Southern Girl Series: Bohemain Girl, Neighbor Girl & Intern Girl

by Cates, Georgia

  Freaking. Priceless.

  Mr. Thorn tugs on his wife’s hand. “Come on, my beautiful girl. Let’s show these kids how it’s done.”

  Oliver’s mother uses her free hand to touch my arm. “In case we don’t get to talk later, it was lovely meeting you, Adelyn.”

  “You, too. And I’m serious about that rain check.”

  “Look forward to it, darling.”

  I can’t not smile as I watch the Thorns take the dance floor by storm.

  Oliver reaches for my hand and tugs. “Come on, my beautiful girl.” He’s repeating his father’s words to be funny, but they still turn me into a puddle on the floor.

  I’m still grinning when we find a spot on the floor. “Entertaining, right?”

  More than entertaining. “Your dad is so sweet and romantic.”

  “He’s good to Mom but no better than she is to him.”

  “Still madly in love. The world sees too little of that today.”

  “I’m glad they’re still in love but sometimes they act like teenagers going at it. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Aw. I think it’s wonderful.”

  “It’s not wonderful when your friends are spending the night and they can hear your parents’ headboard slamming against the wall.”

  I burst into laughter, and he pulls me against his chest. “Okay. Done talking about that.”

  “Dear Trouble” by Correatown is playing. The song is slow and perfect for being pulled close and moving together. “This is a nice song. Good for slow dancing.”

  Oliver’s hand is low and tight on my back as he leads me in a slow sway. “I’d like to ask you something.”

  People don’t usually say things like that unless the question to follow is a hard one. And that makes me nervous. “Okay. Ask away.”

  “Have you dated since Martin?”

  Oliver and I have been hanging out for several weeks. He knows my deepest, darkest secret about the man who abused me, and I’m curious why he’s only now asking me this question.

  “I’ve been on some dates but not many.” All four were disasters. “I’ve not had a relationship since him.”

  “Because you’re not interested?”

  I’d love nothing more than to find someone to love and spend my life with. But I’m sort of fucked up in the faith department after nearly being killed by a man who was supposed to love me.

  “Relationships require trust. I placed trust in the wrong person once, and it did not serve me well. It’s a lesson I won’t soon forget.”

  “How long since you’ve been on a date?”

  There would be some math involved if I tried to figure it out. “A long, long, long time. What about you?”

  “I was in a relationship three years ago with a woman I loved very much. I was only days away from asking her to be my wife when I came home early and found her in bed with another man.”

  Ho-ly shit. What the hell was wrong with her? Oliver is kind, generous, funny, and sexier than any man I have ever known. What a stupid woman.

  Her loss. My gain.

  “I can’t imagine what that felt like. It must have been brutal.”

  “Huge kick to the gut. And balls.”

  “I bet.”

  “I placed trust in the wrong person once as well. And I feel like I need to be really honest with you about where my head’s been the last few years. It’s not the most upstanding place it could have been.”

  He worries I’m going to think he’s dishonorable? Me? “Have you not yet figured out that you can be honest with me and I won’t judge?”

  “I wasn’t in a good place after Eden’s betrayal. I went through a lot of booze. A lot of women and meaningless relationships. Do you remember the drunk woman from the restaurant when we met for lunch about tonight’s event? She’s only one of many. I did other things, too, which don’t make me very proud.”

  I don’t love hearing how he went through women but it’s his past. And he’s being honest with me about it.

  “You placed your trust in Eden, and she betrayed you. You had no choice but to put caution tape around your heart and not allow anyone in.”

  “I love how you get me.”

  “I love how you get me.”

  I lean in and press my face to his chest as we sway because I’m afraid he’ll see too much if he looks into my eyes.

  Warm breath hovers above my ear and I erupt into chills. “Would you consider going on a date if the right person asked?”

  I bite my bottom lip and suppress my smile against his chest. “Maybe.”

  “What would it take to be the right person?” His voice is low. Tantalizing.

