by Emily Childs
Swallowing the heavy gulp of forbidden feelings, I know going into the realm of real feelings for Rafe will end in my heart torn into pieces at my feet. A battle every step of the way, no doubt. Folks on both sides will always be tugging at us, telling us we aren’t suited, and all that nonsense. I don’t think it’s fair, and it’s not right. And I hate it.
“You’re about as fun as a rock to talk to right now. I best be getting home anyway. I just wanted to stop by and beg you. Which I still don’t have my answer,” Dot says after a long somber moment.
“I’ll ask Rafe,” I mutter.
“Do that, girl. Call me later?”
Dot doesn’t wait for my response before she lifts her cell phone to her ear and sways out of my apartment. Probably chatting with Sawyer. When she’s gone, I let my shoulders slump. The sun is dipping beneath the horizon, and I’m fit to go crazy if I stay cooped up with all these thoughts in my head a second longer.
Snagging my purse, I head out into the Charleston sunset.
Lazily I stroll Rainbow Row, finishing off a fresh lemonade, alone. Still thinking. I’d never tire of the colorful blues, lavenders, pinks, and soft yellows of the old houses. I study the iron balconies over white rimmed windows, traipse down a few cobblestone alleyways, enjoying the way spongy moss grows in the crevices. My apartment is on the border of Honeyville and Charleston, but something about the hub near The Battery feels like home tonight. It isn’t the peak tourist season, but the walks are getting a bit tighter as the weather warms.
By the time I finish my lemonade, I’m at an impasse. One road leads me home, the other to the locals’ area, complete with greasy auto shops.
I consider for half a breath going home and changing, in case Rafe thought the same as Dot and called me racy, or maybe he’d kiss me again. I keep the blouse and flag a car, giving directions that’ll take me into the neighborhoods.
A blister is forming on my heel from walking so long on my new sandals, and I’m practically limping by the time I walk into the waiting room of Zac’s Auto Repair. The seats are over-stuffed and tattered, and the room smells of rubber and engine oil. No one is behind the desk, but through the glass windows on the wall dividing the shop from the lobby are the sounds of whirling drills and blasting metal music. I drop my shopping bags and ding the bell on the counter. Nothing. With a huff I ding it again.
“Hello!” I try.
Nothing. Well, I will be having words with Zachariah Dawson about his customer service. Trying to not limp I shove my way into the shop, nearly crying out in pain from the music. Really? Do they need to burst their eardrums every day?
I recognize the back of Zac’s head immediately. A nice, polite guy. Maybe a bit of a womanizer, but I’ve always thought Zac was ruggedly handsome and funny. No sign of Rafe. I stalk up to Zac as he enters information into a grimy computer and tap his shoulder. The man nearly splits his skin.
“Geez, Olive,” he snaps. “You fixin’ to give me a heart attack?”
“Sorry, but I’ve been ringing your weak little bell with no luck at being helped.”
Zac smirks and goes back to typing. “Yeah, I think part of me keeps it so weak so I don’t need to deal with customers. We’re about to close—do you need something looked at or are there other reasons you’ve descended to our neck of the woods?” Zac wiggles his brows.
“Funny, Mr. Dawson. As a matter of fact, I am looking for Rafe. Is he still around?”
Zac’s lips twitch like he’s trying to fight a smile. He slaps the hood of a silver car and bends down. “Rafe, you got a visitor.”
Zac turns down the radio and winks before he trades places with Rafe as he slips out from beneath the car. Be still my heart. I catch my breath; hot, scorching breath in the back of my throat. Rafe’s hair is a mess with sweat and work and man. But I have a hard time focusing anywhere but his arms, his shoulders, the way his work shirt stretches over them.
“Ollie?” He steps around the cars.
Did Rafe just scan my body?
“What brings you here?” His eyes are entirely focused on mine, but his jaw twitches like it’s difficult for him. “You look nice.”
Yes, Rafe did glance at the swooping top. I try not to be too smug about it.
