“You don’t like accepting things from people, do you?”
“What was that?” Rosalie continued her act of distraction.
“You feel weird when people do stuff for you.”
Rosalie blanched. “Is it that obvious?”
“It’s extremely obvious. But it’s okay,” he added swiftly. “Everybody’s got quirks.”
The food arrived with its tantalizing aromas of melted cheese and garlic marinara. Maxie and Remi dug in while Nick’s window for conversation with Rosalie opened wider.
“I’m still recovering from a bad divorce. The way our relationship was set up, he was always in the driver’s seat. I was younger and I didn’t know any better. He gave me things, but he took away things too. Then he left us. I don’t like relying on people.”
Nick considered himself a great listener, but he sucked at advice. Not only had he never been married, his most serious relationship had been with Desiree, Maxie’s mom. That fiasco was an on-again, off-again nightmare lasting for an entire year. What right did he have to say anything about Rosalie’s marriage?
“That sounds rough,” he mumbled. What else was there to say?
Like a book, Rosalie snapped closed as promptly as she had opened. “Forget it. Sorry to make it awkward. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“No, it’s alright. I don’t mind you talking about it. I just…I wish I had something better to say. I’ve never been married.”
“You’re not missing out on anything.”
“But I am a father, and…” Nick glanced to Maxie and Remi coloring with carefree abandon. “And I don’t get how any man worth his salt could ever leave his child behind.”
“I don’t understand it either.”
The residual hurt spasmed across Rosalie’s features. Her teeth raked over her lips. Her jaw clenched. Her lashes lowered as her eyes did, gaze cast on her relatively untouched pizza slice. The immediate urge to bring a smile to her pretty face surfed through his now feverish pulse.
He wanted to cheer her up.
No.
He needed to cheer her up.
“Whoever he is, you’re better off without him,” Nick said adamantly. “Anybody that’ll leave you like that isn’t worth it.”
The utmost corners of Rosalie’s lips twitched. “Thanks for the pick-me-up. I’ll call you next time I’m stuck on the past.”
“Who said bosses can’t be therapists?”
He meant it as a joke. Rosalie laughed it off. She finally took a bite out of her pizza. The girls kept coloring, crayon in one hand and a double cheesy pizza stick in the other. Everybody was clueless as to the fast speed of Nick’s pulse. The slow churn in his stomach. The realization that he didn’t think he could deny a second longer.
So maybe he had a crush on Rosalie Underwood. His employee. It was inappropriate. It was unexpected. It was wrong.
But it was harmless.
It had to be.
Chapter Seven
Rosalie came home to a stack of real estate books on her bed. The books were the most obvious hint yet from Ma. Since she arrived in St. Aster, she had largely avoided her company. Her schedule thankfully gave her the excuse she needed.
The books felt like bleak invaders. Remi kicked off her buckled Mary-Jane shoes and bounced around the room, hyper from their dinner with Nick and Maxie. She had no clue the hundred-page books on Rosalie’s twin bed were like coming across a burglar in their home—if a small guest bedroom could be considered a home anyway. Rosalie inhaled for a good breath, but came up short.
She supposed the real estate books bothered her because it was a sign their room was not safe. It was under Ma’s roof, a ten-by-thirteen-foot space she had unlimited access to. She had spent her first week in St. Aster thinking she could stall about the real estate license. Even though she understood it was likely her best option. Any time she thought about alternatives her mind blanked.
Her choices were waitressing at Ady’s Creole Café or following in Ma’s footsteps and earning her real estate credentials.
Ma said she could get her a job. Show her the ropes. Teach her what she knew. Rosalie ignored the fact that their past track record was a poor one. She was eight when Ma tried to teach her her times tables. That was a failure. Fourteen when Ma tried to show her how to apply eyeliner and mascara. Another attempt that bombed. Sixteen when Ma gave her driving lessons. The instruction ended in a hostile mother-daughter fight. They weren’t good together, defective as mother and daughter no matter their age.
Rosalie pushed that miserable truth from her mind. She had to think beyond her strained relationship with Ma. She had to think about Remi and the stability she needed. Stability required funds. Funds weren’t earned at a café on the brink of going out of business. Long-term-wise funds were earned from solid careers. Ma’s real estate job was just that.
Besides, the last time she disobeyed Ma’s advice, she ran into the arms of Clyde. Obviously her own judgment was lackluster. Ma knew what was best. She never did, which was why she was back at square one. Back in St. Aster as the cursed failure she had proved herself to be.
Remi bathed and changed into her jammies. She played with her dolls for another hour. Rosalie sat by the window and peeled open the first book off the stack. The text was small, arranged in paragraphs of run-on sentences that produced yawns out of her. She managed three pages before she tapped out for the evening. She wasn’t the only one yawning. Remi’s head started to fall forward, nodding off.
“Time for bed, baby.”
She tucked in the five-year-old and flicked off the light. Left no choice but to leave the room so that Remi could sleep, Rosalie gathered her toiletries and headed into the hallway. She didn’t want to go downstairs. Ma and Henry were down there. She could drag out her shower and nightly bed routine for the next hour. If she went to bed any sooner, she would be up at the crack of dawn.
“Did you see the books?”
Rosalie stopped in her tracks. Ma materialized out of thin air, rounding a corner so fast Rosalie hadn’t first noticed. She hugged her sweats, loofah, toothbrush, and toothpaste closer to her chest, and gave a mechanical nod. Ma eased closer, mouth stretched in a pinched smile.
“I spoke to Mr. Hebert at my agency. He says we can get you in for the pre-licensure course in six weeks.”
“That seems so…soon.”
“A month and a half away? It’s not soon enough,” Ma said, patting her on the back. Her hand prodded Rosalie forward so that they fell into step side by side. “You don’t have time to waste at that café. You said it yourself—it’s a pigsty going out of business.”
“I was being dramatic.” Rosalie’s guilt poured in as a roiling sensation in her stomach. She had forgotten what she’d said about Ady’s Café. Her slip of the tongue was just that; brief frustration she mistakenly expressed over the phone to the wrong person. She and Ma stopped outside the hallway bathroom. “It’s not the worst job. Besides, tomorrow we’re going to start revamping the café.”
Ma’s brows arched and she said, “Did Nick Fontaine finally get tired of doing squat?”
“It’s a project. We’re going to make the place look better.” Rosalie’s vague answer was her cue to exit. She flashed a smile and retreated into the bathroom. On the other side of the door, the soft pad of Ma’s footsteps died out.