Falling For Them Volume 2: Reverse Harem Collection

by Nikki Bolvair

  “There’s no need.” I march to the door and hold it open, staring out into the night.

  He steps slowly onto the porch, and shoves a foot against the door when I try to shut it in his face. He stares down at me, jaw set with determination. “Don’t think we’ll give up so easily.”

  “Why not? You gave up easily enough last time.” I reach through the gap to shove him against the chest to get him out of the way. “And tell that brother of yours to stay away. I don’t tuck my thumb when I punch.”

  I slam the door shut, snap the lock in place, and lean my forehead against it, counting the breaths until his steps creak across the porch and down the old steps.

  My nose stings with unshed tears, and I pound a fist against the frame. Damn them. Why’d they have to come back, now?

  Book Club

  “Now, make sure you have the cookies and tea out for the afternoon book club.” Mrs. Flanagan putters around the Town Hall’s small kitchen area, taking the boxes of cookies from the cupboard, her thin arms quivering as she reaches for the molasses in the back. “They’ll be in the small conference room.”

  I step up beside her. “I can get that, Mrs. Flanagan.”

  Her head turns, and she stares at me over the rim of her rhinestone reading glasses, perpetually perched on the tip of her nose. A beaded string loops from the stems to circle her neck, and when she tsks at me, it sways. “You’re far too short, dear. The step stool is dangerous.”

  My eyes flick up to her purple curls, our only height difference, but I keep my lips clamped shut and watch her struggle on her slipper covered tiptoes to reach the box.

  When I started the job almost two years ago, Mrs. Flanagan was supposed to show me the ropes, then begin her life of leisure at the retirement home. But she always finds one more reason to stick around. This week, it’s the book club. Like Tuesday bingo, Wednesday book club has been a Port Lapton tradition since before the community center was founded. Prior to being built, it took place in the parlor of a mansion owned by one of the town founders’ families. I’m as unlikely to forget to prep the conference room for the meeting as I am to forget Sunday dinner at my parent’s house.

  “Did you read the book, dear?” Mrs. Flanagan wobbles back to flat feet, the molasses cookies clutched to her chest in triumph. She sets them on the counter next to the yellow lemon drop box before giving me another stare over her glasses. “It was rather lengthy this week.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Flanagan. I have my discussion topics ready.” I pat the pocket of my pale pink cardigan to reassure myself the notecards rest inside.

  Over the last month, my work wardrobe has transformed to mirror the old lady’s. Soon, I’ll be looking into unnecessary reading glasses. I’d hoped my new attire would inspire more confidence in my abilities to take over since she frowned so much at my previous jeans and dark sweaters, but I’m beginning to think she’ll never hand over the master keys.

  Maybe, it’s not so much my lack of ability as her desire to still feel needed.

  She pops open the first box and pulls out the sleeve of lemon drop cookies. “Fetch the nice plate, dear.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Once I turn my back, I hear the crinkle of plastic. I take my time finding our only serving platter while she sneaks her standard three cookies.

  The bell at the front door chimes, and I turn to glance out of the kitchen, surprised. We don’t usually have visitors first thing in the morning.

  I set the platter on the table in front of her. “I’ll be right back to carry the tray to the conference room.”

  “Go, go. I can take care of this.” Powdered sugar clings to her pink lipstick as she shoos me away with a wave of her hand.

  Suppressing a smile, I hurry toward the front desk, calling, “Be right there.”

  I pass the formal dance hall, opened twice a year on the solstice, or otherwise rented out for weddings and funerals. Without any events planned in the near future, the double doors remain shut tight to keep out the dust.

  The doors to the slightly smaller town hall, directly across from it, are propped open to air the room out for the upcoming town meeting. A flatbed of stacked chairs sits in the middle of the room, waiting for me to unfold and line up. Once a quarter, the mayor uses the room to make formal announcements to the town and address any concerns. The lingering ice of winter pushed out the standard meeting later in the month than normal, throwing Mrs. Flanagan into a frenzy at the change to her carefully constructed schedule.

