Rachel, Out of Office

by Christina Hovland

  “On the rocks”—he held the shaker—“or in a blender? I should’ve asked that first.”

  “Do you know how to use my blender?”

  “I bet I can figure it out.”

  “I don’t know. It’s one of those special Pampered Chef ones that can make soup or margaritas or whatever blended concoction you want as long as you press the right button.”

  His eyes heated with an intensity Rachel hadn’t felt from a man in…wow, it’d been a while, huh?

  “Then I’ll make sure to press the right button,” he said.

  “Let’s go with the shaker kind.” Rachel decided immediately.

  Travis Frank seemed to maybe, might be, hitting on her with margaritas, and those dimples, and that grin. And she was tired. And her boys were out for the night. And sometimes if she squinted while he was talking, he kind of looked like a superhero version of McConaughey.

  “Thank you,” she announced when he started mixing. “For the margaritas.”

  Yes, she was thanking Travis. Miracles could happen. It couldn’t have been the tequila, because she hadn’t had any yet, so probably just fatigue.

  She wasn’t positive, but she was pretty sure that as he squeezed a lime into the container, he said, “You’re welcome.”

  Life had exhausted her, and she had the night off and Travis Frank was making her margaritas and then she was going to sleep. She was going to sleep the hell out of this Friday night.

  …

  Travis

  Fun fact, Rachel was a lightweight. One and a half margaritas and she was an open book.

  “My mama told me it was inappropriate to bring beverages of this sort to a child’s birthday party,” Travis said, holding up the remnants of his first, and last, margarita in a mock toast. “I take her guidance on social customs as gospel.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You should bring margaritas whenever you want.” Rachel’s face filter had dissolved about halfway through her first margarita, so she looked appropriately appalled.

  He held back a smile. Tipsy Rachel was a hoot.

  “When, precisely”—she waved her fingertip in a circle—“did you first read my sign?”

  “I don’t know.” His southern-boy senses prickled, telling him he was about to get in trouble. He itched at his collar. “Probably around the time you put it up.”

  “That sign has been there for two years.” She set her margarita on the coffee table to more fully talk with her hands. “You’re telling me, I could’ve been having these margaritas this whole time?”

  Well, yeah, he supposed so.

  He nodded.

  “You should always read the signs and do as they request,” she said on a huff, falling back against the sofa cushions. “When you’re driving in traffic, you don’t just not stop because your mother told you the signs are optional.”

  No, he always stopped. She had him there.

  “You know, every time I come over, I do shut the front door.” He ran his thumb along his bottom lip. “As requested by that sign there.”

  That got him a full Rachel smile.

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You know that Mama has lots of thoughts about lots of things.”

  Rachel glanced to the ceiling, flopping her arms to her side. “She ruins everything.”

  “It’s her gift,” he replied, his lips twitching at Rachel’s margarita-induced melodramatics.

  The television murmured low in the background, the only light in the room coming from the screen—some show about houses that Rachel had turned on—the hallway, and the small bulb over the stove.

  This, this was nice. She was Rachel. There were no expectations. They were friends. Maybe. Maybe they could be friends. Stranger things had happened that day—Gavin had even apologized.

  “I’m coming to the lake,” Rachel declared.

  He had a feeling that she was half-past drunk and into blitzed territory, but he was a gentleman, as per his mama, and didn’t say anything about that. Also, he’d provided the liquor, so it was his responsibility to ensure she didn’t do anything too ill-advised that night.

  “I heard,” he replied. “It came through on the family text chain. Mama is thrilled.”

  When his mama was thrilled, everyone could breathe a little easier.

  “I have to get work done, so I’m going to need your help,” Rachel said. “Dave’s, too.”

  Wait. Hold the fucking phone. Did blitzed Rachel ask for help? This was good intel. Still, sober Rachel probably wouldn’t want his help, so he’d need to tread carefully. “Figured as much,” he said. “You know we’ve got you covered while we’re there. You can get all caught up.”

