Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
POPPY
My heart is racing like a jackrabbit.
Mercy in Justice.
That’s my company.
He’s describing my job.
Heck, I could have worked that very case. I’ve worked hundreds in my career, and at least a dozen of them have dealt with professional sports. I could look it up right now.
Actually, I can’t. I resigned two days ago, and my access has already been shut off. Not that it matters. I don’t work for them anymore. Living out of suitcases and hotel rooms, investing everything into families that might still get torn apart—
Nope. Not going down that road.
Point is, I quit.
Would that help my case with Oliver? Would he forgive me if he found out now that I’ve quit?
Never.
I’ve worked there for the last few years, advocating against mandatory minimums, fighting to make sure first-time offenders with non-violent charges, survival theft, or low-level financial mistakes weren’t locked away as if they were career criminals.
I presented effective alternate paths that offered both accountability and the chance for true reform.
Until I broke.
I get ready as quickly as possible, because we have to get on the road and it’s important to Oliver, but with every step, my hand trembles. The mascara wand bounces as I bring it to my lashes. I have to pause—breathe slowly—and force my fingers to cooperate.
Oliver is in so much pain.
I press a hand to my stomach. It’s fluttering for all the wrong reasons.
If he finds out what I do for a living—who I helped—he’ll never talk to me again, and then the car will be so quiet that I’ll fall asleep at the wheel and crash and kill us both and then he’ll follow me around for the rest of eternity, blaming me.
Can ghosts haunt other ghosts? I’ll find out soon enough.
Unless I never open my mouth. If I don’t tell him what I do, he’ll never know.
There! Problem solved. We hardly talked most of the day yesterday. Although he got chattier last night. And he had no problem probing this morning.
And honestly, I liked it a lot …
I laugh to myself, a dark, sad, pitiful laugh. It figures. The first time in ages that anyone has asked me anything, it’s about the one topic that will make him hate me.
I don’t want Oliver to hate me. I want him to like me.
That’s a given. You want everyone to like you.
But he’s different.
Why?
I ask myself this as I slap on tinted sunscreen and mascara.
I ponder this while I toss my things in my bag and strap on my Mary Janes.
An uncomfortable conclusion hits me as I take the elevator downstairs to the main floor.
Oliver Fletcher is a man of contradictions. He’s mad at the world yet he offered to share a car with me. He avoids conversation yet he asks me about myself. He’s rude, yet he apologizes. He’s beautiful and just as broken.
And I’ve made it my life’s mission to fix broken things.
Systems, people, you name it.
Oliver Fletcher is a gorgeous mess with so much potential, it almost aches to look at him. He’s the ultimate fixer-upper.
Which means we cannot get to Rochester fast enough.
Oliver is scowling at a little kid across the dining room when I get my plate of kolaches and fruit. Alarmed, I glance at the kid, who’s dragging his finger across his throat in a threatening gesture. My eyes fly back to Oliver, who sticks his tongue out and rolls his head back, like he’s dead.
Oh dear.
Now he’s being cute with children?
Something warm and dangerous takes root in my chest.
No. This is bad. This is very bad. He can’t be broken and beautiful and cute with kids. That’s not just a recipe for all my fix-it instincts to go into overdrive. That’s a recipe for a crush.
I sit down across the table from Oliver, and he snaps his head back up and his scowl returns.
Crush averted.
“I didn’t expect you down here so soon.”
“Good morning to you, too,” I say, laying my napkin across my lap. “And I told you I’d be ten minutes.”
“I didn’t believe you.”
“Belief is a matter of choice.” I spear a berry and pop it in my mouth. “What have I done that made you believe my word wouldn’t be good?”
He frowns at his plate. “Nothing.”
“Then next time, try believing me. It’s less angsty.”
“I’m not angsty.”
“Right, and this isn’t a raspberry.” I smile as I bite it so he knows I’m teasing.
His face doesn’t seem to care.
“I pulled up the route. We’re nineteen hours away, so how about I try driving today and we can switch off. See if we can make it the whole way.”
I’m highly skeptical, seeing as he had no way of fitting his knees around the steering wheel when he tried yesterday, but I nod. “Sure, let’s give it a try. It should be easy to find a hotel last minute if we need.”
He looks relieved. “Right. And if there’s only one room, we already established we can sleep together.”
I give a choked laugh. Heat floods my face even as his face goes beet-red.
“I know what you meant,” I say.
We finish breakfast in silence.
