CHAPTER 7
Olivia
“ I ’ve got this, babe,” Lucy, my shop manager, says as I grab my purse to head to my house.
My store is ready for the day. We just finished stocking some new crochet maxi dresses.
I tend to curate the store based on what I like, which are soft color palettes and neutrals for everyday wear.
My staple is what I’m wearing now: a soft floral skirt and a black tank paired with gladiator sandals.
I stock lots of those and they always fly off the rack.
So do the linen cover-ups in the summer months.
Now we’re heading into busy season, our inventory is looking great.
The shop is the first project my dad and I ever took on, and I am so proud of the colorful space that welcomes locals and tourists alike.
Unlike a lot of people, I love going into work every day.
Don’t get me wrong, running your own place is not without its challenges: leaky pipes, a pesky debit system that drops out at least once a week, late shipments.
But it’s mine, leased and stocked five years ago with the help of my parents and every penny I could save throughout college, where I earned my degree in fashion merchandising.
“Thanks for holding down the fort. I’ll be back as soon as I’m wrapped up at my house. Here’s hoping the debit system holds up for you.”
Lucy smiles at me, her half-light-brown, half-pink hair up in two cute little space buns today. She’s young, only twenty-three, but she has an incredible eye and the customers love her. “Praying to the shady-as-hell debit gods,” she quips as I head for the door.
The short drive between the shop and my house passes quickly.
This will be the first time my parents are seeing my house since the fire.
There’s a sign in the window that gives notice of impending construction and abatement, the front door is wide open, and my parents are already here, along with Deputy Wayne.
I see my insurance company’s truck and a staunch-looking lady with white hair pulled back off her face carrying a clipboard as she exits the vehicle marked Laurel Creek Heritage Society.
I take a deep breath and move to get out of my car before I’m stopped dead in my tracks by the sound of a thunderous motorcycle.
I glance up to see Asher cruising down my street; his matte-black custom bike is a beast and, though I’ve seen it many times at the firehall and the Horse and Barrel, I’m still transfixed as he gets closer.
Worn-in, distressed jeans hug his thick thighs as they straddle the wide bike.
His black T-shirt clings tightly to his inked arms, and, on his face, he wears his uniform black aviator sunglasses.
He cuts the engine as he pulls into the end of my driveway.
I stand at my car, door still wide open as I watch him.
“Are you coming in, honey, or are you just going to stand there staring?” my mom calls from the porch.
Asher hangs his helmet from his grip and turns to face me, catching me gaping at him. Perfect.
DAD
I haven’t spoken to my wife in years.
DAD
I thought it would be rude to interrupt her.
I grin down at my dad’s message; my mom hasn’t stopped talking since I arrived at my house thirty minutes ago.
I look up and meet his eyes across my living room.
The tuft of white hair atop his head is askew from cleaning, but he’s the picture of cool, calm, and collected.
Nothing fazes my father—not my mother’s constant chattering, her harebrained ideas for the house, my teen years of princess-like behavior, any random crisis at his job before he retired from thirty years as the manager of a busy marketing firm.
Nothing. He’s our family rock and the best man I’ve ever known.
“I have all I need.” I turn to meet the voice and shake the hand of Arthur, my insurance inspector. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you for coming.” I breathe out a sigh. The good news is he’s deeming the fire accidental, so everything will be covered. The bad news is the wiry little Heritage Committee member, Sheila Wilmington.
She’s already told us all about five times since she arrived that she is an expert in legacy architecture, design, restoration, and history.
“What does this all mean?” I turn to face Wayne and Asher once she leaves me with her card and heads out the door, telling me she’ll watch for my construction permit.
“It sounded expensive and time-consuming,” my mother adds, looking for direction too, tucking her blond bob behind her ear the way she does when she’s nervous. I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“In short, it will be,” my father pipes up, still calm but looking frustrated by seeing all our hard work in shambles.
He busies himself pulling down what’s left of my curtains—basically the rod—then he picks up a garbage bag and starts adding food from my fridge to it, hoping to get rid of anything that will spoil.