  Rachel laid her head on the pillow, and her eyes started to drift closed. He didn’t say anything further, instead watching the show she’d left on the television. Now some beefy guy was attempting to build a house.

  When he’d glanced back at her, she was snoring softly with her hands up under her cheek.

  It was adorable.

  Shit.

  Was he allowed to think of Rachel as adorable?

  The woman was made of steel. The wind tried and tried to blow her life over, but she held steady. She was a force of her own. The problem was, he had a hunch that if the wind got too strong, she’d need a net to catch her if she blew over.

  He wasn’t sure that she had that net, and that made his chest ache. He’d been able to fuck up all the time when he was younger because he had the Frank family safety net.

  Maybe if she didn’t try so hard to do everything herself, she’d see that there was a ready-made group of people happy to catch her in her life.

  He couldn’t quite say what came over him, but he reached for the green, fringed blanket folded over the arm of the sofa and covered her with it.

  “Rach,” he whispered softly. “What’s the code for the door so I can lock up?”

  He could’ve texted Molly for it, or Dave, or Gavin, but he figured it was easier just to see if she was awake enough to answer.

  She was.

  She did.

  Then she settled again.

  He set his hand against the blanket covering her back and smiled. Then he frowned. Gavin was such a jerk. He’d had this. Had her.

  He’d let it slip right through his fingers.

  Travis shook his head. Everyone always said Trav was the jerk of the family. And, sure, maybe he’d earned that title. But it was his “responsible” brother who let his family slip through his fingers.

  Travis sauntered into the kitchen, washed his glass, and fixed up a full pitcher of margaritas for Rachel.

  He left them in the refrigerator with a note: Read the sign lots of times, apologies for the delay.

  Because that was the truth.

  Chapter Seven

  “If you don’t feel like you are screwing your kids up at least once a day…you aren’t doing this mom thing right!” — Letitia, California, USA

  Rachel

  The one constant in Rachel’s life over the past nine years had been change.

  Change in her relationships with her family—her parents hadn’t been happy she decided to move to Denver permanently so the boys could be closer to their dad. Her siblings hadn’t been thrilled, either.

  Change in her body—the postpartum phase should’ve lasted a few months, she figured, but eight years in and her metabolism was still messed up.

  And change in her goals—it used to be she wanted to be a big shot like her brother Jack, work in a Los Angeles high-rise, and make lotsa money. Now, she settled for her own personal office under the staircase, the kitchen table, sometimes even her bed…wherever her laptop took her.

  Life changed. Things flowed in different directions. She got that, embraced it most times.

  But Travis bringing her margaritas? Yes, she wo
uld embrace it because they were delicious.

  She could admit his margaritas were better than hers.

  However, they’d spent time together last night like friends. Like she was hanging out with a male friend. A male friend who showed up late with an extra helping of five o’clock shadow that sometimes made her tummy flip and…other things.

  That could not happen again, because if it did she might start to feel things more than a tummy flip, and she didn’t have time for more than a tummy flip. Especially not with someone like Travis. If she was going to have tummy flip time with a man, he needed to be a helluva lot more stable.

  Filled coffee mug in hand, she opened the refrigerator to grab milk for her coffee and cereal. She stilled.

  Travis had left her a whole pitcher of margaritas.

  With a note. In bold handwriting slashes from a black ballpoint pen in all capital letters, he apologized for not bringing cocktails sooner.

  What did she do with that?

  Her lungs released a shaky breath.

  Yes, life changed, but would it really be so hard for it to freaking at least try to fit into some semblance of the design she endlessly had to adjust?

  The alert chime on her front door beeped.

  She looked up.

  “Just us,” Molly said, letting herself in and striding through the living room to the kitchen with her son Oliver. “I came early to help you clean up.” She pulled the tablet from her purse and handed it to Oliver. He grinned like it was Christmas morning, since Rachel happened to know that Molly was stingy with screen time.

