean it.” He scooted aside to make room for her. “You’re definitely a babe. Also a goddess, an angel, a full-blown rose, a sexy vixen, a hot, horny she-devil…”
Snuggling beside him, she dissolved into giggles. He’d found her sweet spot, all right. Starved for praise, she basked in his flattery and, for now, allowed herself to believe he meant every word.
“Handsome, good in bed, and a killer vocabulary. What else you got?”
“Let’s see.” He pushed back her hair and nibbled her ear. “You smell delicious, your voice is like a sexy alto sax, your eyes are full of mischief, your pussy is a cave of wonders, your skin is an art museum…” He sighed and drew her head onto his chest.
She felt his heart thudding beneath her cheek and thought she might die from loving him so much.
What? She fisted the sheet.
“Too much?” Eddie toyed with her hair, oblivious to the panic clogging her throat. “Okay, I’ll back off. You’re pretty cool, Rosie.”
She unclenched and rubbed a slow circle over his chest. “You’re pretty cool too, Eddie.” And you smell good, and you feel good, and you’re so beautiful, and you scare the shit out of me. But running off now would ruin their chance of seeing where this surprise connection could take them. Too late to safeguard her heart. She was already in so deep that leaving would hurt, no matter who ended it, or when. So she closed her eyes, stroked his warm skin, and let sleep claim her.
Chapter Ten
Eddie pulled to the curb in front of Rosie’s house, a neat little one-story of dark clinker brick with juniper hedges and a soggy winter lawn. When he opened his car door, a cloud of pirozhki-scented steam billowed in the icy air.
Rosie had answered his text about her latest interview with a curt —No luck. Story of my life— so he zipped across town to the Russian deli on Center Street in search of edible comfort. When someone he loved was hurting, his first instinct was to drown their sorrow in calories. Must’ve learned that from his mother.
Last night’s surprise had him floating ten inches above the ground all day, but it would be weird to declare his eternal devotion this early in the game, especially when Rosie was so skeptical about their chances. Better to corral his runaway feelings and stick to the plan he’d carefully sketched out in his notebook:
1. Get to know her interests and history and quirks.
2. Set up some normal dates. Wrangling time away from the dry-cleaning shop would be tough, but leapfrogging over the usual courtship stuff had rattled Rosie. Time to back up and prove his sincere interest in her as a person, not just a fuck buddy.
3. Sexytimes. Because damn! Their passionate connection was definitely chipping away at her “just friends” armor. As Dedka always said, you get the job done with the tools at hand.
Before pressing the doorbell, Eddie sucked in a steadying breath. The first impression he’d made on Rosie’s mom was hardly ideal—panicked and bleeding all over the floor. He had to do better this time.
Ms. Callas opened the door, barefoot but otherwise still in her teacher clothes. Crisp, professional, no-nonsense. If it weren’t for her dark curly hair, curvy figure, and olive complexion, he’d have a hard time believing this woman was Rosie’s mother.
“Hello, Eddie. Nice to see you.” She gave him a quick up-and-down glance with eyes just as sharp as her daughter’s. Behind her, a travel show flickered on the TV and stacks of papers covered the coffee table. Tweed sofa and armchairs, family photos on the walls, brick fireplace crackling—all very middle-class bland. No clue that someone as extraordinary as Rosie shared this house.
“Hello, Ms. Callas. Rosie’s expecting me.”
“Diana, please.” She gripped his hand and pursed her lips in cool appraisal.
Bet she intimidates the hell out of her students.
He held up the greasy paper sack. “I brought her pirozhki. There’s extra in case you want one.”
Finally, she cracked a smile. “No thanks, hon.” She patted her curvy hip. “I’m still working on my Christmas pounds. Better go knock on her door. Once she sinks into a drawing, she loses track of time.” She inclined her head toward the hallway. “Third door on the left. You can’t miss it.”
Indeed he couldn’t. While the other doors were unadorned dark wood, Rosie’s was painted magenta with a swooping cursive R trailing flourishes and stars. Did she have a tattoo like that? He still hadn’t conducted a complete inventory. He made a mental note to remedy that.
Woo-woo electronic music drifted through the door, along with a high-pitched buzz. He knocked and waited. No answer. At his second knock the buzzing stopped, and Rosie opened the door. Hair gathered in a messy topknot, leggings and baggy sweater skimming her curves, she looked—drained, he decided, her face pale, lips bare of their usual scarlet, eyes a little puffy. Fixing this was going to take more than greasy snacks.
She gave him a weak smile, wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered, “Hi” against his lips.
“I brought pirozhki. Sure-fire cure for a shitty day.”
“You’re the best, Eddie.” She released him. “I’ll go get some plates.”
While she went to the kitchen, he checked out her room. Drawings covered a wall of cork tiles. An antique-looking rug in deep reds and blues held a dragonish creature in the center. On her desk, ceramic cups and beer mugs overflowed with colored pencils and markers. More art supplies lay scattered on a small table beneath the window. Twinkle lights and strings of mirrored stars and moons dangled from the ceiling. Her bed was barely visible beneath a mountain of throw pillows in satin and velvet. Giant potted palm in the corner. Happy, colorful chaos—totally Rosie.
She returned with a tray and set it on the table. “Lemme just clear this
