Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RHETT
F or the third time in a week, I’m surprised to see Olivia walk into a bar. Except this time, when I spot the glow of her hair and the shape of her body moving through the crowd, she doesn’t have her petite friend or that douchey city boy trailing behind her.
This time she’s alone.
And she looks pissed.
Her eyes shine under the bar light and I see it then—the sadness too. Something’s wrong. The last two times I saw Olivia in a bar, she wore her usual easy mask of politeness even though she was obviously uncomfortable in both situations. But now she wears her real emotions all over her face, and my heart kickstarts as I think through what I could have possibly done to make her look like that.
As if on instinct, her eyes rise and meet mine, and I’m rooted in place. I have half a mind to rip this bar right out of the floor with my bare hands so I can help close the distance between us, but I swallow back my need to rage at the way she looks and try like hell to exercise a sliver of patience.
“What’s wrong?” I say as soon as she reaches the bar. I study her face for any clues, trailing my gaze down her body to see if she’s hurt somewhere.
“I need a drink,” she rasps out just as the first tear falls.
My thumb aches to wipe it from her cheek, to press into her soft skin like I did last night. But I hold back, aware of the bar full of townies and the fact that my youngest brother is only feet away from me, chatting it up with fucking Boone of all people. So, I simply nod, turning to pull down our best whiskey from the top shelf.
“Not whiskey,” she protests.
I don’t face her when I say, “Trust me?”
I think she might argue, but then she hums her assent.
I grab a shot glass and fill it. “How’d you get here?” I ask.
“I walked.”
I meet her gaze. “Good.” I slide the glass toward her. “Drink.”
She eyes the bourbon for only a moment before lifting it to her lips, taking it all in one go. I watch her eyes well and her lips tuck into her mouth as she swallows around the burn. And then she sets the glass back down between us.
“Another?” I ask, grabbing a bar rag from the sink.
She shakes her head. “Not unless you want me fast asleep on this bar.”
Images of Olivia in many different scenarios on top of this bar have me stumbling a step, but I recover swiftly and press on. “Okay, how about wine?”
She peers somewhere behind me, looking at the bottles on the shelf. “You have wine here?”
“Not for anyone else.”
Her gaze jumps to me and she swallows again. “Wine would be amazing, thank you.”
I nod. And then I tap my finger on the bar in front of the seat closest to the wall, away from everyone else. “Sit,” I say. “Please.”
When she does, I move to the back office where we keep a couple bottles of Mom’s favorite wine for the rare occasions she comes in. She used to be here a lot more—hell, she used to take her own shifts—but it’s been a long, long time since I’ve seen her walk through the door.
She won’t miss a bottle.
I bring it back behind the bar, passing Wells on my way. “You good?” he asks, eyes dropping to the wine. His eyes widen. “Is she here?”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head as I walk back toward Olivia. If Wells keeps watching me, I’m not sure. And quite frankly, I don’t care.
Olivia waits in her seat, picking at the corners of a cocktail napkin with a frown that makes me uneasy. I pull down a lowball glass and find the wine opener in the junk drawer beneath the POS system, making quick work of opening the bottle and pouring a few fingers of wine into the glass. I have no idea what a normal serving looks like and we don’t have actual wineglasses here, but Olivia looks relieved when I push the drink in front of her.
She takes a sip and closes her eyes, nearly moaning. “That’s delicious.”
I exhale. “Good.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “I’m sorry I just showed up like this, I?—”
“You don’t have to apologize for anything, peaches,” I interject. “You can walk through these doors any fucking time you want. But I happen to notice there’s a frown on your face, and I’d very much like to know how it got there.”
She closes her mouth, pressing her lips together. And then she opens them again to whisper, “I got another letter from Charleston.”
Charleston . Where her father and his other family live. “What’s it say?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I haven’t opened it.”
“Then what the hell are you cryin’ for?”
Her eyes narrow, and I realize I’ve made a mistake with that little remark. Still, the relief is a thing I can taste. It’s not my fault she’s crying .
“I just mean,” I quickly add on, “how do you know it’s bad? Maybe it says no one’s going to ever bother you again. Or maybe it’s a check for a million dollars.” I shrug, like it could be possible.
Her face crinkles as laughter bubbles out of her, and I feel my chest expand. “You think?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Probably not, but you won’t know anything if you don’t open it.”
She groans, still smiling, and tucks her face behind her hands.
“Hey,” I say softly, pulling her hands away so I can see those hazel eyes. “No matter what’s in that letter, you’re going to be okay.”
