Chapter 3
[Neve]
Tate Love.
He’s local royalty, although I am certain he no longer lives around here.
Not with that impeccable suit. Not with that perfectly messed-up hair, russet brown and waving over his head, curling perfectly around his ears and flipping up at his nape.
The strands are longer than I remember. More of a handful to dig my fingers into when there will be no finger digging. Not with the likes of him.
Every small town around here has a quirky origin story.
Lovewell Landing is no different. Ours stems from a shipwreck.
Think Rose actually letting Jack on that door in the Titanic movie.
The two somehow make it through frigid Atlantic waters to an inlet of Maine.
Jack Love realizes they need fresh water, and by some miracle, there is a well near the base of a tree less than half a mile from the beach.
Very Tuck Everlasting, one of my favorite books.
Jack revived Rose Wells, who was near death according to the legend.
The Wells and the Loves had been raised to despise one another, although no one can remember why.
Only that the Wells and the Loves were nemeses.
However, despite all Rose and Jack had been conditioned to think about the other person’s family, they fell in love, or so the folklore goes.
The dirty-minded set believes Jack might have used a little body heat to help revive Rose, as well.
Either way, the tale is a favorite around here, especially at this time of year when ghost stories heighten.
The legend claims Rose and Jack often bickered but had a happy marriage.
They established the town. Connected hearts led to connected names: Lovewell.
Even in death, some two hundred years ago, they have not been separated from that well and from playing games with hearts that go near it.
Drink from the well, find a true love.
Total gibberish as I’ve drunk from the well several times and nothing happened.
Not love everlasting or an elongated life.
However, not all Loves and Wells celebrated the joining of their families. The Loves are still prominent in town, including the town mayor and his twin sister, the quirky town historian. Strangely, the Loves are notorious for having fraternal twins. A boy and a girl.
Then again, twins run in my family, too.
Thankfully, I am only having one child, a daughter. Finding out I was pregnant was difficult enough. I’m months from turning forty, and having a child was not on my bingo card.
Lumi is the motherly type in our family. She had a surprise pregnancy as well, when she was much younger. Danny has grown into an amazing adult, capable and confident. He’d escaped to New York, like some do from the area.
But not me. And I miss my older sister right now.
She’s my constant resource for all things pregnancy-related, plus my best friend, and I could really use her advice for this new clusterfuck.
Tate Love has returned.
“I’m sorry Lumi isn’t here to speak with you.
” A hint is there for him to leave. I don’t want to keep staring at his mussed-up hair and pretty eyes.
Or that mouth that did deliciously nasty things to me.
I don’t want him to be kind, like lifting my short legs and propping my swollen feet on an ugly, orange chair.
He shouldn’t be in Rusty’s Wrecks. He shouldn’t be anywhere near Lovewell Landing.
Lovewell never leaves you lonely.
The newest town slogan cracks me up. It only emphasizes how people are well-meaning but nosy as fuck.
And Tate doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he lingers, pressing off the plastic chair where he’d been leaning over my swollen feet inside steel-toed boots.
He stares out the front window, clean but still clouded by sea salt spray. The ocean seems to cling to everything in some way or another.
“It’s a beautiful view,” he murmurs, slipping his hands into his suit pants pockets.
It sure is, I think, admiring his backside in those tailored slacks. The edge of his coat rises because of the position of his hands.
Pulling my gaze away from him, I glance toward the window as well. The restless ocean in the far-off distance. The sliver of road visible at this height. The lighthouse off to the corner.
Some say this location is golden. A prime piece of real estate for a hot—
“Holy hell, are you in real estate? Are you here about the sale?”
Once again, I think about the latest offer. The one with the pretty set of zeroes behind a large number.
We’d be set for life, Lumi argued.
I don’t know what she’s worried about. Her new boyfriend is loaded. He runs a lucrative toy company, which allows them to jet set all over the world as a couple, fulfilling her dream of traveling.
I am over-the-moon happy for her. I adore Saint. He looks like a sexy version of Santa Claus. I don’t even mind the khakis he occasionally wears.
Slowly, Tate turns toward me, removing his hands from his pockets and clasping them in front of him. “That’s me.”
I’d almost think he sounded contrite if I didn’t know better. If I knew him better. If I weren’t suddenly so angry.
Bucky Beaver Body Shop. Who the hell came up with that name?
This guy cannot waltz in here, all pretty man-boy in a suit, stirring me up in ways I haven’t been stirred for nine months, and be nice to me by setting my feet on a chair. I’d kick the back of the seat if I didn’t need the elevation for my heavy boots and even heavier swollen toes.
“Get out.” I fling my arm toward the front entrance.
Not exactly the way to ensure I get a job with the new company, but my heart is beginning to race again, and my belly tightens once more.
What the frigity-fudge is happening? I’m trying not to swear, even mentally, because of the baby.
I seize forward again, clutching at my belly like I’m holding onto a heavy cauldron.
“Little Wrench,” I grit through the rush of pain. Mommy does not like this feeling.
I know how a baby got in me, but I’m scared as hell about how she’ll get out.
I watched a video I shouldn’t have watched, and just, nope.
I understand that it’s biology and supposed to be beautiful, but no, no, no.
Something that looks like an oversized gourd should not be able to squeeze out of a space no bigger than a pixie stick.
Tate rushes toward me, clutching at the back of the chair between us.
“What’s wrong?” He exhales. “Where does it hurt? What are your symptoms?”
“And now you’re suddenly a doctor?”
He gives me a sheepish look and an exaggerated shrug. “I wanted to be.”
“Yeah, well, when M.D. follows your MBA, then we can talk. For now, take your fine A.S.S. out of here.”
