Rosemary Farrell Novels & Stories

Too quiet. The smell of coffee drifted through the air warm, rich, the kind that should’ve felt like comfort. But the sight that greeted me turned it sour. Rosemary . She was humming softly, sleeves rolled up, her hair tied back with a neat ribbon like she’d been living here her whole life. The counter gleamed. A plate of pancakes rested on the island Liam’s favorite kind. Her back was turned, but the moment she heard my footsteps, she whirled around with a smile too bright to be real.

She started wagging her tail and jumping up and down. I swear I just heard her say 'Mate' but that's impossible. Second chance mates didn't exist, and we just rejected our Goddess given mate. But then, the most amazing smell hit me, even more mouthwatering than when I smelled Mason. It smelled like Whiskey and Chocolate. That mixture was breath taking. Aunt Tara noticed me sniffing the air. "Alex, what's wrong?" She asks. As soon as her last word left her mouth, he door slammed open with such force, I thought for sure it was going to fall off the henges. What I saw in front of me left me speechless. A man in his twenties, 6'11, covered in tattos with short kept black hair, and the most beaut

Someone asked, I couldn't even tell who that was because I was beginning to zone out again. He's outside! He's waiting for me. "Six years? I can't really tell." Another person said. Exactly! It was six years. Six years of my endless suffering from Ilay Lermontov. "I love this rose candle. It smells just like Easton." Someone giggled, the sound was beginning to irritate me. How can they be making joke about this when I was literally dying inside? "Maybe we should change his name to Rose. Make sense?" Someone said, and that was Ryan.

“Rosie's your daughter?” Henry asked, glancing at my Mum. She nodded, brows furrowing in confusion. “Rosie Alphonse?” Mum's eyebrow rose up a fraction. “You…” she paused, eyes moving from me to Henry. “Do you know each other?” “Of course,” Henry said, with a slight smile. “Rosie was my student at Harvard College…. Remember,” he pressed. “The one I told you I was a Professor at, three years ago.”

The speedometer pushed past eighty, and the scenery outside blurred into streaks. I stared at the bleeding bead of wood, my whole body cold. Before my grandmother died, her withered fingers had gripped my wrist as she rasped, "Maya, this rosary keeps the harm away. A broken bead is a warning. If one ever cracks off, no matter what you're doing, don't look back. Run as far as you can." I had always thought it was just mountain superstition.

"Eloise did work my butt off but it was worth it. She might be ice cold but she respects me and was very kind to help me grow my connections." Tamara scoffed, rolling her eyes at Rosie's always kind attitude. "She was cruel, Rosie. Nevertheless, I am insanely proud of you." Some of Rosie's artwork was going to be displayed in one of the local art galleries. It was a big moment for her, a huge step in her career. Technically, the first big move into the start of her promising career. "Th-" "Amour, is your cousine here?" The door to Rosie's apartment opened. A tall and handsome french man walked in, his accent thick but beautiful. He was holding a bouquet of flowers in his hands.

As if my conscience was telling me to stay away from that man. Ever since the tragedy happened, my body had turned into an alarm system that would give me signals whenever something was wrong. “Mr. Serratore…” I repeated his name, and it was the first time a simple name caused me fear. “Yes. I’ve also heard of another artist who has also performed on stage in Palermo, right there, but also on other stages around the world and I’m very intrigued to meet her. You might even get to interview her once you find out her identity, of course. They call her Cello Clare. She’s the masked cellist.” Pierre spoke enthusiastically, running his hand through his soft hair. But for me it was too much to take

My voice was hoarse. He shifted awkwardly, words caught on his tongue. The aloof, untouchable man everyone knew was, in truth, a shy boy. Finally, he came forward, slipped off his jacket, and draped it gently around my shoulders. "I was worried about you," he murmured, blushing. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a video message from Sarah. I opened it and my pupils shrank sharply. On screen, George and Sarah were undressed, tangled in bed. Sarah faced the camera, smiling with triumph and mockery. Beside her, George's profile appeared—his fingers tracing the beauty mark at the corner of her eye, his expression steeped in intoxicated pleasure.

Perhaps he had not loved me for a long time now. It was my fault for never noticing—for stupidly believing that true love would never die. Now, Lara smiled as she leaned against the doorway, purring so softly her voice could melt anything, "I heard you made pasta. Can I have a bowl? With minced ginger, please. My cravings are really terrible these days." "You've got it," John grinned lovingly. "Who would spoil my baby if not me?" Still, he soon paused when he inadvertently noticed the black roses outside. "I'll tell the gardener to uproot those flowers. They remind me of Claire's disgusting face—I don't want them to hurt our eyes!"

I refused without hesitation, "There's nothing to talk about." Shayne's eyes fell on the roses in my arms, and he was visibly irritated. "There's something I need to ask you." After a moment of thought, I handed the roses to Julian. "Could you put these on my desk for me?" "Sure." … I sat in a cafe, with Shayne sitting across from me. He ordered a cup of coffee, while I ordered juice. He didn't speak right away. Not bothering to prompt him to talk, I sipped my watermelon juice slowly. It tasted great—not too sweet but just right.