  “Well… he’d need to be kind and considerate. Respectful of me and my many boundaries. Trustworthy. Handsome would be a plus.”

  Oliver takes a step away from me, and I’m no longer able to hide my face against his chest. “Am I any of those things to you?”

  “You are all of those things to me.” And more. So much more.

  “You make me laugh. Smile. Feel.” He pauses for a brief moment. “I like being with you. I like who I am when we’re together. I like… you.”

  Admitting feelings like those is a scary thing. But Oliver did it, not knowing what kind of reaction he’d get from me. He is handing over his trust to me. It reminds me of the leap we took when we confessed our secrets to one another.

  I have the same feelings for Oliver. He makes me laugh. Smile. Feel. I like being with him. I like who I am when we’re together. I like him. But admitting those feelings may be even more frightening than sharing my secret. “I like you too.”

  “I have a wonderful family, great friends, a successful business. But my personal life is an empty shell. I want that to change, but I worry too much has happened. I’m afraid I’m incapable of the things a relationship requires.”

  It’s as though he crawled into my mind and extracted those words from my brain. “We like each other. We like being together. Maybe we just go on a date and not worry about all the other stuff?”

  “I’d like that. Does Saturday night work?”

  I rarely have a free Saturday. It’s the price of having a successful agency. “I have an event. With my line of work, I’m usually tied up late Friday evenings until the end of the event. Sometimes they’re two and three days long.”

  “I didn’t want to wait a week anyway. Let’s do it tomorrow night.”

  That’s very soon. And exactly what I want. “Okay.”

  “Whatever you want to do, I’m in. Name it.”

  A normal first date typically involves dinner in a restaurant. Maybe a movie at the theater. Boring.

  I don’t think normal or typical fits Oliver and me. Our unfortunate life experiences have seen to that. “I have an idea, but I don’t know how you’ll feel about it.”

  “I’m open to whatever you want.”

  I don’t know about that. “Maurice performs at a club on Sunday nights.”

  Oliver’s brow wrinkles. “What kind of club?”

  “Exactly the kind you’re thinking.”

  “Oh. What kind of act?”

  “He sings. In drag. While impersonating Whitney Houston. He goes by Wet Me Houston.”

  Oliver tells me Lawrence is unconventional so he’s used to different. But Maurice is… Maurice. I highly suspect Oliver’s never experienced anything like him.

  “It’s all very over the top. Sequined dress. Wig. Dramatic makeup. Boobs. But he’s incredible. It’s an a-ma-zing show.”

  Oliver looks unsure. Or terrified. I can’t decide which. Madame Dragonfly’s establishment could be a little much for a first date. I don’t want to push him into something that’ll make him uncomfortable, but I am an eclectic person and this is part of me. Supporting my biggest supporter.

  “I understand how all of that could be awkward for you. We don’t have to go there.”

  Oliver exhales deeply through pursed lips. “Maurice is important to you. He’s your friend, so yeah. Let’s do
it.”

  “Really?” He isn’t all in. I can feel it in his tense posture but he’s doing it anyway. For me.

  “Absolutely. I’m sure it’ll be a blast.”

  “The show starts at nine.” I’m thinking I should surprise Maurice on this one, so telling him isn’t going to happen. “Want to come over to my place for dinner first? Maybe have some homemade pizza?”

  “Only if you let me help.”

  Cooking together. That should be fun.

  “Only if you bring the beer.”

  “I think I can handle that. Thick or thin crust?”

  “Thin.” I snap my teeth. “I’m a texture girl. I like crunch.”

  “Me too. Red or white sauce?”

  “Depends on my mood.”

  “I like both.”

  “I make a really good margherita or a roasted artichoke and spinach on white. Sometimes, I add grilled chicken to that one. There’s no rule that says we can’t make both.”

  “I vote for both. You know how I love to eat.”

  The man can shovel it in. “I sure do.”

