3. Hugo
Chapter 3
Hugo
There are places in the United States where March is a winter month. Here in the Sonoran Desert, March signals the beginning of spring. And, on warmer days, the start of summer. Not the real summer the desert is known for, but a taste. An amuse-bouche , as my sister Vivi would say. The chef in her is always thinking about food, or something food-adjacent.
The climate here in my little corner of the world is hardly something to complain about. If it weren't for the arid desert and its relatively mild winters, my family wouldn't have an olive mill. I wouldn't have had a profession to fall back on following the close of my fencing career.
I swing my truck bearing the Summerhill Olive Mill name and logo into an empty spot in front of Sammich. Unaccustomed to the size of the truck, I end up bumping the curb with my front tires. I have a personal vehicle, a cherry red Audi R8. It's sexy and sleek and smooth, all adjectives I should ascribe to a woman. Despite that, they fit the car perfectly. I don't usually pass up the chance to drive my car, but I'm not clean enough to sit in her today.
Pruning olive trees is an arduous, dirty, and oftentimes boring task, and all morning I've been thinking about lunch. Days like today, when I wake up before the sun and make my way to the room I've turned into a home gym, leave me famished. It would've been easier to stop in at the big house, where my mom lives with my aunt on the Summerhill property, and grab something to eat there. But for hours now I've had my heart set on a double meat Bellamy sandwich, named after my best friend Penn's mom. She passed away last year, and Margaret, the owner of Sammich, promptly added her favorite sandwich to the menu. The double meat order is my twist on it.
The familiar yeasty scent of fresh bread envelops me as I walk through the swinging door. Margaret, positioned behind the cash register, beams when she sees me.
"I was wondering if you were going to mosey in here today," she says, planting one hand on her hip as she leans on the counter. Her gaze roves over me, taking in my dirty jeans, my equally filthy shirt.
"Oh yeah?" I ask, stepping up to the counter. "Why is that?"
"Pruning time always makes you hungry." A pleased twinkle makes its way into her eyes.
"You like to think you know me," I joke, crossing my arms and leaning back on my heels .
She makes a noise like hmph . "I've known you since you were running down Olive Avenue in diapers."
The corners of my lips turn down at her exaggeration. "I was always clothed."
Margaret grins, and I groan. I played right into her 'old embarrassing stories about Hugo' trap. "Except," she says, "that one time you unzipped your fly and tried to pee on a cactus."
Laughter sounds from a few feet away, and I turn. A woman I hadn't noticed when I walked in sits alone at one of the pub tables against the wall. She's turned away, her shoulder up, like she's trying to muffle her laugh.
I've never seen this woman before, not that I know everybody in town. Olive Township has grown exponentially in the last few years. All those restless Phoenicians, fleeing the bustle of a city that has also seen tremendous growth. I don't blame them. If I didn't live here, I'd want to.
I turn back to Margaret, exasperated.
She winks. "The next time I tell you that story, I'll be sure to say it quietly. Now, do you want your usual, double meat?"
I place my order, adding an iced tea and a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie, and settle at a table closer to the front of the place. At first I try not to stare at the woman, but soon give up. She's making it a point not to look up from her phone, or whatever else it is that has her attention, so I am free to stare at her back as much as I please.
Her chocolate brown hair draws the overhead light, shining under its harsh glare. It's the color that captures my attention first, followed by her shoulders and the skin left bare by her thin-strapped top. I'm a sucker for a set of shoulders, and hers are as perfect as they come. A feminine curve, a delicate climb up to the creamy skin of her neck. Shoulders are underrated, and unsung. I love them.
She shifts on her stool, crossing one leg over the other and tucking her shoes under the footrail at the bottom. As much as I'd love to let my gaze drop, wander over other parts of her, I force it away. A long, appreciative stare is one thing, but I don't need to be a creep about it.
Ventura, one of Margaret's granddaughters, approaches the woman. The young girl holds out a sandwich and fries, reciting the order as she sets it down. The woman glances left to speak to Ventura, and her facial profile comes into view.
A sound steals up my throat, the very opposite of a gasp, the sound I'd make if I were playfully punched in the gut.
That's how I feel, in a way. Like I've been punched in the gut. This woman is gorgeous.