Miraculously, the only appliance I’ll need to replace is my stove.
Asher shakes Wayne’s hand as the deputy fire officer places his hat on his head and bids us goodbye.
I let my eyes trail over Asher when he’s not looking as he claps Wayne on the shoulder and walks him out.
The image of him looking down at me from his horse the other day, that veil of sweat covering him, powerful and commanding as he extended his heavy, scarred hand to me flashes through my head.
I can’t decide if it was his touch or the way he told me what to do that I liked most. Regardless, I can’t fight the heat as it flushes my cheeks with the memory.
The buzz of my phone pulls me from my thoughts.
GINGER
All right, girls, I need a mental break from wedding planning. Liv, I’m sure you could use some girl time after the last few days too.
GINGER
Sangria?
CASSIE
I’m in. Haden is painting anyway.
Our little group used to be only myself, CeCe, and Ginger.
But then Ivy moved onto the Ashby ranch and fell in love with CeCe’s oldest brother, Wade.
Then, most recently, Ivy’s sister, Cassie, who just arrived home this weekend to profess her love to Wade’s right hand, Haden.
Even though she was on a hot track to becoming one of country’s fastest-rising singers, she’s chosen to pursue writing music full time and she and Haden are planning on fixing up his new horse rescue ranch together.
CECE
Ugh. Sorry, guys, I’m there in spirit. I have the worst heartburn.
IVY
1/8 teaspoon of baking soda into a glass of room-temperature water. Saved my life more than once in the last trimester with Billi.
CECE
And maybe cutting back on the Mexican?
GINGER
Damn, now I feel like nachos.
IVY
I’m in, at least for a couple of hours.
Once Wayne has left, silence descends as we tidy up. I’m just finished spraying down the window covered in soot when Asher pulls out a measuring tape and starts laying it across the floor of what was once my kitchen.
“You know your insurance company will send cleaners and abaters,” he says gruffly, focused on his measurement.
“I know,” I sigh. “But I feel like I need to do something. ”
“Just make sure the nozzle is facing the right way when you spray. Those are toxic chemicals.”
I scoff, setting my sights on what to clean next. As I turn to examine the space, I slam my hip into the kitchen island. Asher grunts from behind me, not missing a beat.
“I’m fine, thanks for asking!” I mutter sarcastically, and I swear I hear him chuckle in response.
The truth is, even with his snarky comments and grumbling attitude, I’m glad Asher came today. His honest feedback and confirmation of everything I told the insurance adjuster helped deem my claim an accident. And, whether it should or not, its unavoidable. His presence makes me feel safe.
I look around the space. Everything east of the fridge—above the counters—is charred ruin and the whole south wall is black.
I move closer to my counter and reach out to pick up my old cookbooks.
Tears fill my eyes as I hold up the absolutely decimated first edition self-published copy of The Joy of Cooking.
It belonged to my nana, and my great-grandmother before her.
It was the book my nana used to teach me and my mother how to cook.
Images of us frosting cupcakes for birthdays and baking pies for holidays while we listened to Elvis come flooding back.
It had all her handwritten notes, as well as her mother’s, and was decorated in splatters and flour fingerprints.
I might be able to find another book by some sort of miracle, but I’ll never find one with those memories.
Now, I open the charred pages, blackened and shriveled.
Tears fall down my cheeks as I trace my finger over her chocolate cake recipe.
“Oh, honey …” My mom moves toward me from the living room to pull me in for a hug. I welcome her embrace, leaning into her for support.
“Of all the things to lose.” I swipe the tears from my face and lay what’s left of the book flat on the counter.
Asher’s phone ringing brings me back to the present, though I don’t look back as he picks it up and moves outside. His voice is muffled from my porch.
“He’s a quiet man,” my mother notes. “Kind of … what’s the word you girls use?
Broody?” She smiles at me, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
She can’t handle it when things go wrong, especially when it comes to me.
She’s a natural fixer. But my burnt-to-a-crisp kitchen is one thing she can’t save.
“He’s damn helpful too,” my dad chimes in. “Had he not backed you up, the adjuster might not have believed it was all an accident.”