  “If I’m not careful, you’ll put some pounds on me with all your goodies.”

  “Why do you think I go around giving all of it away? I gained ten pounds when I started baking and it took four months to lose it. It comes on way easier than it comes off. It’s one of the worst therapies anyone can have. I don’t know why I couldn’t get the itch to clean or something like that.”

  “The baking bug bite is far gentler than the itch to use your fists.”

  Oliver told me about the incident with his father, but he didn’t mention anything about fighting being an ongoing problem.

  Huge fucking red flag.

  “Physical violence is your outlet?”

  “No, Adelyn. No. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant at all. I train with a boxing coach. A punching bag is the only thing to ever feel my aggression. Never a woman.”

  He said he itched to use his fists. His words.

  “Look at me.” He holds my chin between his thumb and index finger, guiding my face so we’re eye-to-eye. “Never. Not once have I ever hurt a woman. Tell me you believe me.”

  This is important. I can’t afford to be wrong again. I can’t afford to believe lies. I can’t afford to fall for a man who will hurt me.

  But Oliver won’t. I sense it in everything about him. “I believe you.”

  The song ends and he’s still holding my face. His thumb skates across my bottom lip. “The only reason these lips should ever be swollen is because they’ve been kissed long and hard.”

  I instinctively lick my lips.

  Kissed long and hard.

  Those words do so many things to my insides.

  “I could go for some of that.” And so many other things.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Adelyn, but Michelle needs your help in the back.”

  Dammit to hell. I think he was going to kiss me.

  I sigh, gathering patience before replying. “I’ll be right there.”

  Oliver releases me. “Duty calls.”

  “Duty calls with extraordinarily bad timing.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll finish this when we have all the time in the world.”

  Yes, we will.

  7

  Oliver Thorn

  Entering Adelyn’s kitchen, I hold up a six-pack in each hand. “I come bearing beer.”

  “Nice but I think we’ll be tanked if we drink all that.” Her eyebrows lift toward her hairline as she laughs. “Or is that part of the plan because of where we’re going later?”

  I think Adelyn is far more worried than I am about the drag club. Sure, I wouldn’t choose to do something like that on my own, but I’ll go for her. “It’s for fun. I’m cool with it.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way. I think you’ll be surprised by how entertaining it really is. It’s like Miss America meets Broadway meets Cirque du Soleil minus the acrobats. Very theatrical.”

  I place two opened beers on the island before putting the rest in the fridge. “I brought a new kind for you to try. Saison.”

  “I’m going to be a beer expert before too much longer.” She takes a drink and nods. “It has a nice flavor.”

  “I thought you might like it. The carbonation is high and the essence is fruity.”

  “You’re getting to know my taste buds pretty well.”

  I don’t know her taste buds nearly as well as I’d like, but I plan to know them—her tongue, mouth, and lips—a lot better before tonight is over.

  I survey the ingredients lined up on the island. “No Chef Boyardee crust, huh?”

  “Nope. We’re making these bad boys from scratch.”

  I slap my hands together. “All right. Let’s do this.”

  Adelyn holds out a measuring cup and container of white powder. I guess she’s instructing and I’m doing.

  “First lesson in making a thin pizza crust. Use bread flour. It makes it crunchier than all-purpose.”

  She shows me how to level the cups of flour with a straightedge knife and then watches as I dump them into a large mixing bowl. “Good job. Now we’re going to add the kosher salt, sugar, and yeast.”

  A light dust of white spins into the air when she briefly turns on the stand mixer. “Just giving that a little twist to mix the dry stuff before the wet goes in.”

  Adding the water and olive oil, I watch as the powder transforms into a gooey ball. “Are you sure this is going to make two pizzas?”

  “It’ll be twice as big after it rises.”

  She’s an experienced baker. I should know better than to question her. “Right. Because of the yeast.”

  “We can work on our sauces while the dough does its thing.”

  Adelyn guides me step by step through mixing, sautéing, and simmering both pizza sauces. “I can see where cooking could be therapeutic.”

