Chapter 26
Olivia
Like Real People Do - Hozier
There’s nothing quite like waking up to the delightful reminder that you’re a woman.
My period arrived two days ago. I’ve already eaten my body weight in chocolate, and I cried earlier because I dropped my toast…
butter-side down. I’m one bad cramp away from full emotional collapse.
Xavier’s been avoiding me like I’ve contracted the plague.
He swears my “mood has shifted,” and that if it’s anything like Isla’s, he’s better off staying far, far away.
I told him that was wise, because if he so much as breathes near me, I might actually bury him behind the tool shed. So yeah, the farm’s been business as usual, pick-ups and drop-offs have been easy enough, but me? I’ve been a walking contradiction.
My stomach fucking hurts, my lower back is plotting against me, and my moods are switching faster than Teddy changes TV channels. But worse? I’m horny.
Like, unreasonably horny.
It’s either the hormones or the fact that every time I close my eyes, I see Sebastian’s hands, his mouth, every single thing that happened the night of the wedding replaying in high definition.
I should not be thinking about that while he’s ten feet away, chopping onions, because he offered to cook me dinner tonight.
He’s changed out of his uniform into black track pants and a grey sweatshirt, sleeves pushed up, showing the veins in his forearms and the tattoos scattered across his skin. It’s unfair. Illegal, even.
How is it possible that a man can look like that while making dinner?
Somewhere between the sizzle of the pan and the scent of grilled onions, my brain short-circuits.
Is it normal to be this needy during your period?
Or is my body just in full self-sabotage mode?
Because right now, I’m one soft “Hey, Trouble” away from jumping him on the kitchen counter.
Clearly, my brain is a mess of thoughts that are definitely not appropriate around a five-year-old, and right on cue, Teddy pads out from the hallway, clutching a piece of paper close to his chest.
“What’ve you got there, champ?” Sebastian asks, glancing down from his chopping board.
“A drawing.”
“Oh, yeah? Can I see it? Did you make it at school today?”
Teddy nods shyly. “We learned about family trees.”
Sebastian takes the paper, holding it delicately between his fingers. His face shifts to something soft, something unreadable.
“What is it?” I ask, curious. “Let me see.”
He hesitates for a second, then hands it over. I’m not prepared for what I see.
It’s a stick figure drawing—simple enough, innocent, and devastatingly sweet.
Teddy stands in the middle, a bright yellow smile scribbled on his face.
Beside him is Sebastian, tall, with big hands, and Diesel drawn at his feet.
And on Teddy’s other side, hand in hand, is me.
Wearing a pink dress. A big smile. Right there, next to his family.
“Oh,” I breathe, the word catching halfway up my throat. My heart squeezes painfully, and my eyes sting.
“What’s wrong?” Sebastian’s voice is immediately edged with panic.
“Nothing, nothing.” I swipe under my eyes, failing miserably. “I’m fine.” I turn to Teddy, forcing a smile. “Wow, sweets. This is such a great drawing.”
He twists his hands together. “Thank you.”
And then it happens. The tears I’ve been holding back all day come rushing forward, hot and unrelenting.
Sebastian’s words are hesitant, unsure. “Uh… Liv?”
God, the way he says my name. I could live in that sound forever. He sets whatever utensil he was holding down on the bench, crosses the room to stand in front of me, tipping my chin up with gentle fingers, inspecting me like he’s trying to locate the malfunction.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, laughing weakly through the tears. “I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
“Olivia,” he says gently, “you don’t need to apologise for crying.”
My heart clenches at how calm he sounds. Like it’s okay. Like I’m okay.
Teddy looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Why are you sad?”
I shake my head, sniffling. “I’m not sad. I’m just… really happy you drew me. It’s beautiful.”
And now I’m crying harder, which I can only laugh at, because this is so embarrassing.
Sebastian stares, clearly unsure whether to comfort or call for backup. “Are you… laughing?” he asks, bewildered. “Because I genuinely can’t tell what’s happening right now.”
A hiccup bursts out of me, half-sob, half-laugh. “Neither can I. I think I’ve completely lost the plot.”
He exhales slowly, lips twitching. “Right. Hormones, then.”
Normally, that line would’ve earned him a death stare and a strongly worded lecture about male audacity, but I’m too tired, too fragile, and honestly, too busy trying not to cry again to be mad. He’s not wrong, anyway. My mood swings could rival a damn cyclone.
I nod furiously. “Hormones.”
His lips press together in an effort not to smile. “Got it. Do you, uh… need a hug?”
