Free Run Rosie Run by C. C. MacKenzie

mind.
    They say the Universe sends a person a little nudge in the right direction. If you don’t heed it, the Universe sends you a push, then it throws a stone, then a brick, ever increasing signals until it stuns you with the reality of your situation.
    Well he was stunned now all right.
    How was it possible for a man to go through his entire life and not actually see someone?
    He knew everything about Rosie.
    He knew what made her tick. She was generous, loyal and giving. She was full of fun with a naughty sense of humour. He frowned. But she was also a stubborn, bad tempered, moody little witch at times. For years she’d driven him crazy. And he absolutely adored her.
    Christ!
    What to do?
    The words she’d used to describe him still buzzed in his brain.
    She would only have said those things if he’d hurt her in some way and the thought made him queasy.
    She was so very angry with him.
    He’d heard it in her voice, her tone.
    She’d been downright nasty too and that was so unlike her. Why?
    For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single thing he’d done to her that would make her behave like this.
    Women had never been a mystery to him. His reputation was a good one. He liked them as a species. He liked how they tasted. He liked how they smelled and how they felt under his hands.
    He’d never knowingly hurt a woman. He’d never hunted for sex in his own backyard, that would have caused too many complications. The locals regarded him as someone who would marry a society beauty, someone from his own class. He’d no intention of doing anything of the sort, but he’d been happy to play along with everyone’s expectations and to take the easy road. He’d permitted people to make assumptions about him. Now his conscience asked him if that wasn’t simply another sort of lying?
    There was no way he could just waltz up to Rosie and say,
    ‘Hi, baby. Guess what? You’re all mine!’
    She’d tell him to go straight to hell and rightly so.
    Not once had he ever given her a hint of his feelings.
    And Bronte? What would she think? His sister would be happy if he was happy, he knew that. But this was Rosie, and Rosie was closer to Bronte than any sister. They were joined at the hip.
    What if he had a relationship with Rosie and it ended in disaster?
    There were no certainties in this world. If anyone knew that, he did. And he’d used stubborn pride and determination to cover the open sore of betrayal and disappointment, the legacy his parents had left him. But there was no point in digging over old dirt. It had almost killed him, the loss of every single thing he’d held dear, but he’d moved on.
    He’d kept moving ahead, one step at a time, that’s how he’d survived.
    Looking back he realised he’d sought Rosie out again and again. He couldn’t seem to help but drop in on her regularly to make sure she was okay, that the business was okay.
    Temper spiked again when he recalled the way she’d said he was nearly forty. Bloody cheek. He was thirty-five. Did she really see him as too old? Seven years wasn’t much, was it? And he’d never used face products, apart from soap, water and cologne.
    His temper went up another click.
    He’d give her wax.
     
    The car purred to a halt outside her home.
    Rosie decided she’d deal with Alexander when he came to collect Julie’s cake. She’d apologise and hope that would be the end of the matter.
    Desperately trying to ignore the fist of guilt twisting in her gut, she turned to Josh with a tentative smile.
    ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’
    ‘I would love to.’
    Hand in hand, fingers lacing together, they strolled up the path to her front door.
    The wine they’d shared at dinner had given her a nice little buzz.
    This was comfortable and easy Rosie decided as they entered the house.
    And she didn’t complain when Josh grabbed her and leaned back against the door, his hips taking their weight.
    His mouth found hers as expert hands skimmed down her