  “How may I help you?” I ask as I come out of the hallway into the front room.

  A tall man stands near the front door, one large hand gliding over the old wheel on display, all that remains of the ship Port Lapton’s founders arrived on. His touch holds reverence, a bare graze of fingertips over ancient wood as he explores the length and curve of the spokes.

  As if he plans to stay for a while, he holds a jacket in his other hand, and shaggy dark-brown hair curls at the neck of his shirt. My steps slow, eyes drifting over the broad expanse of his too familiar shoulders.

  He turns. Soft, whiskey-colored eyes meeting mine. “Hey, Vonnie, long time no see.”

  Knees going weak, I reach out to grab the hard edge of the counter. It’s too early in the morning. I’m not ready to face another O’Brien triplet, especially not this one. Last night, when I’d met Hughe again, I thought I’d lost my ability to tell them apart. But those eyes haven’t changed, even after almost a decade away.

  My chest squeezes my voice into a bare whisper. “Davin.”

  “Glad you remember.” He tucks his dark-brown hair, longer than Hughe’s, behind one ear as he closes the distance between us to gather my unresisting body into his arms. “I’ve missed you.”

  My head tucks in against his shoulder. Beneath my cheek, the red thermal shirt smells of wood shavings and the cold of outside. Shuddering, I sag against his hard chest, allowing myself the moment to reveal in the solid band of his arms around me. Davin, sweet Davin. Always gentle. The only one I couldn’t stay mad at. If it were just him… But those who share a womb share a fate, everyone knows that, and I can’t give my heart to the triplets again.

  His head nestles into my shoulder, and he inhales deeply, releasing the breath in a hot caress against my neck. “Gods, I missed you.”

  “You could have come to see me any time you wanted.” I force myself to push out of his embrace. “I was right where you left me.”

  His arms fall to his sides, but he refuses to step back farther than the arm’s length I put between us. “I sent you letters.”

  Letters I’d refused to read because I knew they would break me. Of the three, Davin could always coax me into forgiveness.

  Crossing my arms, I tuck my hands beneath my elbows to stop myself from reaching for him once more. “Didn’t Hughe tell you I didn’t want to see any of you?”

  His soft eyes study me. “I needed to hear it for myself.”

  Because he knew turning him away in person would be far more difficult than refusing pieces of paper. I steel my spine, mouth opening, but the words stick in my throat. Under his steady gaze, I can’t force myself to speak.

  Arms hugging myself tighter, I focus on the display cabinet against the right wall instead, on the old newspaper clippings and star maps used by sailors to find their way home. I needed to do that, too. Find myself, locate my resolve. “I’d like you to leave.”

  “Vonnie, please.” Strong artists fingers curl around my arm. “Just hear us out.”

  I jerk away and step behind the counter to place a barrier between us. “I’m at work.” Staring at his shoulder, I add, “Unless you have business with the community center, you need to leave. Book club starts soon.”

  He shrugs into his patched winter jacket and walks toward the front door. “What time are you off work? I’ll come by to walk you home.”

  “No need. I have plans tonight.” I lift my chin. “A date.”

  He winces. “Vonnie...”

  “Nine years, Davin.
What did you expect?”

  “Did you even open the letters?”

  “It was a cold winter, we needed kindling for the fire.”

  He turns away from the door to face me. “But did you at least read them?”

  I hug my elbows tighter. “No.”

  Behind him, the door opens. “Excuse me, young man. Coming through.”

  Davin steps to the side and Darcy, who refuses to be called Mrs. Burke despite forty years of marriage and six grandchildren, strides inside, a thick volume tucked under her arm. Pink tinted curls poke out from beneath one of the knit hats Mom sells at the craft store.

  Darcy stops to peer up at Davin. “Well, as I live and breathe. So the rumors are true.”

  “Morning, ma’am.” Davin nods politely at the elderly lady.

  “Don’t you ma’am me, young man. It’s about time you lot came back to help out that poor father of yours.” She pokes a finger against his chest. “Why, the number of casseroles I sent over to that man after you mother passed away...bless her soul.”

