Love Her or Lose Her (Hot & Hammered #2)(52)

“We were all at a church potluck down the street.”

The women—young and old—traded nods.

“We received your text at the same time, collected our dishes, and piled into our cars.”

“Swiped this green-bean casserole right out from under the pastor’s nose,” one of them said, setting off a chain of laughter. “The poor man was mid-scoop.”

“This is more important,” said Candy, the woman who ran an artisanal-cheese-and-wine shop in town, making her a local favorite among, well, everyone. “We want to help.”

“Rosie,” called an older woman with a green wool cap—Melinda, if Rosie wasn’t mistaken. “Are you going to kiss that man or not?”

“We already—” Rosie squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh God.”

“What’s going on?” Dominic asked, his breath tickling her ear. “Fill me in.”

Forming coherent sentences when Dominic’s powerful body was heating her like a furnace was not exactly easy, but she forced the words out. “There’s a new man in town. His sister ran off, her husband followed . . . and he’s been left to care for their child.”

Dominic’s brows drew together. “You said he’s new in town?” Rosie didn’t have a chance to question the dawning realization in her husband’s expression before he spoke again. “Everyone is heading over there to help out, huh?”

Rosie nodded.

“Including you.”

“No.” She shook her head. “This is supposed to be our night.”

“That’s why I’m coming along.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “I’ll push the reservation a couple of hours and we’ll eat afterward.”

“Really?”

His exhale bathed her mouth. “Not going to lie, I want you alone,” he said. “But I can tell you’re only going to be half with me. I’d rather wait until you’re all here.”

“How dare you show up looking this good. Saying things like that.”

He opened his mouth to respond and closed it, his forehead wrinkling. “Should I stop?”

She lifted up and kissed him softly, heat radiating from her face when a cheer went up from just beyond the kitchen. “Does that answer your question?”

“Rosie,” Candy called, turning Rosie’s head. “My two dishes were already reheated once. Are they safe to freeze and heat up again?”

Rosie surveyed the offerings. “Is there meat in that lasagna?”

“No, ma’am. I wish there was,” Candy replied. “Those damn vegetarians have infiltrated the church and—”

“Yes, you can reheat the lasagna. No on the pork dish, though.”

Rosie started to turn back to Dominic, but Melinda tapped her arm. “How would you portion this? I’d say there’s enough for three nights, if we stretched . . .”

“Um. We can mix and match a little, but we should use the more perishable items first. Here, let me get something to take notes. Everyone, line up your dishes.” Rosie was torn between wanting to leave and feeling really amazing that the women seemed dependent on her advice. Her . . . leadership. For a woman who’d been ignored on the cosmetics floor of the mall for years, being seen as relevant was like a breath of fresh air. One she couldn’t help but suck down, letting it stretch her fingers as she picked up something to write with. “We’ll need kid-friendly meals, ladies. Who makes the meanest macaroni and cheese?”

Several hands went up.

Rosie smiled and clicked her pen.





Chapter Sixteen


Christ, could these women put away booze. Dominic had been allowed entry into a secret society where women swore like sailors and objectified men. It was goddamn enlightening, to say the least. Every once in a while, Rosie threw an apologetic glance over her shoulder at him, but it was completely unnecessary. He could have stood there all night and watched her run the show. Even as he marveled over the woman he’d married, however, he couldn’t help but feel distinctly out of place. Not only because he was the proverbial fox in the hen house and stood out like a red ink blot on a white shirt. But because, for the first time, he was seeing his wife through a different set of eyes and realizing . . . she’d grown. Without him.

He’d had nothing to do with it.

Dominic opened Bethany’s fridge and took out a bottle of water, uncapping it and drinking deeply. He would have much preferred a beer, but he wouldn’t have even one knowing Rosie would be in the passenger seat of his truck. Rosie, who was now writing out a recipe for chicken Parmesan with one hand, tracing out a new spreadsheet with the other—all while having a full conversation. This was the same woman he’d passed in their silent house, day after day. All the while, she’d had these amazing capabilities.

She should have been running that restaurant years ago.

God, maybe . . . she should have left him years ago.

“Hey.” His wife turned to him, her eyes bright with exhilaration. “Hey, um . . . there’s a big Tupperware container of carbonada in the fridge. Oh, and some alfajores on a plate on top of the microwave. Could you help me put them in the truck?”

“On it.”

“Thank you.”

She started to say something else, but several people began talking to her at once, hijacking her attention. On the way out of the house, with his arms full of food, he couldn’t help but pause in the doorframe and take in a wide shot of the scene. Everyone was getting ready to pack up and move out, and Rosie was doing the same, Bethany and Georgie helping her pile supplies like napkins, paper plates, and plastic forks into a bag. He could easily see her doing the same thing in a bustling restaurant, knowing exactly what everyone needed to make their dining experience fluid, better, because it was second nature.