Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
POPPY
Icould get used to waking up next to Oliver Fletcher.
I have no idea what time it is, but I know two things: my ankle feels much better than it did last night, and I’m going to pee my pants if I don’t get to the restroom, pronto.
Unfortunately, Oliver’s arms are draped across my legs on the couch, and we’re covered by three quilts.
I try to lift his arm gently, but a soft noise issues from his throat, and he shifts even closer. I attempt a slow-motion wiggle—inching my legs off his lap a millimeter at a time, but Oliver’s grip tightens.
After what feels like an eternity of careful maneuvering, I manage to slide one leg out from under his arm.
Progress. I pause, holding my breath as he shifts slightly, his face relaxing back into peaceful sleep.
Encouraged, I begin the delicate process of extracting my other leg.
Just as I’m almost free, Oliver’s hand slides down and catches my ankle—the injured one.
I bite back a yelp and freeze completely. His thumb traces gently over my ankle, but there’s something between his skin and mine.
Tape. He must have taped my ankle when I fell asleep on the couch last night. After everything I told him. After I cried into his hoodie and admitted I can’t be a drain on people, he stayed. He took care of me anyway.
My heart does something completely unwelcome given my current bladder situation.
“Stay,” he mumbles, still asleep, his voice rough yet vulnerable.
For a moment, I almost do, almost settle back into the warmth of his arms and pretend we have all the time in the world. But nature calls, and I very carefully lift his hand, place it on the couch cushion, and finally—finally—escape my gorgeous captor.
I hobble down the hallway to the bathroom Clara pointed out last night. My ankle manages better than I hoped, given how bad it felt last night. Clara is a miracle worker.
After a quick potty break, I limp back out to the main room, grab my bag, and quietly roll it back into the bathroom.
I’ve never stayed in an Amish guest house before, but Clara and Samuel’s is lovely.
Every feature looks sturdy and hand crafted.
My apartment is decent enough, but after years of crappy housing growing up, I’m still pleasantly surprised by cabinet doors that are made of actual wood instead of particle board that falls apart if you sneeze near it.
I shower and get ready more quickly than I’d like, but with how late it is already, we need to get on the road—
We don’t have a car.
I crashed it into a ditch last night because we hit black ice and my stupid ankle hurt too much for me to react fast enough.
“Oh no,” I whisper, shoving my legs into my corduroy pants, not caring when I’m too rough with my foot and it jostles painfully. I throw open the door, tugging a striped oversized wool sweater over my head as I rush down the hall.
“Oliver,” I say, leaning over him. “We have to get up.” For a split second, I wonder if things will be weird between us after last night. If he’ll look at me differently now that he’s seen all my damage.
“We have to call a cab or a ride share,” I say. “I’ll cover the whole cost to Rochester.” His eyes stay closed, his face registering nothing. I put my hands on his shoulders. “Oliver.”
His hand pulls me down, and I fall onto his lap.
After last night—after I told him things I’ve never told anyone, after I fell apart in his arms—he should be running. Putting distance between us. But instead, his arms tighten around me like he’s trying to hold me together.
“Shh,” he says. “Sleep.”
I struggle against him, but his hold on me doesn’t budge. It’s like …
It’s like he wants me here, with him.
For someone starved of touch and connection, it’s a literal dream come true. Being in Oliver’s arms makes my heart feel like it’s finally come in from the cold and is curled up around a fire with a cup of hot cocoa. I can’t help sighing when he rests his cheek against mine.
“You like that?” he murmurs in my ear.
“Of course not,” I say. I feel him smile against me.
I don’t remember the last time I was held as much as Oliver has held me in the last three days.
I’m afraid of how addicted I already am to his touch. How will I go back to my normal life after I’ve had Oliver’s arms around me? His lips on mine? His righteous anger stoked on my behalf?
The longer I stay here, though, the harder it will all be. My needs aren’t more important than his.
It’s not like physical touch is a need.
It is. It’s totally a need.
But do I need this more than he needs to get home?
No.
“Oliver, we need to call the rental agency and find a ride into town.”
“Already done,” he mutters. “I called the rental agency when you were in the shower, and I arranged for a friend to come get us.”
I sit up. “You have a friend in Walnut Creek, Ohio?”
“No, I have a friend who’s staying in Cleveland for the holidays. She’ll be here in a couple of hours, and she’s bringing you crutches.” He pulls me back against him, and I’m too shocked to fight.
He called the rental agency. He arranged a ride. And crutches.
Without me asking.
I didn’t have to do a single thing.
He took care of it all.
Took care of me.
“Now shush,” he says, stroking my hair until my eyes can’t stay open. “We’re sleeping.”
I shush.
Two hours and the-best-nap-of-my-life later, Oliver and I are thanking Clara and Samuel from the bottom of our hearts. Clara accepts my gushing as Oliver puts our bags in the back of his friend’s SUV, but when I reach out my hands to grasp hers, she shakes her head and takes a small step back.
“No thanks necessary. God provides through his people,” Clara says, giving me a modest smile.
“Safe journey to you both,” Samuel says, his hands clasped.
Oliver helps me step up into the huge SUV, and I instantly feel uncomfortable for three reasons:
First, this isn’t just any SUV—it’s a Rolls Royce.
I didn’t realize until right now that I knew what the Rolls Royce logo looked like, but I see it on the steering wheel.
