She knew Sage had been part of Howie’s problem. Sage took priority in Rose’s life, and she hadn’t been available to Howie on a whim. She’d sensed his irritation that she was a mom first. A mom to a special-needs child who had spent four years of his life rocking in a corner until blessedly a speech pathologist had broken through to him with sign language. Words had flowed afterward, an avalanche of sounds he’d been withholding because he hadn’t known what to say or how to say them until that light had shone through the crevices, and the comprehensive IEP she’d had to fight for with his school was only helping him blossom more.
But when she wasn’t a mom, who’d been knocked up by a guy who’d danced her up at a club—man, she’d used to love dancing—she’d been a student, determined to make it in life, determined to pull herself up by her bootstraps so that her family would know that all their sacrifices had been worth it. She’d grown up fast when she’d held that positive pregnancy test, and Howie had gotten the grown-up version of Rosalinda Morales, not the irresponsible, young, naïve version.
Grief. Such a personal dragon to slay, she thought, letting her mind meander back to Toby, who was now clinking around in his kitchen judging from the echoing of faucets running and cabinets closing as her students tramped outside again. She should know. Except her grief was one helluva kind. Her mom was still alive and had been wrenched away through no fault of her own.
She walked across the polished flagstone and stepped down into the cavernous great room filled with old cattleman charm as if Stephen F. Austin might walk out from around the corner any minute.
“Wow,” she whispered, her voice bouncing off the rafters.
The windows across the back wall were tall with a full view of the mountain. The stone hearth shot a straight line up to the open ceiling, and the luxurious suede couches were adorned with immaculately folded Navajo blankets. Little touches polished the rustic charm: a bronze statuette of a cowboy on the range beneath the windows, and was that an original Frederic Remington hanging over the fireplace?
She hopped off the step and walked over to the mantel to take a closer look, glancing into the open kitchen to see Toby’s tall frame bumbling around on wide, old-fashioned floor planks. Yup. Remington’s signature. Holy hell, Toby’s family was loaded. And then she saw a framed photo at the opposite end of the hearth. She walked the few paces to it. A family photo. Toby, the tween, was obvious with his sandy-blond hair. Two teenage boys were in it as well, both opposite of him with dark hair and dark eyes. But they all bore the same facial structure. Color their hair the same and they might pass as triplets. His brothers? And there, in the center, was their mother, their father behind her with his hand on her shoulder. Smiling. Happy. The urn now sitting on the side table contained this vibrant lady.
“I made coffee, if you want some.”
She turned around at Toby’s baritone voice.
“Not for that jackass Howie, but you and your crew can help yourself. Sugar’s in the bull.”
Mortification stifled the chuckle that threatened to lob from her throat at the remark. Toby had overheard Howie’s cutting remarks? She strode toward him, hopping up the step into the kitchen.
“I’m really sorry about that. I don’t know what his problem is, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t oversee the lab analysis here—which will tick him off. He loves to mess around on the computer or the app he created for his dissertation. I can have him focus on field work or mentoring, or—”
“Don’t apologize for him.” Toby’s chiseled face softened an increment, and his lips turned up into a smile. “I am kind of a prick, or at least, that’s not the first time I’ve been called one. Certainly been called worse. But usually only by people who have reason to dislike me. In case you can’t see it, he thinks I’m a threat.”
“A threat to what?” Her eyes widened.
“He likes you, and he thinks I’m a burr in his saddle.” Toby shrugged, backtracking into the kitchen again as Rose’s students tramped back over the threshold, another foldout table in hand. She followed him. If Howie felt threatened, it meant he thought Toby liked her, too.
“You guys an item?” he continued.
“Yeah, I’ll take Hard Negatives for a thousand, Alex,” she replied, that bitterness having not just rolled up her throat but now spilling from her mouth.
He gave her a cursory glance and looked away again. But she could already see where this was leading. Was Toby putting off vibes of interest? There was no denying that even with sleep-deprived eyes and hair that could use a comb, Toby Dixon was one attractive specimen of man. She and Toby had hit it off famously in a way she rarely did with anyone these days. Was what Toby implied true? That Howie still liked her? That would explain his ridiculous efforts at friendship these past few years.
She crinkled her brow and followed. “Howie made it clear that I wasn’t important to him.”
Now Toby cocked an eyebrow, turning to give her his profile over his shoulder, then pulled down a mug for himself and ladled in a scoop of sugar from the bull before pouring in the liquid magic. Now she saw what he meant by “bull.” The sugar bowl was a sculpture of a bull—its head, the lid. Even his kitchen accessories, in this culinary master’s dream of a kitchen decked out in farmhouse cabinets, dual ovens, a six-burner range embedded in an arch of stone, and sleek granite countertops, screamed rustic charm. Elegant, shabby chic. Earthy. And plain old-fashioned moolah.
“You actually gave him a chance?” Toby snorted. “What, did he regale you with his knowledge of Disney movies?”
She couldn’t help chuckling, shrugging. “No to the Disney. Howie couldn’t care less about kids, but yeah, I guess I did give him a chance. He didn’t give me one, though. It’s not like my heart was broken.”
“Did you give him the somethin’ somethin’? You know, rock his world?”
“None of your business, Mister Hot-Pink Bra in the Back Seat of Your Compact Car,” Rose replied, heavy on the snark. “What was she, like, seventeen?”
A laugh exploded up Toby’s throat. And dare I believeth mine eyes? Rose blinked, but no, her eyes didn’t lie. She saw a hint of blush creeping up his neck. He deliberately stirred his coffee, regaining his composure, before responding again.
“Negative to the underage. That’s gross.”
“Eighteen. Sorry.”
He smirked. “And ‘compact car,’ eh? Beast gets downgraded from truck to SUV to compact car in the span of twenty minutes. Nice. Just so you know, my Bronco never forgives—or forgets—those who insult his manhood.” He rounded on her, leaned his fine little ass on the counter, and held his cup reverently between his hands to take a sip. “And Blond Chick didn’t get so lucky, besides. I remain as pure as the virginal, white snow.”
Rose coughed at the bluntness, then made a straight line for the coffee mug cabinet beside him. Yes, she was blushing at his crassness. Virginal, my ass. Toby had said he was what, thirty? Thirty-one? Yes, thirty-one. Two years older than her. She bet his maiden voyage had sailed well over a decade ago.
Toby didn’t move, his broad, lanky frame—all limbs and whiskey scented—filling the space in front of the coffee pot. He watched her with an amused smile as if daring her to touch him, looking down his perfect nose and face she now realized was littered with a few tiny scars. Probably from brawling.