  “It’s sort of a roller coaster for the thought process. It can require a lot of concentration one moment and then you have a lag where your mind can run free.”

  Adelyn tastes the red sauce and then spoons a sample into my mouth. “Needs a wee bit of salt?”

  “I think so too.”

  She tosses in the white granules and then tastes again. “Perfect.”

  “A watched crust doesn’t rise. Let’s go out back and put our feet in the pool while we wait.”

  I’ve been expecting an invite to swim for a while. Submerging my feet from the steps isn’t exactly what I had in mind. “You don’t use your pool much.”

  Her face swivels so she can look at me. “How do you know?”

  No need in pretending I don’t spy. “I peek over into your backyard.” A lot.

  “I don’t get to use it as much as I’d like since summer is always a busy time for the agency. I’m tied up most weekends.”

  “I understand you want your business to be successful, but you need to take time to enjoy life. And this pool is killer.” I can’t imagine having something like this twenty feet from my back door and not using it.

  “I’m gone a lot during the day but I swim at night pretty often. Guess you don’t see that.”

  Well, hell. I hadn’t considered that. But I probably couldn’t see anything anyway. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Technically, I guess it’s called skinny-dipping instead of night swimming.”

  Damn. She’s in her backyard naked, and I had no idea. “Well, that’s just cruel to tell me that.”

  She laughs. “It’s liberating. You should try it.”

  “I’m still waiting on my invitation.”

  “Wanna go for a dip tonight after we get back from the club?”

  Fuck. Yeah.

  “Sure.” I try to play it cool but I’m as excited as a sixteen-year-old boy about to get his first feel of some tits.

  Her tits. I’m gonna get to see them. Hell, I’m gonna get to see it all.

  “Do you have a nickname?”

  “My friends and family call me Addie. Super creati
ve, right?”

  “Doesn’t fit your personality to me. I like Max for you.” Short for Maxwell.

  “Max?” She smiles as she nods. “Yeah. Way better than Addie.”

  “And way better than Ollie.”

  “I like Ollie but it feels like your sister’s special name for her little brother. And Oliver feels like it’s reserved for Iron City people. You have a great last name so I’m going with that. You’re Thorn.”

  Thorn. I’m okay with that.

  It’s odd how a name dictates so much of your life and molds the way people perceive you. It’s been a source of trouble for as long as I can remember. “At least my first name has made a comeback. People name their poor babies Oliver all the time these days, but it was not a cool name to have twenty-five years ago. And it was not cool to be the scrawny, stinky kid who lived in a trashy trailer park. You can’t even begin to imagine how badly I was teased by the other kids at school.”

  “Kids can be so cruel sometimes.”

  “Adults too.”

  I used to ask my classmates at lunch if I could have the food they didn’t eat. I would take it home for supper. Until Mrs. Patterson made me stop. She claimed I was bullying the other kids by making them give me food from their lunch trays. She told me if it continued, I would be punished. I never understood why she did that. She had to know I didn’t get enough to eat. I couldn’t have bullied a fly if I tried and she knew that.

  “Do you know where your parents came up with your name?”

  I haven’t told this story in a while. “Christie, my birth mother, had a drunk uncle who offered her one hundred bucks to name her kid after him.”

  Adelyn looks like she may laugh. Until she sees I’m serious. “Nooo.”

  “I shit you not. His name was Lawrence Oliver Jackson. He was named after Laurence Olivier but his mother was a dumbass and spelled both names wrong.” Not the brightest bunch of people. And I’m genetically tied to them. Damn.

  I strongly believe nurture overpowered nature. Otherwise, Lawry and I would be just like the McCollums instead of the Thorns.

  “Lawrence was lucky enough to get his first name. I got the leftovers four years later, which he apparently thought was worth less money since Christie only earned a measly fifty dollars for giving me that name.” Fifty fucking bucks for being his namesake for a lifetime.