by Olivia Hayle
"I'm sure."
"Will you please get out of the kitchen? I'll make sure you get your order."
"Lucy."
"Um, yes?"
"This is what you were looking for." He hands me a handwritten note. I read it once, twice, trying to make sense of Phil's scribble as Oliver bends to lift a stack of bread crates. My uncle had very clearly set them aside beside the refrigerators, the note pinned on top.
"Oh."
Oliver lifts all the crates at once. "They were hidden in the back. Nothing to be ashamed about."
"I'm not ashamed. I would have found your order in due time."
I see his lips twitch, but he doesn't respond.
“I can help carry.”
“It’s fine.”
I follow him in silence as he strides out of the kitchen and through the open counter hatch. His arms bulge around the heavy weight he's carrying, his legs long and strong. There's so much of him.
I open the front door for him and follow him out onto the sidewalk, because how could I not? The man has a dish named after him. He’s a legend, apparently.
Oliver sets the crates down carefully next to the pickup truck parked outside and opens the passenger seat.
"That's a lot of bread," I say.
"Mhm."
"So, this is for the bed and breakfast you run?"
He starts loading the crates. "Yes."
"Do you get a lot of guests up there?"
"A fair bit."
I purse my lips at Mr. Monosyllabic. "Are you always this talkative?"
He doesn't even look at me. "Are you always this interrogative?"
"Only when customers take it upon themselves to do my job for me."
Oliver looks at me over his shoulder. His eyes are filled with challenge, and briefly veiled… contempt? Disappointment? I can't tell what he's feeling.
"Then don't give them a reason to," he says.
The nerve! I watch in silence as he walks around the truck to open the front door.
"The Morris special is terrible," I blurt.
He stops with a hand on the door. "At Ricky's?"
"Yes."
For several heartbeats, we just look at each other. I think I’ve managed to surprise him. He's not looking away, and the weight of his blue gaze is heady.
But then he smirks. It’s a small smile, but it transforms his face and gives life to the otherwise Adonis-like face.
"I know."
He closes the door behind him and I watch as he drives away, disappearing down Claremont’s Main Street and out of sight.
4
Oliver
The famous Lucy Morris, the diamond-in-the-sky Lucy, is a mess. A blabbering, unorganized mess.
I entertain myself the whole drive back to the ranch with thoughts of her. I bet she'll last a week in Claremont and not a day more.
I had paid very little attention to the Rhodes' descriptions of her, but whatever I had expected… well, it wasn't that. Even frazzled and covered with cake mix, she was gorgeous. Blonde hair tied up with a few loose tendrils around her face. Quick eyes and a bee-stung mouth.
If I hadn’t been… who I was now, I know exactly what I would have done. Offered to show her around town and give her a proper Claremont welcome. But I’m not relationship material, and she’s too young and too good for a man like me.
Didn’t mean I couldn’t appreciate beauty where I saw it—not to mention her mouth! I chuckle when I think of her parting words. The Morris special is terrible. It sure was—a terrible idea from the beginning.
Back at the ranch, the birdwatchers have settled in without a hitch. I even hear Mandy downstairs in reception joke with them from my office. She tells some sort of bird joke and is rewarded with roaring laughter. I can practically see the five-star reviews rolling in.
That afternoon, I walk towards my house—one of the few buildings left not converted into housing for guests—with Austin winding his way between my legs.
"You're a clingy bastard, aren't you?"
He looks up at me with adoring eyes, and I give him a pat on the head, right between two fluffy ears. "Let's get you some food."
But the house isn't empty. Someone is whistling, out-of-tune and very loudly, from the kitchen.
"Sarah?"
She doesn't reply, so I follow the scent of vanilla to the kitchen. Sarah is dressed in a frilly apron, dusting a tray of muffins with icing sugar. Her look of intense concentration dissolves into a giant smile as soon as she sees me.
I'm instantly suspicious.
"Hi, Oliver."
"What do you want?"
"Why do you think I want something? I just felt like baking in this old kitchen again. Have a muffin."
I take a cautious step forward. "You rarely have time for this. Where are the kids?"
"With their grandma. And I bake all the time."
"You only ever bake when you need something."
"That's not true."
I cross my arms across my chest. "Yes, it is. When you were in seventh grade you made me blueberry pie and then asked me to do your biology homework."
"Only because you were better at it than me. You'd been in school longer!"
"I think it was banana bread when you borrowed my car, without asking, and managed to scratch the paint."
"Coincidental." Sarah slings a towel over her shoulder. "I just like to experiment. And let's not rehash all those old incidents. It's water under the bridge."
"Sure." I take a seat on the stool by the kitchen island and grab one of the raspberry-vanilla muffins. "At least let me have a couple of bites before you hit me with the bad news."
"I don't have bad news!"
I taste the still-warm muffin. I had to give it to her—they were great. But what I discover makes me even more suspicious. "You even put pecans in them?"
"Am I the best baby sister or what?"
"Who did you kill and what evidence do I need to dispose of?"
She laughs. "You're too suspicious for your own good."
"Observant," I correct. "Well-trained."