  I cover my mouth to hide the disgust. The concoctions Darcy comes up with to call casseroles aren’t fit for even animals to eat. It doesn’t help that the retirement home took away stove privileges after she caught the small kitchen in her apartment on fire. Her insistence on feeding Mr. O’Brien is half the reason Mom started inviting him over every Sunday, just to make sure he ate one decent meal a week.

  My expression under control, I walk around the counter to help the old lady out of her coat. “You know, Darcy, there’s now four mouths to feed, and I can’t imagine any of the triplets learned to cook while they were away.”

  Davin straightens in alarm. Darcy’s cooking was legendary even when we were in high school. “Actually, Jameson—”

  “Oh, dear, you are absolutely right.” Darcy passes me the book before shrugging out of her coat. “I’ll send over a casserole as soon as I get home.”

  The bell chimes as the door opens once more and in marches Mrs. Moran, her straight hair cut into a short bob to hug her head like a silver helmet. Her eyes instantly fall on Davin. “Well, as I live and breathe.”

  Mrs. Buckley follows close on her heels. “What’s the fuss, Deirdra?”

  “Look who’s decided to show his face, Enda.” Mrs. Moran joins Darcy on her left side.

  “Well, as I live and breathe.” Mrs. Buckley shuffles to Darcy’s right, her blue curls bouncing. “Is that one of the O’Brien triplets?”

  Davin’s gaze shoots over their heads to search for me, eyes wide with panic. “I’ll come by again when you’re less busy, Vonnie.”

  Darcy’s hands move to her hips. “Oh, are you interested in our wee Siobhan, young man?”

  “They always did hover around her, back in the day, poor lass,” Mrs. Moran adds.

  That’s not how I remember it, but the old gossips like to spin tales to be more exciting.

  “Are you going to court her, then?” Mrs. Buckley and Darcy share a look, then Mrs. Buckley snags Davin’s sleeve. “Don’t you be buying those flowers at the supermarket. They’re not fit for courting.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Davin side steps toward the door, and the herd of women follow, offering more advice until he makes it through and flees to freedom.

  Through the front window, I see him glance back once, the relief on his face evident. Before he walks away, his gaze shifts, pausing on the plaque posted on the wall outside. I laugh until I realize I’m now the only one left for them to focus their attention on.

  With a bright smile, I lift Darcy’s book into the air. “Okay, who’s ready to discuss The Pirate Kidnaps His Maiden?”

  My Date

  “Thank you for today, ladies. Please remember to pick up your copies of Trapped by the Traveler at McNally’s Bookstop for next week’s discussion.” I set my note cards aside to help Darcy into her jacket.

  “Thank you, dear.” The older woman’s hand flutters over my arm with a light pat. “You’re doing such a good job.”

  “Yes, very good, dear.” Mrs. Buckley joins us, her copy of The Pirate Kidnaps His Maiden tucked under her arm. When she smiles, the bright white of her dentures reflect the overhead light. “I especially loved the comparison of how Captain Tierney’s distrust in women linked back to his feelings of being abandoned by his mother as a child.”

  “Inspiring.” Darcy nods in agreement, pinks curls bouncing. She hovers near the snack table, surreptitiously slipping leftover cookies into her purse. “You know, when you first took over book club, I worried you wouldn’t be able to fully grasp the depth of these stories.”

  “Yes, young people these days are in such a hurry, they only see the surface.” Mrs. Moran added. “It’s not all about the sex.”

  “Captain Tierney is a very complex character,” I agree as I steer the ladies out of the small conference room. “He has many issues to work through.”

  “Thank you, again, dear.” Mrs. Buckley links her arm with Mrs. Moran. “We look forward to next week’s discussion.”

  I watch them shuffle down the short hall for a moment before turning back to the room. The empty cookie platter needs to be washed and put away. I set it out in the hall while I stack the chairs on top of the table, then grab the platter and head to the kitchen where we keep the carpet-broom.