That does me in. I nod again, and he’s instantly wrapping me in his arms. Big, warm, solid arms that make every bad feeling momentarily disappear.
My forehead presses into his chest, and the scent of him—soap, smoke, onions, and something steady—wraps around me.
His hand moves slowly up and down my back, fingers trailing through the ends of my hair.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs.
And for a second, I almost believe him. By the time I pull back, his shirt is streaked with mascara, tears, and possibly a hint of snot. “Sorry for completely ruining your shirt.”
He glances down at the mess, then back at me. “I’ve got others.”
I swipe at my eyes, where my mascara has no doubt smudged. “I probably look like a raccoon.”
The corner of his mouth curves. “Still beautiful.”
My breath catches, and my brain stutters. He can’t just say that. Not to me. Not when I’m this fragile. I shoot him a look that’s supposed to be a glare, but he doesn’t flinch. He just stares back with that grounded patience that makes me want to scream and melt all at once.
“Just being honest, Trouble.” His voice is low enough to sink beneath my skin.
Dinner ends without any major drama, which, in this house, feels like a small miracle.
Once the last fork is scraped and Teddy sprints off toward the bathroom, yelling something about bubbles and pirate shampoo, I finally breathe again.
The emotional wreckage of earlier has settled.
Mostly. I head to the fridge, needing cold water like it might wash away everything I’ve felt tonight.
I twist the cap and shut the fridge door, and staring right at me is a sticky note, slapped on crookedly.
Rookie at 8. ;) I’ll handle the snacks, and the massage you’re pretending you don’t need.
Of course he’d add the wink. The man is thirty-four, going on menace. And of course, he’d promise a massage. My hormones do a very unhelpful cartwheel, just as a fresh cramp twists low in my stomach. God, why this week? Why now?
I scowl at the note like it’s personally betrayed me. Because I am, in fact, on my period. Which means all massages must remain strictly platonic unless we’re both prepared for disappointment, blood, and maybe tears. Still… there are other things we can do.
Zoe’s place smells like garlic butter and clean laundry, which feels exactly right for a girls’ night I didn’t know I needed.
Amelia couldn’t make it, so it’s just the three of us.
Imogen’s already cross-legged with a glass of red, Isla’s curled into the corner with a cushion under her knees, Zoe is topping up some wine glasses, and I’m late because the Mitchells never leave a conversation in under fifteen minutes.
It’s a family trait—stubbornness disguised as conversation.
“Finally,” Imogen says, patting the cushion beside her.
I drop onto the sofa, kick off my Crocs, and accept the wine Zoe pushes into my hand. “We were just debriefing.”
The last few months have been a blur. Bradley and Amelia’s wedding, Joseph’s fourth birthday chaos, Zoe’s own birthday (where Michael somehow managed to find a cake shaped like a spanner, because of course he did), and my brother’s birthday next week.
I listen to the girls chatter, sip my drink, smile and nod.
I’m still thinking about the way Sebastian’s palm found the small of my back during the photos, the way his eyes found me when they shouldn’t have.
Somewhere in the blur, I realise I don’t even know when his birthday is.
I know the exact shade of hazel his eyes turn when he’s tired, but not the day he was born. I’m halfway down that thought spiral when a hand waves in front of my face.
I blink, forcing a smile. “Sorry, what?”
Zoe tips her head, eyes glinting. “We said, how’s your week been, Wild One?”
Only Zoe calls me that. It stuck after one unforgettable night at the Loose Lasso when I decided it’d be a brilliant idea to take on their brand-new mechanical bull.
I lasted a full seven seconds—long enough for someone to cheer, snap a photo, and christen me Wild One—before I face-planted into the padding.
I shrug, sipping my wine. “Fine. Farm’s good. Kevin’s still an asshole.”
Isla snorts. “Didn’t he bite your boot last week?”
“Boot, shirt, pride… take your pick.” I grin. “Babysitting’s also been good. The usual.”
I leave out the part about the late nights, the dinners that feel too domestic, the way Teddy’s laughter fills spaces I didn’t know were empty.
And I definitely leave out the part where his father fingered me on the couch after the wedding.
Because that would change the mood real quick.
Imogen narrows her eyes with the precision of a woman who knows when I’m lying.
“You cracked Grumpy Dad yet?”
“Cracked?” I lift my glass. “He’s not a safe. He’s… a person.”
“She’s blushing,” Isla announces, smacking Imogen’s arm. “Liv never blushes.”
“I am not.”
“You are,” Imogen says in a sing-song tone.
“Oh, piss off.” I try to play it off. “I blush… sometimes.”