She nods and the crease between her brows smooths out. I’m not sure if it was the shot or my words, but I like the way it feels, watching her unwind, knowing I had something to do with it. I watch intently as she lifts the glass of wine to her lips, downing the rest of it in one gulp. “Can I have another?” she asks. “For bravery?”
You’re already brave , I want to say. But I keep my mouth shut and pour her another drink. “I’m going to give you some space to read it alone,” I say thickly, the words I shoved away lodged in my throat. “But you come find me if you need anything. And Olivia?”
“Hm?” She tips her head up.
“Don’t you dare leave this bar without me.”
* * *
Wells seems to sense something, because his questions start almost immediately. “Why’s Olivia Danvers here?” is the first one that flies out of his mouth the second I walk away from her.
“What do you mean?” I gruff.
He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. “I’ve never seen her here before. Is she waiting for someone?”
“How would I know?” I lie.
Wells scratches at his chin. “Huh,” he says. And then he grabs two bottles of Miller Lite from the fridge and walks out toward the tables.
Ten minutes later, after dropping a fresh pitcher, I turn to find Wells talking to Olivia. Both of them are smiling, and it grates against my ego—I know damn well Wells loves his girl at home, but the sight of Olivia smiling so freely at another man like that smarts.
I’ve never felt jealous like this before. Not over any woman.
Weaseling my way behind the bar like a chump, I push in beside Wells, looking pointedly at Olivia’s nearly empty glass. “How are you doing?”
Wells looks at me hard, confusion rippling across his face.
I ignore him.
“Good,” she says with a small smile.
Her eyes look less sad, and I don’t think she’s been crying. “Did you read it?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. Wells came by to say hi. Did you know we graduated high school together?”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah,” Wells chimes in. “We were just catching up.”
I nod. “I think somebody needs help over there,” I tell him.
Wells eyes the patrons sitting all around us. “Where?”
I shoot him a menacing glare. “Over there .”
Wells’s head angles as he looks back at me, but then his eyes flit to Olivia before something finally seems to register. “Oh, right.” He clears his throat before throwing Olivia a mild grin. “Sorry, work to do. It was good seeing you, Olivia.”
“Likewise!”
He walks away, and I turn back to her. “Read the letter.”
Her smile shifts into a mock-frown. “You’re mean.”
I shrug. “So I’m told. You want another glass?”
“Maybe just a little one.”
I pour her a little more wine—only one finger’s worth this time—and gently encourage her to read the damn letter before giving her space again.
This time, she does.
I keep a close eye on her as she opens the seal. She pulls out a piece of paper and unfolds it, and I can’t see any of the words from where I practically hide around a corner, but it’s obvious there are a lot of words written on that letter. Olivia’s motionless as she reads, and after what feels like the longest minutes of my life, her shoulders slump and she buries her face in her hands.
I’m moving before a thought even forms in my head.
“What happened?” I ask roughly when I reach her, this time from her side of the bar.
She shifts in her seat to look up at me, a bright smile shining through tears that wet her cheeks. “It’s from Céline, my sister,” she explains around a hiccup. “She wants me to come . . . to her wedding. And she wrote such nice things.”
“That’s good. But how come you’re crying?”
Her smile slips as more tears well in her eyes. “I-I can’t go,” she whispers.
“Why not?”
She looks down at her fingernails, taking a moment before she speaks again. But when she does, the words come through a quieter sob. “She wouldn’t understand .”
I wrap my arms around her and pull her into my chest. The lights are so low in the Coyote that it’s impossible to make out the space just two feet in front of me, but I feel the curious eyes in my periphery. “It’s okay,” I murmur. “We’ll figure it out.” Her shoulders shake through silent tears for a few minutes, and then she pulls away from me. Her eyes are swollen and her cheeks are flushed red, and I hate it . Hate the sadness seeping from her.
“Can you take me home?” she asks.
I smile. “Of course.”
Giving her my arm, I lead her toward the hallway where there’s a side door to the smaller lot my brothers and I use for shifts. We pass Wells along the way and I tell him I’ll be back soon, thankful he doesn’t ask any questions—not after he sees Olivia’s face.
We’re in front of her little house on the edge of the brush within minutes, but by the time we get there, Olivia’s emotions have morphed from sadness into something much calmer. She’s quiet as I pull off her helmet and walk her to the door, and she doesn’t say anything as she unlocks it and walks inside, leaving it open behind her.
I take a deep breath, watching her linger from the threshold. It’s a bad idea for me to go in there—I need to get back to the bar—but the need to trail behind her, to make sure she’s okay, is almost overwhelming.
