by Jean Oram
She focused on the group, using their reactions as she would a feedback panel. He was receiving genuine smiles and lots of hellos, which was good. People in their golden years didn’t often put up with crap or act insincerely. But that didn’t mean they were taking him seriously. In fact, one of the women was stroking the sleeve of his suit jacket, easing closer.
Oh, dear.
Olivia cleared her throat and subtly swung her clipboard, cuing Devon to move into his pitch for signatures. He waved her away, laughing at something someone said and joking about taking off his shirt to flex for them.
He was his own worst enemy. Rapport and laughter didn’t mean support for his campaign. Didn’t he understand that? He needed to leverage what he had to get signatures. He helped people. They counted on him. Deliver that message loud and clear. Tell them what he wanted them to do, what he needed from them. Then move on. Chop, chop. Work the room.
It was time to step in and help, but she’d ambitiously overdressed in the last remaining outfit in her overnight bag—a pantsuit. She needed to loosen up a bit before she stepped in, and she also needed to have her bags overnighted to Blueberry Springs so she’d have something fresh to wear come morning. Olivia stepped from the room, sent a message to her sister asking her to pack her suitcases for her, then arranged for a courier to pick them up from the retreat’s hotel.
Satisfied she had things under control, she patted her bun before carefully letting her hair down. She unbuttoned her suit jacket before opting to remove it completely. She had to be careful she didn’t appear to be trying too hard before these men and women donned in comfortable attire—sweatshirts with kittens sitting in flowered meadows, and pants with elastic waistbands.
Tomorrow, when she had her suitcases, she would aim for something a bit more down-home and casual. Still professional, but maybe a little less…precise.
Quietly, Olivia joined Devon, standing beside him. She gave the group a big smile. “Hi, I’m Olivia Carrington, Devon’s friend. Did he mention that he wants to help the residents here with a new roof?”
The table of women perked up, one murmuring, “Oh, what a dear you are, Devon. Always so thoughtful.”
“So helpful,” another added.
“But as you may have heard,” Olivia said, “the current mayor, Barry Lunn, doesn’t agree that you need a new roof.”
“He says tar would patch it up,” one of the ladies said, then pressed her mouth in a determined line.
“Been saying that for months and is there still water leaking into my room? Yes, there is,” another muttered, taking a sip of deep red juice. “The sound of it dripping in a rainstorm makes me have to pee all night long. It’s a form of torture, I tell you.”
“Devon believes the roof needs replacing,” Olivia stated, trying to keep the ladies on track, “and as mayor, he would do that. Immediately after coming into power.”
“Really?” The women were eyeing Devon.
“You deserve a roof that will keep you dry and safe,” he said.
“And my sherry stash!” the woman with the juice said, lifting her plastic cup in a silent toast. “The day the roof fell in would be the day I needed it the most.” She grinned at Olivia and downed the rest of the liquid. “Doctors recommend several servings of fruit a day, and that should take care of at least one of ’em.”
Devon laughed and gave the woman’s hand an affectionate squeeze. “We’ll keep your stash safe, Gran. I promise. All I need are your signatures today and your vote on election day.”
“Then consider it done.” Gran, pen poised over the petition, asked, “Can we sign more than once?”
Devon shook his head.
She snorted and frowned. “Since when do you care for rules?”
“Reggie can sign,” Devon said.
“Reggie’s my boyfriend,” Gran said to Olivia, leaning closer as though sharing a naughty secret. “Oh, and be a dear?” She shoved a piece of construction paper covered in cotton balls her way. “This thing looks like a three-year-old made it. Toss it out, would you?”
Olivia accepted the craft. “It’s…”
“It’s trash. Put it where it belongs.” She turned to Devon, demanding, “When is Beth going to quit popping out babies and come back and run these activities? She at least had us make crafts that were interesting and less juvenile.”
Devon said quietly to Olivia, “Her granddaughter usually runs these activities, but is on maternity leave.”
