by LK Farlow
“I…I was eighteen when I met Grant. He saw me out and about with Mama one day and jumped through all kinds of hoops to find me, or so the story goes.” I use air quotes when I say “find me” because in hindsight, in a town that small, it’s clear that a man with as much money and power as Grant doesn’t jump through hoops for anything. No, he gets it delivered on a silver platter.
“We had what you’d call an old-fashioned r-romance. Him courting me made the papers, if you can believe that.” I bark out a humorless laugh and continue. “He was such a gentleman, always so proper and polite. For that first year, we never did more than hold hands. Turns out he was okay with that because he was getting plenty on the s-side. When Grant wasn’t taking me on very public dates or showing me off at galas and fundraisers, he was with one of his many mistresses.”
Simon lets out a disgusted grunt, but I power on, because I know this story gets worse before it gets better.
“I was just shy of twenty-one when h-he asked for my hand in m-marriage.” I can’t bring myself to even look at Simon right now. “Made a big deal about it, asked my mama’s permission first, presenting her with her own piece of jewelry before asking me. Grant knew just how to finesse things and people, how to get his way. Then again, Mama was so blinded by all his flashy clothes and fast cars and fancy words, she didn’t need much finessing at all. I was Charleston’s own rags-to-riches story—a real-life Cinderella.
“Things were pretty good for the first year or two. He was always pretty controlling, but he painted it as concern. Concern for my image—‘Now, Magnolia, what would people think of a woman like you gallivanting about on her own?’ Concern for my safety—‘Magnolia, really, you shouldn’t go out without me, especially dressed like that! Untoward men might assume you’re asking for their attention.’ Mind you, my clothes were all handpicked by his stylist. After a while, I realized his supposed concern for my well-being was his way of exerting control over me.
“I questioned him about it once, but the only answer I received was the back of his hand slamming into my cheek. I never asked again after that. Instead, I molded myself into what he wanted—into who he wanted.”
Simon reaches across the center console to wipe away the tears running down my cheeks. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he asks, and I nod. “It’s okay, Goldilocks, we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”
Inwardly, I want nothing more than to never speak of Grant Ellington ever again, but with the way things seem to be progressing with Simon and me, he deserves to know the kind of damaged goods he’s getting.
“N-no, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, pinning his blue eyes to mine.
I nod and pick up where I left off. “No matter how hard I tried to be perfect for him, I always seemed to mess up. The smallest things seemed to enrage him—a speck of dust on the mantle, the food not being hot enough, the wrong facial expression. I spent years walking on eggshells, terrified of the man whose last name I’d taken.
“You know, in our vows, we took each other for better or for worse, and apparently that meant I had to be better or he’d be worse.” My sad attempt at humor falls flat, and instead of laughing, Simon eyes me until I continue. “Anyway, eventually backhanded slaps morphed into full-fledged punches, and black eyes became broken bones.”
Simon’s breathing is harsh and heavy. His fists are clenched so tight, it’s a miracle his knuckles aren’t splitting through his skin.
“One night, he…he al-almost k-killed me.” Simon lets out a tortured howl. “Left me there, c-crumpled on the kitchen f-floor and went to meet his buddies. I lay there for hours until finally the fear of him returning won out, and I crawled my way to where I knew he had some c-cash stashed in the kitchen. I d-didn’t take a lot, just enough to get here.
“I t-took a cab to the bus station, got on a bus to Atlanta, and stayed there for a bit in a shelter while f-figuring out what to do next. I used some of the leftover m-money to get a new phone, and I figured out a way to get in touch with Seraphine. She and Uncle Dave welcomed me with open arms. Seraphine even got me my job at Southern Roots. Uncle Dave bought me a bus ticket, and now h-here I am.”
When I finish the CliffsNotes version of my long, sad tale, Simon is looking at me with tears in his eyes. The thought of this big, strong man shedding even a single tear over me is almost enough to knock the wind out of my lungs.
Wordlessly, he reaches over and shuts off the car, pulling the key from the ignition. He extracts himself from the passenger seat before stalking around to my side of the car. “We can do this tomorrow. C’mon.” He sounds mad, but I know he’s mad for me, not at me, and that makes all the difference in the world.
I accept his outstretched hand, and together we make our way back into the house. Inside, Simon guides me to his recliner, where he settles himself before pulling me down into his lap. With his arms wrapped tightly around me, I feel not only safe but cherished and wanted and special—things I thought I’d forgotten how to feel, things I’d doubted I ever even was.
Chapter Twelve
SIMON
I don’t remember dozing off, but all the same, I wake up in my recliner to my body intertwined with Magnolia’s like one big pretzel. The chair is big and comfy, but the two of us in it together is pushing it in the most glorious way.
Hell, this chair can break and fall to pieces for all I care, as long as I’m holding her.
Softly, I trail the pads of my fingers across her cheek, not enough pressure to wake her, just enough to let me feel her silky skin. The thought of her asshole ex-husband laying his hands on her makes me so damn angry. How a man can use his strength against a woman—especially one as good and pure as Magnolia—is something I’ll never understand. Makes me fucking sick to think of the things she went though at that monster’s hands. Men like him should be castrated, plain and simple.
I’ve been watching her sleep for about fifteen minutes when she finally begins to stir, blinking her big blue eyes open one at a time. Her vision shifts down to where I’ve been stroking her cheek and her eyes widen, but she doesn’t pull away or move to get up. No, she snuggles in closer, laying her head on my chest.