  Which was odd, if you asked Rachel, given her profession as a MyTube personality.

  Sunday mornings were for their “special” working mom meeting at the neighborhood park. Special because they all brought mimosas. Also, the moms each owned a business of some sort, but this was not a work meeting. This was a let-the-kids-play-while-the-moms-catch-up-on-all-the-things-that-happened-that-week meeting.

  Oliver settled on the sofa and Molly turned her focus to Rachel standing in the kitchen.

  She paused, probably because the kitchen was clean. Not just after-party-exhausted clean, but Rachel clean. And Molly knew Rachel well enough to know that after the party she’d have crashed and left the details for the next day.

  “Did the house-cleaning, margarita fairy visit your house last night?” Molly eyeballed the half-empty remnants of Rachel’s last-night cocktail. “Or do you have a new best friend you forgot to mention?”

  “How could I possibly replace you? You’d never allow that.” Rachel grinned.

  “So it was a margarita fairy,” Molly said.

  “Yes. Well, mostly.” He’d cleaned up after himself and even used the special spray that Rachel liked because it smelled like lavender.

  Not that he’d known it was her favorite—it was the only cleaning spray in the kitchen—but what kind of guy even used cleaner? Didn’t they usually just go for a wet paper towel and call it good? Or was that only her experience?

  “He?” Molly’s eyes turned to slits. “Like a mystical man creature who fills your cup with cocktails?”

  Well, that was one way to put it.

  “Something like that.” Rachel poured a dollop of milk into her coffee.

  “Who…” Molly placed both palms on the counter, totally serious. “Is he?”

  “Pretty sure he’s like the Tooth fairy, and he’d prefer to stay anonymous.” Rachel shrugged.

  Molly pursed her lips like she did when she was thinking too hard. “Was it Dave? I bet it was Dave.”

  Rachel poured cereal into a bowl. “It wasn’t Dave.”

  “Gavin?” Molly didn’t seem certain about this guess, but she tossed it out anyway. “Did Dakota keep the boys so your ex-husband could bring you drinks because they realized they take advantage of your awesomeness and therefore don’t deserve your goodness?”

  Rachel sipped her coffee. Fine, she chugged her coffee. “Travis.”

  She wasn’t good at keeping secrets. Why would she in this case, anyway? Molly needed to help her dissect why he’d returned after everyone had left. Why he’d come bearing gifts. Why he’d cleaned up the rest of the kitchen when Rachel fell asleep. And why he’d covered her with a blanket before he left. Why? All the whys?

  “Travis?” Molly stared. “Is this a joke?”

  Rachel gave her head a slight shake and said, “Have I ever joked about Travis?”

  Molly’s mouth fell comically open, then she used the back of her hand to push it closed. This was Molly and her flare for dramatics and propensity toward slapstick—both of which made her MyTube channel so popular.

  “Stop, it’s not a big deal.” Rachel spoke with certainty. “He felt bad because I’d had a rough week.”

  Molly lifted the cocktail from where Rachel had set it beside the sink. She examined it.

  “That’s from last night. I wouldn’t—”

  Molly took a slug of the cocktail.

  Clearly, Molly had no issue with day-old cocktails first thing in the morning.

  Her eyes widened, nearly as soon as the margarita had hit her taste buds. “Travis gives good margarita,” she said.

  He did.

  “He left a full pitcher of them in the fridge.” Two hands around her favorite yellow FiestaWare mug, the big kind that held a solid two cups of Joe, Rachel nodded toward the refrigerator.

  Molly marched across the kitchen, flung open the door, and if her eyes were wide before, this time they got so big, they resembled that of a Molly-inspired dragonfly. She closed the door, turned, leaned against it, and said, “Marry him or I will.”

  Ha. No.

  “I’m not getting married.” Again. Ever. Done that. Hated it. Wouldn’t repeat.