"It's not really a favor, anyway." She slides into the chair opposite me and grabs a muffin of her own. "It's more of a really, really, really good idea."
"If the idea is truly that great, why do I need pastries to be convinced?"
"Because you're resistant to change."
I suppress a sigh. "Tell me."
"Remember the new girl in town that I told you about the other day? The Rhodes’ niece?"
I give a non-committal nod and reach for another muffin. Yes, I knew the Rhodes’ niece, alright. The image of her flashed before my eyes again. Slim and strong, with the eyes of a dreamer.
"I heard from Mrs. Masters that she just happens to be a massage therapist. That's what she was working with, back in Dallas."
"A masseuse," I repeat.
"A massage therapist."
"Right. And what about it?" It was the last thing I had imagined Lucy to do for a living, but then again, she was clearly not a baker.
"Well, I was thinking… we have that building out by the western field. The one with the red roof? It’s very spacious.”
"It's spacious because it's a reception hall. One that's in use."
"But we've only had use for it twice in the past four years," Sarah says excitedly. "We don't need it for wedding receptions, either, because it's too secluded. I have a brilliant idea… let's convert it into a wellness and spa area! All fancy retreats have them."
"We already have a gym."
"No, we have a depressing corner with two treadmills and a few weights. But imagine if we make it into a proper gym with a spa area. A massage room… perhaps even a sauna? We could put the old hot tub right outside it, and then we'd hire Lucy on an ad hoc basis for as long as she's in town! It's the perfect solution."
"We don't have a problem, so she's not a solution," I grind out. "The reception hall is useful."
"But not as useful as a spa section would be. Imagi
ne how good it would look in our advertising! Morris Ranch, Retreat and Spa. A place to truly relax."
"We don't have enough guests for it."
"Which is why it would work great to hire her as a consultant! She's already working at the bakery and would only come up here when needed, whenever a guest books a massage treatment."
I go to the fridge and rummage around for a can of beer. As ideas go, it's not Sarah's worst. I might not be one for all that essential oil stuff, but I would have to be blind not to see the potential value—monetarily. The same people who come out here to be close to nature, who want to ride the trails and pick their own strawberries, would also love a hot stone massage and a dip in the hot tub. It's exactly the kind of fancy shit that city folk pay top dollar for.
Sarah whoops in triumph behind me. "You're silent. You're actually silent for once, Ollie. I know what that means. I win!"
"I haven't said yes."
"But you're considering it! I can run some numbers if you like."
I roll my eyes. We both know crunching the numbers is my thing. "I’ll do it. But you haven't spoken to her yet, have you?"
"I popped into the bakery yesterday afternoon, but don’t worry, I didn't ask her about it, of course. I only just thought of it this morning!"
"Hence, the muffins."
She puts her hand on her hips and shoots me a look so like Mom's that I have to smile. "Don't be a wiseass."
"Fine."
"She seems like a genuinely sweet girl. We’ve had business with her aunt and uncle for ages and they’re nothing if not hard-working. I’m sure she’ll be the same.”
I take a sip of my beer. "What do we do with the space when she leaves?"
"Why do you think she'll leave?"
"Sarah, how often have the Rhodes talked about their nieces and nephews?"
She pouts. "A few times."
"Every time you buy something in their bakery. Lucy is the one with the dreams, the big city girl. I don't know why she's here, but she's not here to stay. And when she leaves, we’ll be left with an area of the ranch we've sunk money and time into but have no way of monetizing."
"We could employ someone else."
"Who? This town is tiny."
She throws her hands up. "We'll find someone! Bring someone in from out of town. If the facilities are here, then they're here—and we can take it from there."
I don't point out that her premise is flawed. If a business operated like that, it wouldn't be operating for particularly long. But Sarah has always been more about the big picture stuff, the ideas. A walking Pinterest board, as she likes to refer to herself.
She once called me an Excel sheet.
I took it as a compliment.
"Ollie, please just promise me that you'll think about it?"
"I promise."
I say it to humor her—I don't need to think about it for another second to know that it would be a terrible idea for Lucy Rhodes to spend time up here. It would mean I’d have to interact with her again, deal with the mega-watt smile and the teasing. It would distract the men up here. Hell, it would distract me.
Sarah resolutely packs the muffins away after I've had my fifth and declares she'll share them with the farmhands. I tell her there's no need—they couldn't possibly love her more than they already do. Sarah laughs as if it was a joke.
I drive down to town that evening and head to the Red Flag to meet an old friend from out of town. It's the only place in town open past dinner time where they'll serve you a beer. It's also one of the few places I'm not approached by random townspeople, all who have a story to share about my father or my sister or how they once read about me in the newspaper when I was still in active service.
There are a few awkward nods and waves when I enter, but by now, the regulars know me well enough to leave me alone. I'm never unfriendly, per se, I'm just not friendly. Nothing personal, but small talk just isn't in my nature anymore. Maybe it never was.
Logan is already there when I arrive, a half-emptied pint in front of him. "It's good to see you, man."
I put a hand on his shoulder. "You too, brother."
"How's the Ranch?"
"We're almost fully booked this week."