“Baby number four,” Gran said. “Oz can’t keep it in his pants, apparently.”
Devon chuckled. “Give them a break. They’re crazy in love.”
Olivia vaguely recalled that feeling. It generally overrode anything in the “better judgment” department.
“He’s a very good dancer, you know. Even if he did break my hip that one time.”
Olivia gave Devon an inquiring look. “Long story,” he muttered out the side of his mouth.
She was getting sucked in. They needed to move faster, spread the message, then leave.
But everyone, including Devon, was so relaxed, so chatty and at home. It reminded her of when she used to volunteer at an old folks’ center. The regulars had taught her several sewing techniques to help with her costumes for a drama production. Half the time she’d forget to sew, absorbed by their life stories instead.
It would be so nice to just sit and chat without an agenda. Chill out, relax, have fun, laugh.
But that wasn’t why she was here. Women like Emma needed valerian.
“Shall we get Reggie to sign?” she asked.
“Reggie Max!” Gran leaned back in her chair and hollered, “Get your butt over here and sign this petition. And bring your bridge buddies, too.”
A man across the room grumbled but complied, putting down the playing cards he’d been shuffling and bringing several friends over to Gran’s table. Not bad. But Devon needed to move faster. Seeming to understand the issue, he moved to the next table, trying out Olivia’s technique of “help me help you.”
He’d always been a fast learner. And darn if he didn’t look handsome, so patient when he had to repeat himself louder so someone hard of hearing didn’t miss out on what he was saying. He was a good man and Olivia found herself hoping he won even if Carrington ended up having to search elsewhere for the illusive magical ingredient.
“When are you two getting married?” Gran asked, sliding the clipboard back to Olivia after the men finished adding their names.
“Sorry?” She blinked at the older woman.
“You and Devon. He’s a dear.”
“We’re just friends.”
“We can fix that,” Gran replied with a mischievous wink.
“Day after tomorrow,” Devon teased, leaning back in his chair to collect the clipboard. “Didn’t invite you because it’s an open bar.”
“Oh, you,” Gran said with a laugh. “The jeweler in town is having a sale, I hear.”
“No jeweler required. Livvy’s not my type and vice versa.” Devon’s face darkened and he moved back to his new table.
Olivia swallowed as Gran’s eyebrows lifted. Then she dropped an elbow on the table to lean closer. “Is that so?”
He’d asked her to marry him once. A very long time ago.
She’d said no.
Of course she’d said no! It hadn’t even been a real proposal. It had been a knee-jerk act of desperation, him scrambling for a way to deal with the very adult reality of becoming parents. They’d been young, newly in love. Not ready for a lifelong commitment and big responsibilities. She’d been grateful her mom and dad had been there, steady, calm, plan in hand, giving her time and space to think while pulling herself back together again, even though it had meant stepping back from Devon.
He hadn’t understood, though, and had taken it all as a rejection and stormed off, thinking she was permanently choosing her old life and family over him, their love.
She supposed in a way she had been. But he’d been so quick to assume the
worst it still hurt after all these years.
“Daredevil racer,” Gran said, with a hint of excitement lacing her voice. “Sexy man beast who never dates anyone longer than about three seconds? Not your type? So very boring of you, dear.”
Olivia smiled, not feeling it. That had been the very thing that had attracted her to Devon in the first place. And then she’d discovered so much more than she’d expected. It seemed as though she was still discovering.
“You still race?” Olivia asked Devon.
Devon mumbled something she couldn’t quite catch as he stood. He’d already collected a table of signatures. He was a quick study and she felt a surge of pride.
This could be good. Great, even.
Devon chuckled at Gran. “And did you say ‘sexy man beast’?” He leaned over her table, planting a kiss on the top of her head. “I like it. I might get that put on a pin for my lapel.”
