Dear Roomie (Rookie Rebels #5) - Kate Meader Page 0,80
but that was then. That was the physical connection they shared and this—this was something entirely different.
They arrived at the entrance to Edie’s room and stepped inside. “He should be okay here while we hang out.” She unhooked Bucky’s leash and hung it on a hook inside the door. Before she could say bingo, her back met the door and she was covered by a hard-bodied hockey god.
“Hi,” he murmured before capturing her mouth with his.
She moaned, loving the taste and feel and weight of him. The gravity that was Reid.
“Is this weird?” he asked after he let her up for air.
“Necking in the bedroom of a senior living facility? No, not at all.”
He rubbed his nose against hers. “I don’t want to interfere with your special time with Edie.”
“No, it’s fine. I’m glad you’re here.”
She loved that he was making such an effort with someone she cared about—it said a lot about the man. She was used to making casual friendships on her travels, and this had the potential to be anything but. She felt safe, grounded, and desired with him.
Two of those three things terrified her and neither of them involved lust.
He pivoted, taking in the room. “Now, Bucky, be a good boy and no climbing on Edie’s furniture.”
Bucky lay down on the rug and went perfectly still. He’d come such a long way.
Reid picked up a photo of Edie and Papa John. “Is this your grandfather?”
“Yeah, he was a Chicago firefighter, but he died before it happened.” She found him watching her closely. “Before the fire.”
“Holidays must be tough for you, ma belle.” He put the frame down. “When’s the last time you spent one in the US?”
“Six years. It’s not hard to find some ex-pat deep-frying a turkey on a beach somewhere. I haven’t gone without.”
His look was searching, grave. “What were they like?”
She blinked. “My parents?”
He took her hand and sat her down on Edie’s bed. “Just curious to know about the people who made this beautiful girl before me.”
Oh, wasn’t that lovely. She took a breath and waited for the pain to wash over her. Sometimes it snuck up on her with the scent of gardenias, her mother’s perfume. Sometimes it was a short, sharp shock with a glimpse of a dead politician on TV and her father’s voice ringing clear as a bell in her head. That guy’s a crook!
For now, the ache stayed at bay.
“Mom—Libby—was a high school teacher. History. She loved to garden and paint—I inherited none of her talent.”
“The watercolor by your bed. That’s hers.”
“Yes, it is. When I saw that Calla lily in the pot, I couldn’t believe it. It’s the same flower. Did you buy that?”
“At the garden center the night before you stayed over the first time.” He looked diffident. “To make the place more welcoming.”
It had worked. Her mother’s favorite flower, the subject of the one thing Kennedy had saved from the flames, was waiting for her in Reid’s guest room like a sign from the universe.
“She was also a good cook.”
“You got that from her.”
“I did!” She laughed, remembering those days at her mom’s side in the kitchen. “My Dad, or Benjamin—and he preferred the full name, no Ben or Benny—was a poli sci professor at IU. Indiana University in South Bend. He was a big fan of seventies TV, donuts, and embarrassing me in front of my friends. John F. Kennedy was his hero.”
“Hence the name.”
“Yep. When I was mad at him for something, I’d yell that JFK was a mafia-loving philanderer who almost caused World War Three with the Bay of Pigs invasion. How dare he name me after that loser?”
She’d completely forgotten that and the memory was like a whiskey dram of warming nostalgia to her heart.
“A little more intellectual than the usual teen rebellion.”
“Yeah, it was. The dinner table was never dull. A history teacher and political science professor with a kid named Kennedy. We had a dog, too—Peanut, because Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer before he was president. Dad thought Carter was ineffective but a good palate cleanser after the Nixon-Ford debacle. His words. Peanut was always wedging himself under the sofa. Such a dummy.”
“So, you’ve been a dog person forever.” His hand stroked the inside of her palm, such a comfort.
“I have.” Of course, if Peanut had made it out, her dad wouldn’t have gone back in to find him. All because Kennedy had made a fuss about her best friend. Why had she done that? Crying about