"That's great. Where are they from this time?"
"You won't believe this. They're here for a bird."
Logan frowns. "Bird as in a hot chick?"
"No, I mean a fucking sparrow. They're all bird-watchers."
He breaks out into a wide grin. "You're shitting me."
"Not at all. I even overheard Mandy pull some lame bird joke at check-in and they all doubled over with laughter. Easiest guests I've ever had."
His eyes narrow at the mention of my receptionist. "She's wonderful with stuff like that."
I sigh. "When are you going to grow a pair and just talk to her?"
"She doesn't want to talk to me. Not anymore."
"I don't believe that."
"I left her high and dry when I enlisted. I get it." He rolls his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the topic. "It was great of you to give her a job up there, by the way."
"Of course. With a recommendation from you, how could I not?"
I watch Logan drain his beer and eye the circles under his eyes. "Are you alright?"
"Yeah, just a long day, that’s all."
"What's up?"
"My uncle practically ran the shop until it was on its knees, and then left it to me. There's so much debt, man."
"Have you thought about closing it?"
"Every day. There's nothing left for me in over in Grantville anyway. Maybe I should just go back to working as an electrician."
"I need one at the farm at least twice weekly, so you'd have all my business right from the get-go."
"Thanks, man."
We order another round of beers and shoot the shit for a while. Logan and I served together, and we share a familiarity I have with few others. The honest to God's truth was that without him and the rest of my brothers, I might not have survived. Not the tours I served, and definitely not the difficult readjustment back stateside.
Logan nods at my shoulder. "Still good?"
"It's fine. How's the leg?"
He frowns and takes a sip of his drink. “Hanging in there.”
We fall into companionable silence. We're in the same boat these days.
It's not hard to overhear what's being said in the booth behind me. The men are loud, the music's low, and Logan and I are both trained to pick up conversations from far away. When I realize what they're talking about, I'm all ears.
"Did you see the flyers she put up this afternoon? She's looking for clients, boys."
"Yeeeees," one of the men drawl. I recognize the voice: Gavin Whittaker. My hand tightens around my beer. Somehow, boys who were assholes at ten are still assholes at thirty. Funny how that works out.
"Did you get a chance to see her in person?"
Gavin snorts. "Hell yes. Insane little body. The Rhodes might have had a point, going on about her all these years."
"Though they never told us what she worked with."
"With good reason! A masseuse… holy hell. We all know what that's code for."
They share a crude laugh, and I don't know if it's the alcohol or some amount of innate chivalry, but I turn around. I hit them with a glare that used to make my soldiers quake.
Little Thomas Wiley sees me first and straightens, almost unconsciously. "Hi, Oliver. Didn't see you there."
Gavin tips his beer towards me. "Morris! Join us?" But then he catches sight of Logan over my shoulder, with his buzz-cut and unfriendly smile. "Oh, but you already have company."
I give them a tight-lipped smile. "I couldn't help but overhear your discussion about Lucy Rhodes."
"Did you see those flyers too?" Thomas asks. He was never really a troublemaker in school, but I remember him hanging around assholes.
"I did."
Gavin raises an eyebrow. "You'll have to get in line, Morris. I'm guessin
g most of us here will want to sample her services."
"You know, we used to have massage therapists in the Marines."
"I'm sure you did." Gavin grins—I want to knock it right off his face. "A girl in every port, right?"
"Licensed, trained massage therapists that worked on overworked muscles and injuries. Tell me, Logan, was that ever enjoyable?"
He doesn't miss a beat. "It hurt like a motherfucker."
"It really did. Miss Rhodes also happens to be a licensed, trained massage therapist. Proposition her at work, and you can bet your ass that the entire town will hear about it. More specifically, I will."
I can tell that Thomas is uncomfortable, sweat shining on his forehead. The others are squirming in their seats and exchanging glances.
Gavin looks furious. "Who do you think you are, Oliver? Being the mayor's boy doesn't make you the mayor himself. A sheriff? Are we in a bad Western movie?"
Logan rises behind me, and I realize that I need to de-escalate this and fast. He's always had a shorter fuse than me, and he's had more difficulty re-integrating into society than me.
"No, we're in Claremont. And we don't behave like scum here." I rise too, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Logan. He doesn't say anything, but his physical presence is enough to make it clear that he's backing me up.
"We don't want any trouble." This time it's Duncan, Gavin’s younger brother, who’s been following the conversation silently. He worked as one of my farmhands several summers ago. Decent enough guy, considering his unfortunate relation. "We're sorry, Oliver. It was just some harmless banter."
"I'm sure it was.” I pause and look at them, one by one. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, boys."
Logan and I leave the Red Flag and he lets the door slam shut behind us. We walk down Main Street without a destination, both of us jacked up on adrenaline and anger.
"Shit. Who was that guy?"
"Claremont's resident dick-head."
Logan snorts. "He's that, for sure."
"Didn't mean to cut the night short like that."
"Hey, I don't mind. Got my blood pumping for the first time in days. Feels good,” Logan says. “What about that girl they were talking about?"
I shove my hands in my pockets. "One of the locals' niece. She got here recently."
