31. Noelle
Chapter thirty-one
Noelle
A thousand eyes skewered me in place.
I’m going to be sick. I shot metaphorical darts at Mrs. Gulliver. The woman had it out for me. But her wrinkled face, caked with too much bronzer and her reddish-orange lips, only grinned wider when her piercing gaze landed on me. Like a monarch bestowing an honour to a plebeian.
Really, it was a prison sentence.
Or Brutus giving the final blow to Julius Caesar.
Me. Head up the Harvest Potluck. Ha.
“It’s a good way for her to give back to our community,” Mrs. Gulliver continued. “Now a few words before I hand things over to our dear mayor. For the Fall Festival . . .”
The ringing in my ears drowned out the rest of her words.
Cal nudged me. “You okay?”
“Was I just given community service?” I hissed. This had to be a joke. “As a way to bribe my way back into the town’s good graces? What crime exactly did I commit?”
Paisley snorted. “Likely none. Mrs. Gulliver gets ticket happy.”
“I know nothing about party planning.”
Cal chuckled, adjusting Khia on his shoulders.
“What are you laughing about? This isn’t funny!”
“Elle, you’ve never had a problem telling people what to do.” He winked.
Was he . . . flirting? Nope, nope, nope. I straightened my spine. “I’d rather not get raked over the coals because I failed.”
His expression softened. “Shawna usually does the planning because she’s also bossy and likes to order people around. She’d probably be willing to help.”
I nodded absently, tired just thinking about it as my mind whirled with plans and ideas. Rosie Cotton’s wet nose bumped my hand, and I stroked her head. How am I supposed to do this? Maybe if— Stop spiraling. Focus on Mrs. Gulliver.
Cal, however, wasn’t interested in the mayor’s wife’s monologuing. In an undertone, he said, “I have fifty bucks on Brett winning the pie-eating contest.”
Greyson huffed softly. “You’re going down. It’ll be Shane.”
Paisley wrinkled her nose. “This is worse than Legolas and Gimli’s drinking contest.”
Greyson chuckled and wrapped an arm around her waist. “Love, have you seen Shane eat? He is Legolas when it comes to pie.”
My heart twinged watching their banter. They were cute together.
Finally, the announcements were over—they weren’t really necessary in the first place—things hadn’t changed for the Harvest Parade in thirty years.
“Daddy, they have fluffy cows!” Khia shrieked, kicking her red rain boots against his shoulders. “Can I have one? She can sleep in my room.”
Cal grunted, gripping her ankles, but he smiled indulgently. “Then there won’t be any room for you.”
She giggled. “That would be silly.”
“What’s silly is that your daddy thinks Uncle Brett will win,” Greyson cut in, reaching up and tweaking her nose.
“Nuh-uh, Uncle Myles!” Myles wasn’t even competing, but at least she had her uncle priorities straight.
Cal chuckled and swept an arm towards the street where the parade floats were gearing up. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” I smiled, and with him, it didn’t feel forced.
Heading a town harvest banquet was the furthest thing from my wheelhouse. But Shawna lent me her planner with notes and lists of people to talk to.
If party planning was my shot at redemption, I’d take it.
Which meant I needed a favour from Cal. Apparently having some guys from the Chargers come out to interact with the kids in a community game was a whole thing.
So on Monday evening, after a full day of nannying, I tidied my curls and put on a flowy blouse and jeans. You’re not trying to impress him. You’re trying to be professional.
Lies, lies, lies.
Cal didn’t answer the door when I knocked. But the subtle thump from the garage drew me towards the outbuilding.
I paused in the open doorway, staring inside for two seconds before I flung myself backwards, leaning heavily against the vinyl siding and lecturing my rogue blood pressure. I’d seen Cal shirtless dozens of times growing up. But he’d filled out more than his teenaged self ever had.
I swallowed hard and refocused my mind, willing the blush out of my cheeks.
Cal was attractive—I’d planned to marry him after all—but he wasn’t mine to admire like that anymore.
Once maybe, but not now. Focus. You came to ask about the Chargers doing a community game for the festival. No looking at the pretty man.
“Hi,” I said calmly, stepping back into the garage doorway. Wow, I could have won an award for how nonchalant that sounded.
The punching stopped, and Cal’s gloved hands dropped to his sides, chest heaving.
Do. Not. Look. I locked my eyes on his face.