  Rachel did try to learn from the mistakes of her past, the marriage one being a biggie.

  Even if she considered it, Travis would absolutely not be in contention.

  “Well, we’re taking this with us to the park.” Molly grabbed the pitcher from the shelf and immediately started rummaging through the cupboard, pulling out Rachel’s stock of to-go coffee cups one by one. “Who needs Sunday morning mimosas when we have Sunday morning tequila?”

  Rachel sat at one of the kitchen barstools and ate her cereal while Molly ransacked the cupboards for travel mugs.

  “Works for me,” Rachel said. “I need it out of the refrigerator before the boys get back this afternoon, anyway. They’ll think it’s punch and that won’t end well for any of us.”

  She shivered.

  Molly gave the pitcher a stir and dumped the liquid into the waiting to-go cups she’d already, and very efficiently, filled with ice.

  Rachel hurried to finish her cold cereal and warm-ish coffee so they could head to the park and Oliver wouldn’t have to wait.

  She glanced at Oliver lounging on her sofa. He’d been born around the same time as her boys—a few months earlier. The difference? Molly and her ex had never even tried the marriage thing. Once Ollie was born, his dad disappeared, and Molly sued him for substantial child support. She won and never looked back.

  She also never seemed quite content, despite all of her theatrics.

  If anything, Rachel guessed the theatrics hid how badly Molly wished she could find a someone to love.

  Rachel did not have that same desire. She had two boys to shower with adoration, and that was enough.

  “Let’s roll,” Molly announced after she’d loaded the travel mugs into a cooler with wheels Rachel kept in the pantry.

  Placing her bowl in the sink and rinsing it before loading it in the dishwasher, Rachel grabbed her park bag, and they headed out.

  Chapter Eight

  “If you have a belly button, you’re entitled to mistakes.” — Kat, Ontario, Canada

  Rachel

  “Oh my gosh, this is amazi
ng,” April announced, holding up the stainless-steel travel mug as though they were holding royal court. “Did he sprinkle these with some kind of special margarita man-candy dust that only hot guys have access to?”

  Sometimes she’d bring yoga mats, but they definitely didn’t do yoga. No, they’d all sit on them while they drank mimosas. It was way more fun.

  “He’s not a hot guy.” Rachel sprawled out on the blanket they’d laid on the grass, turning her head to focus on the clouds in the blue Colorado sky above. Fine, he was a hot guy. But she was trying desperately not to fixate on the curl of his hair, the muscles in his arms, the way he filled out those cargo shorts…

  “Uh.” April waved her hand in the air over Rachel’s face.

  Rachel turned her head to her friend.

  “He pretty much is,” April said slyly. “Don’t tell Kent I said that. Actually, you can. We’re secure in our relationship.”

  “I have to agree with the hot thing.” The newest member of their mom brigade, Sadie, was not actually a mom, but she was awesome enough to join the brigade nonetheless. With a tawny complexion from her mother’s Venezuelan roots, black hair, and a seemingly unflappable warmth in her eyes, Sadie had become a regular at their Sunday morning mom meetings. “You can tell Roman I said that, too. He’ll probably agree if you show him a pic of Travis.”

  “Gahhhh!” Rachel tossed her arm over her eyes. “Travis is just Travis. He’s not allowed to be hot Travis.”

  Rachel flopped her arm back to the side, staring up at the clouds again.

  Sadie appeared in the view above her. “It’s okay if you find a man attractive. You know that, right?”

  “Travis is not a man. He’s Travis,” Rachel muttered.

  This got her a Sadie smile. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

  The other moms all allowed a bending of the rules of their Sunday mom group to accommodate Sadie’s attendance because, first of all, they never wrote down any rules. They were all pretty flexible about the whole thing. And second, Sadie was a ton of fun and an attorney.

  Everyone knew a mom group needed at least one attorney and one medical professional. They were still on the hunt for the medical professional.