Chapter 8 #2
Laughter bursts through Oliver’s lips. “Based on the fact that I like coffee and you don’t?”
Tapping my pointer finger to my lips, I pretend to consider the predicament. “Well, I am a hot cocoa connoisseur.”
Oliver raises a brow, sliding his gaze my way. “Is that so?”
“Yep. I’m basically world-renowned. My name is probably in an official book somewhere. So I’m sure I can convert you.”
He rolls amused eyes. “Next question. Favorite hobbies?”
“Hm. Taking care of my plants, trying new foods and hiking to find new plants. And watching movies snuggled up all cozy at home. You?”
Oliver bites his lower lip, his smile clear as day. “Movies,” he nods, “hiking with Nacho, though I can sometimes convince John to go with me. Baking. And, of course, helping women gaslight their judgemental families.”
His grin is infectious. “Of course. Okay, last one. Favorite color?”
“Brown.” The answer is quick, needing no consideration.
My nose scrunches in confusion just as fast. “Like … dirt?”
Glorious, howling laughter fills the car.
Even Nacho joins in the chorus. “Sure,” he nods, “brown, like dirt.” Turning onto a residential street, it’s mere moments before he guides the car into the driveway of the cutest two-story, white Victorian home I’ve ever seen, where a familiar red sedan also waits in the driveway.
“Wow,” I breathe.
Candles sit lit in every front-facing window while garlands hang in bows along the outside of every windowbox. A large red bow adorns the featured wreath, with mini wreaths hanging along the white picket fenceline.
“Your turn, Callie.” Beside me, Oliver waits patiently. As if knowing my favorite color is the most important thing in the world.
“Green. My favorite color is green.”
“Like your plants?” Curious eyes roam my face, awaiting my next answer.
Doing my best to stifle the giggle trying to escape, I nod. “Yes, Oliver. Like my plant babies. Now, are you ready?”
He grins. “Let’s go.” Letting Nacho out, he rounds the car just as I’m stepping onto the fresh snow.
“Does she not need a leash?” I nod to the bounding girl headed up the front porch stairs.
“Nah, she knows the way. I only really use a leash when we’re on the trails,” he answers.
“There’s my girl,” a female voice sings from the front door.
A woman who can only be Oliver’s mom stands with the front door wide open, an enthusiastic Nacho standing to her shoulders and giving her all the doggy kisses.
On the shorter side, the years have been kind to her.
Soft through the middle, she reminds me of every mom whose natural waistline hasn’t been helped by Dr. Whatshisname that the women in my mother’s circle all use—which isn’t very many of them.
Wavy blonde hair floats to her thin shoulders and her feminine features glow with laughter at the onslaught of kisses from the cutest granddog.
“Hey Mom,” Oliver calls from beside me, waving to the woman.
Releasing herself from Nacho’s iron grip, his mom’s eyes widen when they land on me. “You two, get on in here. It’s freezing,” she calls.
Looking up at Oliver, the love for his mom is evident. Natural. While this man always seems to look perfectly at ease in any situation, something about seeing him come home is truly moving.
A dull ache squeezes in the depths of my chest—a reminder of everything I’ve never had. But the possibility of one day having that kind of love with my own family propels me forward with this strange mission of ours.
The one where I pretend to be the doting girlfriend.
My hand surprises us both by reaching out and taking hold of his.
This bewilderment continues as his squeezes mine in return.
Then, one step at a time, we head inside.
If it weren’t for every nerve currently being lit on fire while I try to remember my sole purpose in being here, I would have thought I was in one of those made-for-TV holiday movies.
Traditional furnishings have been given a facelift with all kinds of holiday decor strategically placed throughout the open floorplan.
Hints of vanilla, lemon and rosemary hang in the air, with a dining table fully set for Thanksgiving just off to the left.
Christmas music plays softly in the background, mingling with football commentary coming from an unseen television.
“Dad?” Oliver calls, letting go of my hand to shut the front door and sliding off his coat. Hanging it on the coat rack waiting beside the door, he holds out a patient hand for mine.
Removing my own, I do my best to ignore the immediate chill once our hands are no longer intertwined.
Oliver guides me further into the entryway when a small door next to the stairs swings open.
A tall, older man emerges carrying a dust-covered box that hasn’t seen the light of day in years.
My fake boyfriend comes by his height honestly.
Dressed in jeans and a red plaid flannel, Mr. Rhodes looks ready to take in a football game on the couch instead of eating a fancy, chef-prepared meal like my father undoubtedly will.