The cream-colored, butter-soft leather seats look like they’ve never been touched by human hands.
And is that actual wood trim? It is. It’s actual wood trim.
Second, my thrift store Mary Janes feel criminally inappropriate against the pristine running board, and even though my clothes are all clean having come from my suitcase, they can’t possibly be clean enough for a vehicle that costs more than I’ll probably make in ten years.
And third, the driver isn’t Oliver’s friend, Scottie. She’s in the passenger’s seat.
The driver is Jake Rodgers, one of the biggest players in Major League Baseball, with a reputation even bigger.
Scottie looks back at me with a smile. Her light blonde hair is bone straight, and her tortoiseshell glasses give her that effortlessly cool look I’ve always envied but never understood. My second-hand sensibilities don’t extend to anything neighboring sleek.
“So you’re the girl who met Fletch on the plane and actually decided to take a cross-country journey with the guy?
” She looks me over with an assessing gaze.
“You’re either braver than me or crazier.
” Her lips quirk up slightly. “I’m Scottie,” she says.
Her eyes drop to where Oliver is holding my right leg across his lap.
Despite her half-smile, one eyebrow arches. “And that was fast.”
Is she protective of him? Our conversations have made it clear that he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but maybe Scottie’s friends with his ex. Or maybe I’m missing something.
I give her a smile I know looks more comfortable than it is. “Oliver’s only holding my leg because I rolled it yesterday, so I need to elevate it.”
She gives us a slow nod. “Right, Fletch mentioned that. Sucks about the ankle.” She turns back around and slaps the shoulder of the man driving.
“Anyway, this is Jake Rodgers—best friend of both of my brothers and the guy who’s decided to crash Christmas and campaign for godfather of MY new nephew.
He’s the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Scottie says with more irritation than affection.
Jake scoffs. “Bro, you ruined my life. Your brothers and I were fine until you came along.”
“You and Hudson were two when I was born, you dork, and Dallas was three. You expect me to believe you have all these deeply-rooted memories of playing in the turtle pool in the backyard without me?”
Jake peels out of the Yoder’s yard, spitting gravel up in a way that makes me … not love him already.
And I love everyone already.
Jake has the same big, strong, handsome guy thing that so many professional athletes have, with long, light brown hair and a smirk that’s more rude than cocky.
Scottie groans. “Is there any part of you that thinks, hmm, I shouldn’t be a complete tool in front of my new boss.”
Jake snorts. “Like the Firebirds are going to send me down to the minors. I’m Jake Rodgers.”
“Yeah, and you hit on the GM’s wife at Thanksgiving, you clown.”
“I didn’t know who she was,” he says.
“You knew she was married.”
“I suspected she was married. It’s not the same thing.”
Oliver and I exchange wide eyes while Scottie and Jake bicker like siblings. Jake acts like he couldn’t care less that we’re here, but if there’s one thing that my job has taught me, it’s what it looks like when someone’s pretending to be someone they’re not.
And Jake Rodgers is a big, fat pretender.
Oh, I have no doubt he’s a jerk, but not the kind he comes across as.
The kind who learned young that no one else was going to put him first if he didn’t.
The longer they argue, the more exhausted Oliver looks, not physically, but mentally.
“No offense,” Oliver says after ten minutes, “but could you two shut up?”
Scottie snorts. “We should all be so lucky.”
“I’m not shutting up,” Jake says. “You’re in my ride.”
“A ride I didn’t ask you for,” Oliver says. “So unless you’d like to explain why you came to pick us up with Scottie, I don’t really care what you think.”
I arch an eyebrow at Oliver. I’ve seen another side of him now—a sweet, protective side. One that snuggles. But there’s no doubt this is a side of him, too. Now that I understand him better, his abrasiveness doesn’t rub me wrong. It kind of amuses me, honestly.
(Is that a red flag? I really hope it’s not a red flag.)
“Scottie didn’t rent a car at the airport, so she’s at the mercy of her family to drive her around,” Jake says.
“Last I checked, you weren’t family,” Oliver says. I wonder if he knows his thumb is rubbing circles on my calf. “In fact, aren’t you from Philly?”
Jake shrugs. “So? My best friend just had his first kid, and believe me: my family doesn’t care where I am. I’m an honorary Quinn.” He reaches a hand to pinch Scottie’s cheek. “Aren’t I, Scottie Grace?”
She slaps his hand away, and I say, “Wait, is Grace your middle name? It’s mine, too!”
“Ha!” Scottie says, using the seat to turn around before seeming to catch herself from being too enthusiastic. She adjusts her glasses. “Did half your grade have Grace as a middle name, too?”
“Yes,” I laugh. “There were literally two Poppy Graces in my grade.”
Oliver snorts. “Could be worse,” he says. “Your name could be Jake.”
“Hey,” Jake says from the front seat. “What’s wrong with my name?”
“There are about a hundred pro ball players named Jake, and every one of you thinks you’re the next Babe Ruth,” Oliver grumbles.
Scottie howls with laughter. But Jake just snorts.
“Jealous, Coach?”
“Not remotely,” he says with conviction. I study his face and realize he’s serious.
He’s not jealous. Not of Jake’s career, not of his fame, not of any of it.
Did something change? Or is this how he’s actually felt all along and he’s finally admitting it to himself?
His thumb starts rubbing circles on my calf again, and this time, it feels different.
He’s different.
I’m tempted to call him happy.