“I apologize for bothering you at work, maybe I should have called first.”
Rafe half-grins and wipes his hands on a rag. “Ollie, you don’t need to call. What’s up?”
“Well, I’ve been talking with Dot—”
“Not always a good thing.”
“Oh, hush,” I say. Have his eyes always been so vibrant? “Anyway, she’s invited . . . us . . . to dinner with her and her boyfriend tomorrow night.”
“I thought Dot knew the deal with this whole thing.”
“She does,” I say quickly. “But you and I are friends, right? Dot wants me to get to know Sawyer, so I thought . . .” I don’t finish the thought. “You know, it was probably presumptuous of me. Forget about it.”
“Now, hold on. Quit answering for me before I even get a chance,” he says with a laugh. “Why are you being all flitty, Ollie?”
“I’m not flitty.”
“Whatever you say. If we go, I mean, are we under pretenses or as regular, old you and me?”
I shift, finding a new fascination in car batteries on the wall. “What would you prefer?”
Why does his smile need to be so enchanting? This is Rafe, for crying out loud.
“I say as you and me. How we’re comfortable. Unless you plan on kissing me again, then we can adjust as needed.”
Zac and the other mechanics offer a few questionable noises. My cheeks are a ring of fire. I smack his shoulder. “It was not me doing the kissing, Rafe Whitfield. You sir, are a pariah.”
“Really? Come on, Ollie, you sort of liked it.”
“I would hardly call it a kiss.”
Rafe’s eyes flash with a mischief and I feel his stare to my core. “Well,” he says, voice low. “I’ll be sure not to disappoint next time.”
I sort of wish he’d make good on that promise right here. Right now. “Ha. You’d be so lucky to get a next time. Can I count on you for tomorrow?”
“I’m in, Ollie.”
“Good,” I say with a grin and make my way to the office door.
“Oh, hey Ollie, wait.”
I hold my breath when he comes close, so I can smell the sweat and grease on his skin. But even that sends my head spinning, and I’m fully aware I’m too attracted to this man. I need to dunk my head in a bucket of ice water.
“I’ve been thinking,” Rafe says. “Maybe if we’re going to be doing this—we should talk to my mom.”
“It would be the respectful thing,” I agree.
“I’m off in twenty minutes. Want to stick around and we can go tonight?”
“Tonight—tell, Millie tonight?”
He laughs. “What’s wrong, princess? You scared of my mother?”
“No,” I snap. “Millie would rather have me than you, so just . . . hurry up, Rafe. You’re not going all grungy.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says.
I release a pent-up breath when I abandon the shop and find a seat in the lobby. Telling Millie that I’m fake-engaged to her son?
I have no idea how this is going to go.
Chapter 8
Rafe
Where she’s sitting in the lobby, her knee is bouncing like she’s going to get up and skip away. I smile. She’s nervous. I strip off my dirty jumpsuit to my T-shirt and quickly wash my hands in a sink down the hall. I feel her eyes following me, but she’s not saying anything. She’s acting weird, but then I’m not the same either.
Not after kissing her.
Because I meant it. Wanted it.
And I definitely don’t want her to know I crossed a line. She’s been through enough.
“Did you drive?” I ask when I come back to the lobby.
“No, I got a ride.”
“Well, my truck is dusty, but you’ll survi
ve. Shall we?”
I smile and hold the door open for her. Olive stalks outside, wringing her hands, and I have to fight the urge to take them. I probably could get away with it, using the excuse that she keeps fiddling with them. I don’t.
“Why are you limping?”
“Oh, I earned a blister,” she chuckles. “I walked all around Market Center. Apparently, I should do more walking.”
“No, just wear shoes. Those aren’t even shoes, Ol.” I point with my chin to the dainty little straps holding a thin piece of leather to the bottom of her feet.
“Says the man with holes in his butt pockets.”
She says, even smacks the scuffed spot on my jeans. She’s done that before, but I’ve never shuddered over it.