I love him immediately.
But Oliver’s father also doesn’t hide his surprise when he sees me. “You must be Ollie’s girlfriend.” Mr. Rhodes shifts the box to his left arm, extending a calloused hand. “Marshall Rhodes.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Rhodes.” His handshake feels like a father who has never failed to lift up his kids, no matter how far they fell.
“Any girlfriend of Ollie’s can call me Marshall,” he insists.
“Marshall,” I repeat around a soft chuckle. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Oliver’s told me so much about you,” I gush.
Raising wiry gray brows, Mr. Rhodes looks at his son. “Is that so?”
Beside me, Oliver shrugs. “Had to warn her.” But he grins across the cozy space at his father. “Oh, Dad,” his hand moves to the small of my back, “this is Callie Rutherford.”
If it’s possible, Marshall Rhodes’s eyebrows climb to their absolute limit. Recognition gleams behind tired eyes. “Rutherford?” he repeats.
Hackles raised, my smile threatens to wane, but I keep that sucker plastered in place. Flipper nugget, flipper nugget, flipper nugget. We’re screwed.
“Well, Calloway, technically.” Oliver smirks down at me. “But she prefers ‘Callie.’”
Marshall Rhodes looks between his son and me. “Oliver, are you telling me you brought home … a Rutherford?”
Oliver tenses beside me. “You know her family?”
Mr. Rhodes frowns, brow furrowing. “Son, everyone in this town knows her family. Tri-state area, even. And I’d imagine you both will be heading over to their house when you leave here?”
We nod in tandem.
Marshall whistles. “Talk about facing the wolves,” he laughs. Questioning eyes appraise me. Only when a toothy grin graces the man’s face does my nervous system begin to relax. “Ms. Rutherford, if you think this guy’s good enough for you, far be it from me to disagree.”
Stilted laughter chokes its way out of me.
“Oh, I mean—”I glance up at a rather bemused Oliver whose hand is now firmly pressing into my back, pulling me closer“—I think I’m the lucky one.
Personally.” And it’s true. How many professional therapists would offer to help make your family question everything they’ve ever known?
“You just keep thinking that, Callie.” Mr. Rhodes winks, readjusting the box in his arm. “And please know, you’re welcome here anytime.”
By no means or standards am I a crier. With my family, it’d just be seen as another weakness. But the immediate loosening in my chest and the breath of relief felt deep in my bones? Those send tears straight to my traitorous eyes. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Marshall nods right as a shriek sounds from the kitchen.
“Callie!”
Oliver flinches toward me, fingertips gripping into my back. “Geez, Blythe. I think you just burst my eardrum.”
“Did not, you big baby.” My pilates instructor barrels toward us, stopping just short of plowing us down. Fists planted on her tiny hips, incredulous eyes pin me in place. “Callie, what the hell?”
Oliver steps slightly in front of me. “Easy,” he warns. Peeking over his shoulder, he catches my gaze. “Do you two … know each other?”
“I’ve only been trying to get her to go out with you for months now.” Blythe rolls eyes that look exactly like Oliver’s.
I truly have no idea how I missed the resemblance. I’ve only seen Blythe about eight times since Oliver and I first met.
My very hot, very fake boyfriend scratches his chin, shrugging. “Well, I guess she took your advice.”
Stepping around him, I hold up my hands in surrender. “Also, to be fair, you never said his name.” Slowly, a smile replaces the concern on my features. “But I guess you were right—I would like your brother.”
Blythe peers at me for the longest minute of my life, and that includes the time Prescott was certain I put a dead fly in his pudding when I was nine, and made me stand there while he strained it.
Fighting the desperate urge to crawl back behind Oliver, I try to practice breathing techniques taught to me by the very woman standing before me.
Crossing her arms, Blythe finally leans back. But that narrowed gaze never lessens. “How did you two meet, then?”
Panic. Choking. Instant death.
We never came up with a backstory. How could I have been so remiss about such an important detail?
“Met her at Cici’s Halloween party for school.” Oliver slides an arm around my shoulder, giving me an easy grin.The weight of his arm is reassuring, comforting.
My arms snake around his waist as I lean into his side. And cue the heart eyes to the man pretending to be mine.
Oliver wastes no time looking at me like we should never be apart ever again.
Skepticism takes over Blythe’s every feature. “Why did you go to Ci’s school party?”