“Your dad grabbed Khia for a sleepover, and I was going to talk to you about something. But . . . yeah, I’m just gonna—” I hitched my thumb over my shoulder and backed away.
My cheeks were hot enough to strike a match.
I could picture myself with bright red spots on my face and a halo of curls.
I was one red nose short of a circus clown.
Amusement tugged Cal’s lips, confirming my clown theory. “Something bothering you, Holiday?” He grabbed a towel and wiped the glistening sweat from his face and neck. “Like what you see?”
“Nope. Later!”
“Hey,” he called after my hasty retreat. And only because he was paying my salary, I turned around. “Thank you,” he said simply. “You’re good with her. We, uh, she is lucky to have you.”
“She’s special. Amazing really.”
“Yeah, she is.” His teasing smile softened into something deeper. “Want me to show you some moves?”
My brain glitched. “Excuse me?”
“Boxing.” He motioned to the punching bag. “Wanna try?”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s a handy way to let out excess rage.”
I propped my hands on my hips and frowned. “What part of this”—I waved a hand over my frame—“says excess rage?”
“You really want me to answer that?”
Yes, please. “Shut up.”
Cal chuckled. “You’ve done a lot of hard things this month, Elle. There’s no shame in admitting it’s a lot.” He bumped his gloved fists together. “It helps me clear my head.”
“Fine.”
“Show me your stance.”
“Only if you put a shirt on.”
His grin turned mischievous. “Can’t handle this?”
“Your pasty white skin is blinding me.” It was a lie, such a lie, but a sanity-saving one. “And we said no more flirting.”
“No, you said that,” he corrected, tugging off his gloves. “How else am I supposed to win you back?”
He . . . what now? “I . . . didn’t know you wanted to.”
Cal tugged a shirt on, lips twitching. And I caught the faint smudge of ink on the underside of his bicep. A tattoo?
Not your business!
“Where are the pads?” I asked, scanning the small home gym.
He barked a laugh. “Don’t worry, you won’t hurt me.”
“Not you I’m worried about,” I grumbled. “I’d like to keep my no-broken-bones record, thank you very much, Mr. Hulk.”
Grabbing the training pads, Cal instructed me on where to stand and wrapped my knuckles.
“Too tight?” he asked, fingers brushing over my skin.
“Feels good,” I whispered. “Uh, I mean, it’s fine. Not too tight. All good.”
He chuckled but didn’t acknowledge my slip. “Have you ever done this?”
“Not unless you count when I broke Denver Donovan’s nose in tenth grade.”
Cal howled with laughter. “And then I drove you to urgent care for a dislocated thumb. That definitely doesn’t count, though I’ve never been so proud. You have a killer right hook.”
The words shouldn’t affect me, but they did. He’s proud of me. No, was proud. There’s a difference.
Following his instructions, I threw a few punches and practically preened under his praise when he called me a natural. We fell into a rhythm, but instead of feeling calmer, a hot flush of anger burned deep in my chest. Building until—
The floodgates broke.
“I thought exercise released happy endorphins, not made you madder!” I snapped. Exercise hurt, but I was too hopped up on feelings to care about the extra pain coursing through my body. I threw another punch.
Cal caught it. “Must be a glitch in your matrix.”
When the tears blurred his handsome face and my shoulder screamed in pain, my arms sagged, and I choked on a sob.
Cal yanked me against his chest. His hands gently slid up and down my back. “Let it out.”
I gripped his soft cotton shirt as the tears poured out of me.
I wasn’t even sure why I was crying. Stress.
The events of the last month catching up with me.
Or maybe . . . Cal still felt safe enough for me to let my guard down.
The one person I didn’t have to have it all together for.
I didn’t need to be on. I could simply be.
“I don’t know what happened,” I whispered against his chest when I finally caught my breath.
“Remember I said it’s a stress reliever? Sometimes you have to let the emotion out instead of stuffing it down. And you did.”
“Is that why you do it? To stop masking your emotions?”
Cal stiffened slightly. “Yeah, I guess.”
I could take the hint this wasn’t something he wanted to discuss. Instead, I brushed the wet spot on his T-shirt. “Sorry for crying on you.”
“Anytime, Elle.”
And he wasn’t flirting. Sincerity rang through every word, curling around the cracked edges of my heart. He meant it.
It wasn’t until I crawled under my quilt with an I Love Lucy rerun that I realized I’d completely forgotten to ask him about the community festival.