Stop-traffic, chin-droppingly stunning. Straight nose, full lips, a Grecian goddess. In so many other instances I'd be on my feet, headed her way, snatching her up before another man could make a move. But here, in a sandwich shop in a small town, where it happens to be only the two of us eating in the middle of the afternoon, I stow my impatience. She's just received her lunch, and I don't want to interrupt her. My gaze falls to my jeans, caked with that persistent Arizona dust. It's probably not a great time to talk to a beautiful woman. My back pockets bulge with thick work gloves and pruning shears, and I'm sure I smell of sweat and the bitter smokiness of olive leaves.
I grab my iced tea and suck it down, nodding my thanks as Ventura slides my lunch in front of me. I tuck in, being very purposeful about where I place my eyeballs.
It takes me all of five minutes to polish off my sandwich, house-made chile-dusted chips, and cookie. I wipe my mouth with my napkin, balling up the paper and tossing it on my empty plate. And then it happens. I look up, just in time to catch the beautiful woman's eye.
She was staring at me .
A thrill steals through me.
A tourist, for certain. The only type of woman I want anything to do with. They don't know my history, the story of my dad. They don't pity me, or feel bad for me, the way the local single women do. They don't know about my time competing in the Olympics, or my gold medal. Tourists are safe. Never a chance I'll have to dip below the surface with them.
I offer her a small smile, tentative. Her eyebrows lift, the corners of her lips turned up playfully.
Blood courses through my veins, hot and heavy. It's been a long damn time since I was with a woman, in any capacity. It would be nice to spend time with a female who isn't my sister, mom, or aunt. Or my employees. Or Penn's wife, Daisy.
A simple date is all I'm after .
Her gaze remains planted on me, only three-fourths of her face visible because of the angles of our tables. She looks expectant, waiting for me to approach. Inviting me with her eyes, her fingertips drumming the tabletop like she's counting the seconds.
I push back from my table, the scrape of my chair competing with the soft rock playing over the small restaurant's speakers. A group of four older men walk in, followed by four older women. Their lively conversations fill the space. Good. I don't need Margaret eavesdropping on whatever it is I'm about to say to this woman. Which is what, exactly? I don't know. My brain sifts through options, rapid fire, but in the end it's she who speaks first.
"I hope the story about you peeing on a cactus didn't happen recently." Her lips curve, more flirtatious smirk than smile.
I laugh. A genuine laugh I wasn't expecting, shaking my head. I round her table, stopping when I'm on the other side. It's the first time I've seen her full-on, and she's dazzling. Deep brown eyes to match her hair, full and rosy cheeks, plump lips slicked with red lipstick.
"Yesterday," I say, and her eyes widen. "Kidding," I add. She huffs a relieved laugh, hand pressing at the front of her top. The fabric is red, to match her lips. And her nails.
I offer a hand over a plate empty but for the crusts of the bread. "Hugo De la Vega."
She shakes my hand, and for the shortest second I get the feeling she already knows my name. Something in her eyes. The brief look of knowing disappears, and maybe it was never there. Maybe I'm paranoid. Used to women in this town knowing who I am, because of my family. Summerhill. My father. Tragedy.
Her delicate hand nestles in mine, palm warm and soft. "Mallory Hawkins."
The blip of unease dissipates. Of course she doesn't know who I am. "It's nice to meet you, Mallory. May I take this seat?"
"Please," she answers, voice smooth and supple, honey over warm bread.
I pull out the leather-topped stool, settling in. The edge of the table meets my sternum.
Why did she choose a pub table when she had the choice of the place?
"So, Mallory, what brings you to Olive Township?"
She shakes her head at me, a twinkle gleaming in her deep brown eyes. "You can do better than that."
My teeth capture the inside of my lower lip to keep from laughing. "Sorry," I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. I don't embarrass easily, but I'm finding my neck warming beneath my palm. "I'm out of practice."
Her pleased look tells me she likes that. "I prefer that over a man who says the right thing too easily."
I open my mouth to say something, anything , but my ability to think has left my body.
There's no way she'll believe me if I say she's so pretty it's robbed me of my ability to think. Somehow I don't think that's any better than asking her what's brought her to my small town, even if it's the truth .
I glance down at my forearms, noting a smear of dried dirt. "Do you see this?" I point at the mess on my skin.
She nods, gaze roaming my arm.