“Care if we stop at my place first fashionista? Since you insist I get presentable.”
“You know your mama would send you home if you showed up with grease on your chin.” She swipes a finger over a dark stain on my cheek and draws out a grin.
“That’s probably true.” I peek at her once we’re in my truck. She seems so far away, but friends don’t sit hip to hip in a truck. “I was surprised to see you, Ollie. You’ve been pretty quiet since the engagement party.”
“Well, I didn’t hear much from you either. Besides, I’ve been busy at school and getting my final project all put together before graduation.”
“You ready to be done?” I ask.
“It’s bittersweet. I’ll miss the class, but I can’t wait to be done with my schoolwork—and have my own classroom someday.”
A soft smile plays on my lips. “I’m glad you’re going to teach, Ol.”
“Did you think I’d just go to school and get a degree for fun?”
“Sometimes. Especially when you said yes to Stupid.”
“Oh, does he have a new name now?”
“It’s the only name he deserves in my opinion. Mostly I’ve been thinking about what Mr. Till said and how much it bothered you. Don’t listen to all that noise, Ollie. You could be a billionaire and I’d still encourage you to teach.” She snorts and rolls her eyes, then leans away from me. “What? Did I say something wrong?”
“How is it you can encourage me to do what I love, but I’m not allowed to do the same? You’ve been telling me to hush up about engineering since you were seventeen.”
“Alright, smarty-pants, how do you propose I find time to go to school, pay for tuition, pay my bills, work full-time, help my mama, and escort your butt around town?”
“I could break up with you.”
“You could do that,” I say. “But seeing how that would put me out several thousand dollars, I think you might be stuck with me for a minute.”
“So sign up for classes next fall—after you’re no longer Olive Cutler’s fiancé.”
The thought shouldn’t have brought such a sinking feeling. “It’ll be the same thing, just without the parties.”
“I want you to drop some of your stubborn pride for a second and consider letting me help with Millie,” she says. “I could come be with her after school, or let me help cover some equipment.”
“I’m not letting you pay a dime, Ollie.”
“Why not? Millie means a lot to me too.”
I smile at that. “I know, princess. I also know you are a beautiful optimist, thinking everyone can reach their dreams or whatever. Sometimes, though, reality takes over. I’m happy, Ol, okay?”
“Fine, Rafe.”
“You’re not going to let it go, are you?”
“Probably not. I’m sure we’ll be having this same conversation next week and until you realize I’m right.”
“You drive me crazy, Ollie.”
“The feeling is mutual,” she says as we pull up my long dirt driveway to the steel carport on the side of my house. Olive grins as she takes in the front yard. “All the broken-down cars are gone.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while since you’ve seen the place.”
Olive winces. I know she feels bad about the distance between us, but it’s not all her fault. I’ve been pulling back. Tom always caused a stir when we were together, and I hated the idea of her fighting with Stupid over me. The blow up between them after we went to Minnesota together, after she told him what almost happened, well, I kind of hoped the wedding would’ve been called off last year.
“August told me to keep them,” I say. “But I think I was embarrassing my mom. Wait until you see the living room.”
“Oh, don’t tell me you got rid of the throw-up carpet.”
“All of it.”
Olive surveys the wide, little house I call home. Inside smells like spice and coffee. The coffee because I have a caffeine problem, the spice because of her. She gave me a lifetime supply of wax warmers that smell like pine trees. I’ve sort of gotten hooked.
Three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a decent piece of land. I couldn’t pass up the short sale, and I realize all at once, even buying my house had Olive Cutler written all over it. She’d walked through the run-down halls telling me all about potential and ways to spice up the place and doing it without hardly spending a dime.
A few dimes had gone into the repairs, but I’m happy to have my own place. Especially now with my mom coming to stay with me soon.
“I like the shutters,” Olive says, looking out the large front window. “Did you make them?”
I nod. “When I’m not working, this stupid place takes up all my time. Well, get comfortable Ol, I’ll shower and be right out.”