The wooden floor creaks under my weight when I take the first step in. Olivia has disappeared around a corner, and I’m not sure if she wanted me to follow her or not. Hell, I’m not even sure she wants me inside this house . . . but she didn’t say good night. And I should at least say good night, right?
I close the door behind me, keeping the chill out. The house is warm. Comfortable. “Olivia?” I call out, scared to death to move any further.
“One sec,” she calls back. “I’m just changing real quick.”
Blood heats my neck as I hear the unmistakable sound of clothes rustling, and I keep my feet planted right the fuck where I am, rooted to the floor.
I distract myself by looking round the dark room, lit only by the glow of a light down the hall. She has an oversized cream couch tucked into the corner of her living room, perched on top of a light-colored rug. Pink, maybe? There are houseplants everywhere, vines running down from the ceiling, tracing along a bookshelf. Her coffee table is made of wood, and it’s covered in candles.
When she eventually rounds the corner, she’s wearing thick wool socks and a baggy crewneck sweater that skims her thighs. Her smile is loose and teasing as strands of her strawberry-golden hair fall chaotically around her face. She’s sexy as hell, and I can’t stop staring.
“Do you want to stay?” she asks, voice quiet as she stands right in front of me.
“Do you want me to stay?”
Slowly, she nods, her eyes dropping to my mouth.
I feel it in an instant: the fear. The way it winds through me and tightens with an uncomfortable grip. The way this suddenly feels like I have something real to lose, like I might not have understood the risks when I offered myself to her and now I’m forced to learn the consequences of that impulsivity. But it’s not enough for me to back away, to politely wish her a good night and force my feet back out the door.
It makes me want . Because I can’t remember the last time I had something of my own to lose.
My hands wrap around her waist as I step forward, pushing her against the nearest wall. She gasps, the sound so sweet it spears through me, and I almost lose my mind. Her chest flutters with quick breaths and I want so bad to feel it, to slide my hand up her ribs and over her collarbone. “You’ve had too much to drink,” I say, a reminder more for myself.
She closes her eyes, goosebumps trailing along her slender neck. Her skin is flushed and pulsing. “Probably,” she whispers.
My mouth tugs into a grin, eyes tracing down the lines of her jaw, the column of her throat, drinking her in like the glutton that I am. I bend down to press my nose below her ear, breathing in that intoxicating scent. “You’re wearing it again.”
“Hm?” she hums.
My smile grows, lips brushing against her skin. And then I force myself to pull away from her, taking a wide step back. “You need to sleep.”
Her eyes open again and find mine. “Will you stay until I fall asleep?”
I nod. “Sure. I can do that.”
She hooks a finger into mine, gently leading me toward her room. When she reaches the bed, she lifts the covers with her free hand and slips between the blankets but doesn’t let go of me. Instead, she pulls me toward her, closer. “Lie with me.”
It takes everything in me to breathe deep through the mix of panic and need and growing fear. But I manage to get enough of a grip that I’m able to swallow down the emotion and throw her a smirk. “Be good, peaches,” I tease, hoping it doesn’t sound like the plea it is.
“Promise,” she murmurs, closing her eyes as she nestles into her pillow.
I ease myself over her, curling around her body until my chest is against her back and my knees are hooked into hers. She lets out a deep, rumbling sigh, and I let it wash over me: her comfort. This contentment. Like I’ve somehow stumbled home after being lost for years. The implication of how good it feels flares and I can’t help but feel like, at any moment, a door will slam and I’ll realize I’m actually in someone else’s house and I’ve overstayed my welcome.
She’s snoring lightly a mere ten minutes later. I skim a single finger down her hairline, careful not to wake her. She didn’t mention the letter again, but I have a strong suspicion that it’s her mother somehow keeping her from exploring more with her other family. I want to tell her to be brave. To be selfish.
To be happy.
When it’s obvious she’s out for the night, I press a small kiss to her forehead and pull her covers over her arms before gently lifting myself off the bed and making my way back toward the front door. As soon as I reach it, I realize I don’t have a way to lock her in.
Fuck .
The last thing I want to do is wake her up again, but I refuse to leave her sleeping in an unlocked house. If anything were to happen?—
A thought hits me, and I wonder if it’ll work.
Stepping outside into the chilly night air, I shut her door behind me. And then I pull out my wallet and hope like hell it’s still tucked in there . . . I haven’t used it in years. But a lockpick meant to open doors can surely secure them too.
When I find the slender piece of metal, I fiddle with the keyhole on her door.
And when the lock finally clicks, I smile.