“Don’t you dare,” Olivia said, even though she knew he was joking—or at least she hoped so. But he was a total dear, kissing his grandmother. The two had a rapport that made Olivia envious. Grammy, her mom’s mom, used to joke around—the only one in Olivia’s family with a sense of humor other than Emma. Their only remaining grandparent—their paternal grandmother—would never tolerate that kind of oddball behavior. Visits were a very somber affair, with constant judgment in regards to manners.
Gran informed Olivia, “He can’t beat his sister Mandy around the racetrack any longer.”
“Really? Tell me more,” she said, giving Devon a wicked smile.
“Hey, now…” he said mildly. “I’m right here if you plan to slaughter me with inaccuracies.”
“You’re lucky you two are so close,” Olivia said. “You must have such fun at family events.”
“Oh, we’re not related,” Devon said in surprise.
“Then why do you call her Gran?”
“Everyone does,” Gran said matter-of-factly.
“I actually can’t remember your real name,” Devon said, studying the older lady.
“Me, neither,” she said with a wise look full of mischief.
“Gran is…let’s see… My sister’s ex-boyfriend’s wife’s grandmother.” He shrugged and gave Gran’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze that made Olivia’s heart tighten. “So that makes her mine, too.”
“Well, that’s sappy,” Gran said. “You still on for strip poker Wednesday night? I’ll bring the sherry.”
Devon, say no. You’re running for mayor! Say no!
Devon caught Olivia’s expression and let out a laugh, his whole face brightening.
“Sure, Gran. I’ll be sure to go commando so you’ll have a chance of seeing something good this time.”
Gran laughed in turn, and Olivia honestly didn’t know if she should believe the two of them. She really, really hoped they were joking, because if they weren’t there was absolutely no hope she’d ever make Devon into proper mayoral material—even if he did have a way of making her smile.
So Devon had a campaign manager. Or a public relations rep. Whatever title it was that Olivia had claimed for herself. And she was good, too. He’d seen the changes in how people perceived his run for mayor when he’d done that light campaigning at the old folk’s home. Everything Olivia had told him to do—except wear the suit, of course—had been right on target.
He yawned and pushed away from his kitchen counter where the two of them had just finished hashing out their land agreement and a tentative PR and campaign plan.
It had been strangely easy. No arguing.
Everything was secured. He felt hopeful. Truly hopeful.
Still, staying on guard for the two hours they’d worked after getting signatures at the home had tied up his mind. He’d felt it was his duty to look at everything they’d discussed and planned from all angles, so he and the town wouldn’t be taken by a surprise loophole.
It was almost eight-thirty and he was ready to unwind after their long, productive day. And he had just the ticket—one pass for tonight’s sold-out music festival concert with Vapid Magpie, a band he’d been longing to see for what felt like forever.
But what was he supposed to do? Ditch Olivia? Even if he’d had a ticket for her, she’d likely consider Vapid Magpie unsophisticated shouting.
There were still no vacancies in town, which meant he had to remain the pleasant host.
“Is Ginger home tonight?” he asked. “She might be keen for some catching up with you.”
“You have a hot date?” Olivia asked lightly.
The doorbell rang and Devon bolted from his spot, Copter barking loudly, waking Awesome Dog. The two followed him to the door.
It was Trish, Devon’s stepmom. Copter tried to lick her hand, then lay down beside Devon when she pulled her hand out of reach. Awesome Dog preferred to hook his bottom jaw over his top one and watch Trish from afar.
“Uh, hi, Trish.”
Trish leaned to her left, trying to peek into the house. “I hear you have a woman staying with you. That pretty one from the city.”
Devon wondered how he could get rid of his stepmom without hurting her feelings.
The bangles on her arm jangled as she waved at Olivia, who’d come up behind him. He sighed and stepped aside, introducing them to each other.
His stepmother’s eyes lit up. “Oh, you are so beautiful!” She added in a low aside, “What a fantastic catch, Devon.”
At least she hadn’t told him Olivia was out of his league. How many times had he heard that in the past forty-eight hours? Yes, she lived in an entirely different world. One with rare paintings on the walls, not framed running bibs and ribbons that were only there thanks to a decorator friend. Real marble, not plastic flooring made to imitate. Not that it mattered. He already knew she didn’t want to be part of his world.