  With the conference room cleaned, I lock it up and head to the town hall to set up the chairs for the big meeting. As I pass the office, the quiet drone of daytime soap operas drifts out, and I poke my head in to find Mrs. Flanagan swaddled under a blanket in the office chair, feet propped up as she watches the small, five inch television on the old desk.

  I tap on the frame. “Mrs. Flanagan, everyone in the book club has left.”

  She blinks and glances away from the show. “Thank you, dear. It sounded like the ladies had fun.”

  “It was a rousing discussion.” I nod to the empty cup near her elbow. “Do you need a top off before I start setting up the town hall?”

  “That would be lovely, dear.” She frowns, long lines forming deep brackets around her lips. “Though, be careful with the coffee pot. It gets hot. I’d hate for you to burn yourself.”

  “I will, ma’am.” Her words of caution don’t even phase me anymore.

  I collect her cup and plate, head back to the kitchen to refill them, and return to gently set them on the desk once more. “I’ll be in the town hall if you need me.”

  ~

  Four hours later, I set the yardstick aside and mop the sweat from my brow as I stare at the large hall. Even rows of chairs line the room, each row perfectly distanced from the one in front of it. Fliers rest on each of the seats listing the key topics for the night. The mayor’s secretary printed them on yellow paper this time, so they pop against the bright blue plastic of the chair seats. Two long tables sit against the far wall, waiting for the refreshments that will be put out the night of the meeting.

  Before I started here, setting up the town hall fell to Mrs. Flanagan’s grandson. But with his new family, he no longer had the time to help out as often. Probably the only reason Mrs. Flanagan gave in to hiring me for the position. I was aware when I took the job that manual labor was part of it, but I never guessed how big a part it played. Dusting, sweeping, vacuuming, precise chair alignments, dusting some more...

  On the upside, I no longer grumbled so much about my own chores at home. And if Mrs. Flanagan ever signed off on my paperwork to make me official here, then I would also get to move into the studio apartment above the community center.

  Out front, the bell chimes, and I glance toward the open double doors in surprise. With the book club done, we shouldn’t have any more visitors for the day. Tourist season won’t start again until the rains slow in spring. Until then, the hiking trails are too traitorous, even for the most determined hikers. I wait for a moment to see if Mrs. Flanagan will un-ensconce herself from the office. But when the drone of daytime soap operas remains steady, I run down the hall to the front.

  “Hello, h
ow can I help you?” I call as I round the corner. I stumble to a stop, lips parting in shock.

  A man about my age stands in front of the notice board that hangs next to the front desk, hands on his slender hips as he rocks back on his sandals. His vibrant orange capri pants and lime green tank top practically glow against the beige on beige interior of the front room. He’d stand out, even without winter in full swing outside.

  At the sound of my voice, he swings around with a wide smile that broadens into a grin as his eyes land on me. “Well, hello again!”

  His platinum-blond hair registers, and I shake myself into action. “Hello... Hamilton?”

  He nods and strides forward, hand out. Overnight, he replaced his gold nail polish with a lime green that perfectly matches his outfit. “Ms. McKathry! I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon!”

  “It’s a small town, not too surprising. I’m glad to see you made it here safe.” As his icy fingers fold over mine, my gaze drops to his bare arms. “Aren’t you cold?”

  One translucent eyebrow arches. “No, are you?”

  “Well, no...” But I have a warm cardigan on, while he...I resist the urge to grab a blanket to wrap around him and smile instead. “How may I help you, today?”

  “The board there.” He jabs a thumb over his shoulder at the cork board. “Is it up to date?”

  “People come in and post what they want on it. Sometimes, they forget to take the notices down.” I shrug, and we walk closer to it. “Is there something specific you were looking for? I have some pamphlets behind the desk, too.”

  He rubs his palms together. “I need a job. Something part time.”

  “Let’s see.” I skim the flyers tacked to the board and spot one from Mrs. Allen. Reluctant, I point to it. “There’s a dog walking job.”

  “Oh, puppies! Such lovable creatures.” Hamilton reaches for one of the tags at the bottom of the flyer with the address attached, but I touch his elbow to stop him.