“Neve.” He presses off the chair back and swipes through his hair again. Does he practice that move? Does it affect other women like it’s affecting me? A clash of lust with a shock of something I hope is not labor. It’s too soon. I’m not due until October first. A sort of early trick-or-treat.
“You need a doctor,” he says, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
“No.” I hold out one hand while clutching the base of my abdomen with the other. “I’m just dehydrated.”
The doctor warned me to keep up my fluids and get off my feet often. I’m not good at following instructions. Plus, I can’t afford a hospital ride. My independent health insurance premium is a killer every month as it is, and an ambulance ride would cost a small fortune.
The row of zeroes from the offer Lumi told me about flashes in front of my eyes again.
Even divided by four, it’s a large sum. But I’m no longer interested.
Pride has me clinging to this place. I was on the fence about the deal, leaning into the golden opportunity, as Lumi called it, but now . . . I just can’t.
I cannot work for Tate Love and Bucky Beaver Body Shop.
Tate suddenly rushes around the small waiting room like an actual beaver has entered the space. He stands up. He squats down. He spins in a circle.
“What are you looking for?” I snap, as he glances over the countertop and then opens a cabinet door.
“A water bottle? A container? A trough?”
“A trough?” I snort before narrowing my eyes. “Are you comparing me to a farm animal?”
“No, but you’re making me nervous.” He spins in another circle and notices the door marked BATHROOM. He rushes forward like he’ll bring me water cupped in his hand, if need be.
It’s kind of sweet, actually.
“I left my water bottle on my workbench.” I nod toward the garage, where I’d been working on the Toyota, which I need to get back to.
Break time over, Little Wrench. Mommy has work to do.
I smooth a hand over my belly, still amazed at how much my body can stretch.
My skin feels tight. My fingers are swollen as well.
I flex and fist my hands as Tate retrieves my water bottle and fills it from the water cooler just inside the waiting room.
We’ve made a lot of cuts around here, but that giant jug is one I have not let go of yet.
With the metal water container full of fresh, cool liquid, I drink heavily. Gulping like I belong in a barn. Then I hiccup.
“Oh my.” Another hiccup jolts through me, giving me a pinch of heartburn. Another fun treat while pregnant. Insert sarcasm.
As I hiccup a third time, the business phone rings while Tate’s pocket buzzes. He stares at me as I rub a hand over my belly once more and reach for the phone. Cell service is spotty around here, so we kept the old cordless phone.
“Rusty’s Wre— Hey!” I snap, hiccupping at the same time, resulting in a weird barking sound.
Tate has pressed down the hang-up-thingy on the landline while simultaneously clicking off his phone.
“You’re closed.”
“Excuse me?”
“Exactly. You’re exempt from work the rest of the day.”
“You,” I huff, jabbing a sausage-looking finger in his direction. “Are not my boss.” Not yet. “And I have an oil change to complete.” I point toward the Toyota, visible through the window between the waiting room and garage.
“Need to keep the lights on a little longer,” I halfheartedly joke, knowing the end is near.
A trifecta of situations have converged: my pregnancy due date, the time limit Lumi gave me, and the need to sell.
Only a miracle could keep Rusty’s Wrecks alive.
“I’ll do it,” Tate says, shrugging off his suit coat and draping it over the back of the plastic chair still between us. Next, he loosens his tie, tugging it free from his collar like a magician waving a wand, casting a spell on me.
“Uhm.” I swallow thickly as he pops the first two buttons of his dress shirt before reaching for one cuff, unhooking a cuff link. An honest-to-the-autumn-goddess cuff link.
“Uh.” I clear my throat, appreciating this striptease a little more than I should. My cheeks heat. A lower part of me reacts when it has no business reacting.
“Just because you once dressed like a racecar driver, Driver, does not make you a mechanic.”
I squeak when he yanks his dress shirt free from his pants. The crisp material rustles like rolling on fresh bedsheets.
Do not think about him and a bed, Neve Snowe.
“I think I can handle an oil change.” He reaches for the back of his collar.
Don’t do it. My head slowly shakes side to side, a warning he’s not heeding.
He tugs the shirt up over his head.
Oh no you didn’t. A shiver ripples through me.
He draws the shirt in front of him and pops his arms free.
Plus ten.
My sister and I started rating men a few years ago. Pluses go for things like backward baseball caps and low-slung jeans. And pulling off a shirt over the head by the back collar.
Negatives are khakis and three-quarter zips. At least for me.
And in front of me stands a dichotomy. A truly mismatched puzzle of white tee and dress pants, reminding me of the intriguing man wearing a rather authentic racing getup last winter.
A man I was unexplainably drawn to during that New Year’s Eve party.
“Do you know anything about a car other than to press the ignition button and accelerate?”
“Cute. But I grew up working on my granddad’s boats. I think I can handle an oil change in a Toyota.”
Question is, could I handle him? Especially when he spins on his hard-soled, leather-clad shoes and heads into the garage.
I’m left speechless when he bends over the exposed engine, giving me a decent view of his fine backside.
He picks up a wrench I left on the edge of the frame.
He looks like he was born with a tool in his hand. Confident. Cocky. And so stinkin’ cute.
In the reflection of the window, I catch the outline of myself. Grease on my cheek, which I hastily rub. Sweat around my hairline, the soft, short waves held back by bobby pins. And the KN95 mask on my head.
“Sweet pumpkin spice.” I tug the thing from my head and swipe down the hair suddenly sticking up.
Tate notices me staring at him and smiles. The curve of his mouth is slow but steady. The softness of them a ghost on my lips.
I wonder if he missed me.
I shake the thought, knowing exactly what he thinks of me.
A business opportunity.
One wearing a mask on my head like a freakin’ sad unicorn.