At least not beyond raping the land here, as the protesters so aptly put it.
But Trish? She thought Devon was up to snuff, which was an unexpectedly nice compliment.
“Welcome to Blueberry Springs!” Trish pushed past him. “I love the length of your nails. Is the nude look in?” Olivia had removed her chipped polish after her meadow mud incident, and Trish was comparing her racer-red nails to Olivia’s.
“Did you need something, Trish?” Devon asked.
“Oh, I just wanted to say hi.” She smiled and eyed Olivia’s ring finger. “Are you staying here? With Devon? And you’re single?”
“Trish,” he said patiently. “This is a business thing. Nothing more. Everything is booked, with the festival, and even though she’s Ginger’s old roommate, I’m the only one with space.”
“I can’t believe they live in that mess!” Trish stated, placing a hand over her enhanced cleavage. “Someone ought to put them on a TV show that can fix them. They’re like hoarders. If she was my daughter—”
“Don’t meddle,” Devon said automatically.
Trish patted her hair. “Well. I was just saying.”
His stepmom meant well and she did try to be helpful. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been thrust into motherhood when his father had presented her with a houseful of teenagers. She’d had to sprint to catch up with her new role and had slightly overshot aspects of it, as she was only eight years older than Devon, who’d been thirteen at the time.
“My husband—Devon’s father—is always looking out for Devon’s baby sister, but Devon won’t let us do that for him.” She patted his shoulder, beaming at Olivia, who’d remained silent so far. “He’s a big boy and wants his independence.”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Your father and I like to look out for the ones we love,” Trish explained. She turned back to Olivia. “I heard you’ve already changed a few minds about this boy’s ability to run this town.”
“I have the ability to run this town.” And he was not a boy. He was a man. A man who had come home from school one semester shy of completing his degree because the family had needed a stabilizing presence after Ethan’s accident. He�
�d spent the next few years struggling to buoy the family’s spirits, and taking night classes in the city to complete his degree. He was pretty certain that excluded him from being referred to as a boy.
“You’re very good at your job and you’d be a fine mayor, Devon. It’s what I tell all my friends,” Trish said gently. “What are you doing tonight?” she asked Olivia. “Devon’s going to see Sappy Bagpipes—”
“Vapid Magpie,” Devon corrected, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. He was surprised Trish was keeping tabs on him.
“—and the girls and I are playing cards. Why don’t you come join us? There’s no need for you to be alone.”
The “girls” were Mary Alice, Liz and a few other of the top dozen gossips in town. Devon shook his head, hoping Olivia would take his cue.
“That sounds lovely,” Olivia said pleasantly, and he died inside. She would never make it out unscathed.
“Please, no,” Devon muttered under his breath, and his stepmom shot him a look before focusing on his ex-girlfriend. Trish was giving Olivia a thoughtful look and Devon was certain she was slowly piecing together their past.
“She has a ticket,” Devon said quickly. Nicola had organized the event; surely she could wrangle another ticket or let Olivia slip in the back.
Olivia’s eyes lit up. “I love Vapid Magpie.”
Devon tried not to act surprised.
“So aggressive and angsty.” She hooked her arm through Devon’s with a smile. Her chest was pressed against him, distracting him, her smile dazzling and genuine. It felt right having her on his arm, her mood light and joyful. “And your son is going to be a fabulous mayor, Trish.”
And that was why he loved Olivia.
That girl could pick up his hints like nobody else.
Not that it was love-love. It was just an expression, really. Just friendly, friend-type stuff. The kind that didn’t involve thoughts about certain lacy items worn to bed under his roof.
Yup. He was going to have to exhaust himself at the festival so he crashed as soon as his head hit the pillow, or he’d be up all night, his brain filled with fantasies that involved the two of them and that little nightie of hers.