“I’m raiding your fridge,” she shouts over her shoulder.
“I’d expect nothing less.”
I like listening to her out in the kitchen while I get ready. Feels right. Normal, even. When I come back, brushing water out of my hair, I catch Olive staring at an old picture on the side of my fridge. My stomach cramps. I didn’t know that was still there. I know what she’s studying. Me in a baseball cap, laughing, my arm around Dalia’s shoulders.
Dalia had been the woman I almost thought might help me get over the infatuation I have for my oldest friend. Blew up in my face, of course, and I think the fallout from her is why I put my guard down in Minnesota six months ago.
I blink away the memories and step into the kitchen. “You’re letting all the cold air out of my fridge.”
Olive startles and spins around. “Sorry, didn’t even know I’d left it open.”
Before she can slap the magnet over the picture again, I take it from her hand. “Must have missed this one.” Then I tear it in half and toss it into the trash.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“For what? I’m over it, Ollie. I swear.”
“Well forgive me if I still want to tear the hair from her head.”
I laugh because Olive hates smashing spiders. Not because she’s afraid of them, but because she’s not keen on hurting their feelings or something ridiculously adorable.
“Mama can have a big mouth sometimes,” I say. “She shouldn’t have ever told you anything about that.”
“You’re right,” Olive insists. “It should have been you. You deserve better than those things she said. Those conditions she gave you.”
I use my thumb to tip her chin up. I like how her breath catches, and hope she can’t see the thud of my pulse racing. “Do you understand why stupid is his name now? The feeling is mutual, princess. It took a lot of self-control not to break his nose on Sunday.”
“Yeah but you loved Dalia.”
“You didn’t love Tom?”
Olive shrugs. “I don’t think so.”
“Bless your heart, Ollie. How could you agree to marry someone if you didn’t even love him?”
“I thought I did, or at least I would learn to. Life isn’t always simple decisions, Rafe.”
I grumble under my breath and fill a glass with water. “I wish I could get you to believe you have control of your own life, Olive.”
“Beg your pardon?”
I glance out the window into my wide backyard. �
�I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like you believe if you don’t do everything your family or people at the country club expect you’ll lead a miserable life. I wish you’d see you have quite a brain between those ears and decide for yourself what you want.”
“That isn’t fair, Rafe—”
“We don’t need to get into it,” I’m quick to interrupt. I don’t want to argue. “I know I can’t understand your life, same as you can’t understand everything in mine. But promise me next time a guy asks you to marry him, you’ll say yes because you love him.”
I force a grin, hating the image I put in my own head. Going through another ring on Olive’s finger, another wedding date, more kisses by men who don’t deserve her—I’m not sure I can stomach it again.
She never cared that my family worked for hers, never made me feel less than her. Others in her circles—for sure. Beau made sure on the daily that August and I knew where we stood. I hate that their words stuck to me. Unshakable, unforgettable memories.
I wish I could believe I’d be enough to be the guy who asks Olive to be his forever. But what then? She leaves her penthouse apartment to come to my little house that needs a thousand repairs every year?
She’s too good for you. Beau’s voice, Tom’s, Bernadette’s, Zac’s, even Dalia’s. They all ring in my head like a song on repeat.
Olive Cutler is too good for a guy like me. And yet, I still want her.
***
At the nursing facility, I sign both our names on the visitor sheet before handing Olive a yellow visitor badge. Walking side by side, I want to take her hand, but Olive keeps her arms folded over her chest. Probably best.
I knock once at my mom’s door and wait for a moment before going in.
Millie Whitfield is beautiful, always has been, and I’ve despised watching her struggle these last few months. She’s a spitfire, though, and from the first day she never let any of it get her down. Already she can walk with a cane, after she’d been told she’d always need a walker. Her smile is almost straight, and her words don’t slur anymore. The most obvious deficit is her left hand a little limp at her side—oh, and she’s lost a bit of her filter, but I think that adds to her fire.