“Saving my ass … yet again, ” I say under my breath as Asher comes back inside, his big hands resting on his narrow hips.
“The biggest problem you’re gonna have are these floors, cabinets, and walls,” he announces. “You don’t see three-quarter-inch black walnut anymore, and that’s what the Heritage Committee will want.”
Asher crouches down and runs his big inked hand across the kitchen cabinets in appreciation before turning to me. I swallow hard as those gray eyes find mine.
“So you’ll need to rip out everything from the entire kitchen,” he tells me matter-of-factly as he stands. “Damn shame.”
“What does this all mean?” I tighten my ponytail. “Every step of the way I have to get approval for the remodel from that Sheila lady?”
Asher sets his jaw and folds his arms over his chest. Even though every window is open in my house, the lingering smell of smoke is starting to give me a headache.
“Yes,” he answers firmly. “And to be honest, heritage committees can be a pain in the arse. Everything that’s ruined—the plaster, the floors, the cabinets—it all needs to come out.”
I sigh and take a seat on my coffee table.
“I did a quick search this morning and found a local company. Shelford Restoration?” I mention, looking up at Asher, who’s shaking his head.
“Your insurance company only approves them because they’re cheap. In this case, you’d be better to get a specialty contractor.”
I can see Asher warring with himself about whether he should get involved with my troubles. Why does this man, who I barely know anything about, get so frustrated with me?
“I know a good bloke,” he says finally. “I was just talking to him. And I’ll … make a few calls on the wood for your floors and cabinets. You need someone who does heritage builds to install them so they can mimic this inlay properly.”
Relief I wasn’t expecting washes over me. I have no idea how to handle any of this, and seeing Asher now, calm and prepared, it’s obvious he does.
“Thank you,” I tell him sincerely.
He nods curtly.
“After everything has been abated, you’ll get your keys back and can come in and out freely.
You won’t be able to live here, or at least it would be hard to without a working kitchen.
” He runs a hand through his thick, wavy dark hair then tucks his pencil back behind his ear.
“But you can visit during the restoration process as long as it’s safe.
My guy’s named Shane. He owns Red Rock Restoration. ”
“I know them,” my dad pipes up, tying a garbage bag. “They did our neighbor’s house when her basement flooded. It was an excellent job.”
“Aye.” Asher comes closer and holds his phone out to me, unlocked. I gulp as he towers over my five-foot-seven frame. “Add your number and I’ll pass it on. He owes me a favor.”
I just stare up at him, speechless at his proximity. And shocked that he’s willing to do this for me. Thankfully, my dad makes his way over to us and extends a hand. I blink and take his phone, adding my number quickly.
“Thank you for attesting to Olivia’s statement,” my dad says with a nod. Asher is at least five inches taller than my father and twice his size.
“Just doing my job, sir.” Asher returns my dad’s firm shake then looks back at me, taking his phone and placing it in his back pocket. “Even with the quicker restoration, with this being such a strict district, it could still take a few months. It won’t be a quick process.”
“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing you were the fireman on the scene when it happened,” my mother says as cheerfully as the situation allows. “A fireman who dabbles in construction—what are the odds?”
Asher nods. “Just a hobby.”
He turns to me. “You can grab anything you’d like to bring with you now. I have someone to meet before heading to the Horse and Barrel.”
He looks to my parents. “It isn’t safe for you all to be in here alone, so I’ll follow you all out.”
My mother is grateful he was on the scene and, truthfully, so am I.
But sometimes when I look into his eyes I get the sense he isn’t choosing to help me.
It’s as though he feels he has to. Maybe it’s because he was here the night it happened, but still.
I want to tell him that he’s under no obligation to help me, considering it seems to pain him to do so, but now is not the time to talk to him about it.
As my mom and I pack up some of my clothing and toiletries and a few personal items I don’t want to be without, I text the girls to take Ginger up on her offer from earlier.
A drink and some country music with my girls sounds damn good.
Especially when it means I can find the chance to speak a little more freely with one scowling firefighter who also just happens to be the ladies’ night bartender tonight.