When it’s time to check out, I catch Oliver shooting the kid one last cross-eyed glance. He pulls his nose up and sticks out his tongue at Oliver.
Adorable.
The front desk clerk gives me a strained look when I set the key down. “Uh, you checking out?”
“Yes,” I say. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” Oliver mutters next to me. “Stop apologizing.”
“I’m not apologizing; I’m being polite,” I hiss. Then I give the clerk a smile. “Are we able to check out?”
“Yes, but,” she says, gesturing vaguely outside, “the wind has the drifts stacked halfway up the doors on this side. Our plow guy’s going through town, but it could still be an hour or two—”
“What?” Oliver blurts. “Where’s the snow shovel? I’ll clear it myself.”
The clerk titters. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that.”
Oliver strides to the front door and pushes it open.
Tries to push it open, that is.
He throws his shoulder against it with a grunt, and I watch his entire body strain against the packed snow. His shoes slide slightly on the tile. Nothing moves except him—backwards an inch.
“Oliver, look,” I say, pointing at the wall of snow pressed tight against the glass, higher than my waist. It’s like Jack Frost bricked us in. “It wasn’t snowing enough last night for this. Is it all snowdrift?”
The clerk nods. “That’s Kansas snow for you. The storm drops a few handfuls, and the wind does the rest. You can have bare pavement in one spot and a six-foot wall right next to it.”
Oliver gives the door one more fruitless shove and then curses under his breath. “Can we go around back?” he asks.
“Sure, but the car’s buried up to the windows, and the city won’t touch these side streets until the highway’s clear. You’re not going anywhere until the plow makes it through.”
“So we’re stuck here,” Oliver says, looking less angry than … despairing. His shoulders slump, and something about the way he’s standing—defeated, lost—squeezes the air out of my lungs.
Oh no. I can’t let him stand there in despair.
Must fix.
Stop it! You are not fixing him.
You can, however, try to distract him.
“When do we have to check out?” I ask.
“Eleven.”
“Is there anything we could do around here until the snow is cleared?”
“If you two go out the back, swing over to Ave E and try to head south to 27th. You’ll find the landmark that put us on the map.”
“You’re on the map?” Oliver mumbles, but it’s too quiet for the clerk to hear. I bite back a smile and elbow him.
“Well, what do you say, Oliver?” I ask.
He blows air up his face, making his messy blond hair flutter. Then he grabs his ball cap from his back pocket and stuffs it over his head.
“Lead the way, Elf.”
Out back, we cross through a snow-filled alley and head over to the road the clerk directed us to.
The streets are bare, except for one older couple, who are trudging along in their snow gear in a way that tells me they have a step count to meet.
The air is so dry and sharp, it feels hollow when I breathe.
I’m already squelching as snow seeps between my Mary Janes and socks, making my toes feel like they’re shrinking. The cold creeps up my ankles, but I’m from Rochester. I can handle snow. And after stepping through a huge drift up to my knees, I laugh.
Oliver doesn’t.
Wind howls down the alley, cutting through my coat, whipping the powder into little ghosts that swirl around our feet as we turn onto the street. I can hear Oliver’s footsteps crunching beside me, steady and close.
The town is small and charming, especially blanketed with snow as it is. Little shops have wreaths and Christmas lights up, reminding me that it is, in fact, the Christmas season. With all the drama of family and work, it’s been hard to remember all the beauty and hope this season represents.
I stomp out my feet on the sidewalk, smiling with each exhilarating breath.
“How can you stay in a good mood when none of this is going to plan?” he asks. His phone buzzes, and he silences it. He silences a lot of calls.
We turn down the next road, and after only a few dozen yards, we’re standing in front of a towering painted egg in a small gazebo. “I’m looking at the World’s Largest Czech Egg,” I tell him. “Who’s to say this isn’t a better plan?”
“We’re burning daylight. How is this a better plan?”
“It’s early still, and this is a delay, not a disaster.
We’re alive and healthy.” I smile. “And this is all out of our control.” I take out my phone, my fingers clumsy in the cold.
I spin around and take a selfie with the big, colorful, beautifully intricate egg.
Oliver’s in the background, hands shoved in his pockets, watching me with an unreadable expression.
“I get how important it is to be there for Evan, and as soon as we can leave, we will. But why suffer twice for it? Why not make the most of Wilson, Kansas? When will we ever be here again?”
“Never, I hope,” he says.
I smack his shoulder—solid muscle beneath his coat—and I’m relieved when he snorts instead of scowling again. Although if a guy has to scowl, he should make it look as handsome as Oliver does.