"I spent the morning pruning olive trees. Have you ever done something like that?"
She tucks a lock of that thick, gorgeous hair behind her ear. "Can't say I have. Honestly, I didn't know pruning olive trees was a thing."
"Like any other plant, olive trees require care. I take care of them, and they reward me with the best olive oil in the southwest."
She toys with the chain of her gold necklace. "You're an olive farmer?" Her tone conveys genuine interest, and honestly, that excites me.
I sit back, collaring the enthusiasm for now. Nothing scares a woman away faster than waxing poetic about olives. "Something like that."
There's a long pause. Her eyes dance, and there's something about them I've never seen before. Mischief, maybe? Intelligence, for sure. I like what I see, that much I know.
"I came for the spa," she finally says, answering my first question. One corner of her lips curves. A slow, sly, sexy grin that has my own lips peeling apart in anticipation. "But now I'm hoping to try the best olive oil in the southwest."
Blame it on my brain short-circuiting in the presence of unparalleled beauty, but my stupid lips say, "Chances are you will, if you order food from the spa restaurant. Their dressings are made with my oil. "
My oil . What a nerd. Who talks like that? I am leaving here and going straight to Penn's house to insist he punch me in the mouth.
I seem to have fallen in favor with Cupid, because Mallory smiles. Again, she appears to like how unpolished I am. Dusted in Arizona dirt. Gloves and pruning shears tucked in my back pockets.
It boosts my confidence enough that I say, "If you decide you've had enough eucalyptus and zen rock gardens, I'd love to take you out for a drink." My eyebrows lift. "Assuming secret speakeasy's are your thing."
Mallory moves to cross one leg over the other, her shoulder disrupting the purse straps she has wound over the back of her chair. The purse tumbles to the ground, contents spilling over the floor. I'm out of my seat quickly, picking up a pack of gum, a wallet, her phone, retrieving a bottle that has rolled under a nearby table.
"Oh my gosh, thank you," she says, breathless. Worry slides in along her eyebrows. She's off the stool now, holding open her purse so I can toss everything inside.
It's at this moment I happen to glance down, and as the plastic bottle I'm holding rolls off my open palm and into the brown leather purse, I see the label.
Prenatal vitamins?
My stomach sinks.
I look into her eyes. Guilt floods those pretty brown irises.
"You're expecting?" Disappointment swings through me. I'd been so attracted to her. Still am, given the way my body's wanting to lean in closer, touch her soft- looking skin. Drop my nose to the top of her head, find out what she smells like.
Her spine straightens, chin lifting. "Yes," she says, voice clear. Resolute, and also a little challenging.
As if she is challenging me to challenge her. About what, I do not know.
Dammit. My hand rakes over my face, irritation finding space beside the overwhelming disappointment. Was I seriously hitting on a pregnant woman? Even if I didn't know it, I feel a little foolish. "Let me guess. You're taking a weekend for yourself and thought it'd be fun to flirt with a local. Did you leave your wedding ring behind in the hotel room?"
She's nonplussed by my accusatory question. Secret revealed, she moves her purse from in front of her abdomen. The bump of her stomach is small, something I'd never notice and would certainly never comment on, but now that I know it's there, it's all I see.
"Hugo," she says my name softly, eyes watching me with care. Too much care for someone who should be ashamed they were caught flirting with another man. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself.
And then, like an anvil, it hits me. Her name. I've seen it before, barely registering it when hastily sending the emails to the trash bin.
I see it now in my mind, the email signature. And below it, Host of Case Files . "Mallory Hawkins." A thick exhale slides between my lips, appalled by her audacity. My stomach pitches, back teeth grinding. "This is so wrong. "
"Please," she says, arms shooting out to stop me, though I haven't gone anywhere. I step back, and her seeking arms drop. "I only want to speak with you."
My arms cross. "I got that from your emails."
"The ones you ignored?"
"Deleted."
She winces. "Listen, I know that?—"
I hold up a hand, stopping her. "We're not talking."
Her eyes widen, worry in those brown irises. "I think?—"
My work boots protest the tile floor with the swiftness of my turn. I want nothing to do with this conversation. Or the beautiful woman trying to have it.
I stride from the restaurant, well aware I have drawn plenty of attention to myself. The small town gossip mill will be churning in no time.