“You d-don’t think differently of me now, right?” Magnolia asks, her voice barely audible.
My chest tightens at her words. The very fact that she’d think that slays me. Our fucking society is so quick to victim-blame that it makes me sick. “No, Goldilocks. Never.”
“E-even though I didn’t leave the first time he hit me?” There’s a raw vulnerability to her voice, and if I wasn’t already seated, swear to God, it’d bring me to my knees.
“Even though. Sometimes it’s not as black and white as that. Sometimes you can’t leave. I get that, Magnolia, and I would never think less of you—or anyone—for doing their best in an unthinkable situation, and that’s what you did.”
“How do you know? That I did my best?”
“Because I know you.”
Magnolia shifts up to face me, and we’re almost nose to nose. “Thank you,” she whispers, her words skating across my lips.
I sit statue-still, afraid if I move, she’ll move, and my God, I don’t want her to move. Thankfully, she doesn’t—well, not away from me at least. Instead, she leans farther into me, brushing her lips against mine, the movement soft but so damn erotic.
She moves to press her lips to mine again and I capture her full bottom lip, sucking on it before releasing it and diving headlong into our kiss.
Turning herself fully so she’s straddling me, Magnolia rocks her hips, moaning at the contact. As much as I want to do away with the clothes that separate us, grip her hips, and thrust home, I refrain. This right here…it isn’t about me.
It’s about Magnolia, her wants and needs, and if dry-humping me to oblivion is what she wants, then blue balls be damned, my girl’s gonna get what she wants.
Our kiss becomes frenzied, right along with Magnolia’s movements, until
she’s sweaty and panting. I can tell she’s close, and I can’t wait to watch her fall over the edge. Eager to help her finish, I bring my hands to her hips to slow her movements and begin guiding them, rolling my hips so my hard meets her soft, right where she needs it most.
Magnolia’s eyes widen, and her mouth forms the most perfect little O before she throws her head back and rides out her release, collapsing on top of me.
I wait for her to lift her head from my chest, but she stays down. “Magnolia,” I prompt, but…nothing. “Hey, Mags,” I try again, running my hands through her hair. “Look at me.”
“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, trying to scramble off my lap.
My instinct is to hold her there, but knowing her past, I’ll never hold her down or make her feel trapped. “Sorry? For what?”
My question gives her pause, and she sinks back onto my thighs. “F-for what just h-happened.”
Carefully, I trail my thumb across her jaw. “Goldilocks, what just happened was nothing short of pure fucking magic. Never seen anything more beautiful than you falling apart all over me.”
“You…you mean you’re not mad that I…that I…finished?”
Her words and tone stop me short. “Wait.” She can’t mean what I think she means. “He didn’t take care of your needs first?”
Magnolia’s cheeks burn crimson. “Grant s-said it was sh-shameful. He said—”
I can’t hear any more of this shit. I silence her with a soft kiss. “There’s nothing shameful about what just happened. Not. A. Damn. Thing.” I slide Magnolia from my lap and stand from the recliner, pulling her up so she’s standing too. “Any real man puts his woman first, in the bedroom and in day-to-day life. A real man knows watching his woman fall apart is a fucking honor. You hear me?”
Magnolia brings her blues to mine, meeting my gaze with watery eyes. “Yeah, Simon, I hear you.” I keep our eyes locked until I’m satisfied she believes me then pull her into my arms. Against my shirt, Magnolia mumbles, “How’d you get to be such a good man?”
“My dad taught me everything not to do,” I deadpan.
“Ah. Yeah, that’ll do it.”
Magnolia and I spend the rest of the day cuddled up on the couch, bingeing on Netflix shows, only pausing to scarf down food. Before either one of us know it, hours and hours have passed, and the sun has long since set.
Just as the credits for the latest episode of our show roll, Magnolia’s phone pings somewhere in the house, causing her to get up and search for it.
Curious about exactly how much time has passed, I set off on a hunt for my own phone, only to find it wedged between the cushion and the side of the recliner we were sleeping—and doing other things—in. Damn, it’s nearing eight o’clock already. Time flies…
Moments later, Magnolia walks back into the room, looking wide-eyed and flustered. “Everything okay?” I ask, rushing to her side. It’s been an emotional day for the both of us, but especially her.
Hesitantly, she nods her head. “Uh, yeah. I think so.”
“Talk to me, Goldilocks.” I wind a strand of her hair that’s slipped from her braid around my index finger and tug on it gently before releasing it.
“No, it’s n-nothing, really. I got a text message. It was a wrong number, but still a really weird message.”
“Weird how?”
“Weird like…here.” She thrusts her phone toward me. “Just look.”
I take the phone from her and scan over the screen. My eyes widen at the message before me. I even read it twice to make sure I read it right.
Unknown: I know where you are.
“What in the hell?”
Magnolia shrugs her shoulders.
“You don’t recognize the number at all?” I ask.
“Nu-uh. I’ve only ever lived here and Charleston. I couldn’t even begin to tell you where that area code comes from.”
“Yeah, I’ve never seen it either. Hang on, I’ll Google it.” After unlocking my phone, I tap on the little microphone in the Google search bar and begin speaking after it beeps at me. “Okay, Google, where is area code 617?”
“Area code six hundred seventeen primarily serves Boston, Cambridge, Quincy, and others.”
“You know anyone in Boston?” I ask, just to double-check.
“Nope, not a single soul.” She sounds resolute.
“Good. Hopefully they realize they sent that weird-ass text to the wrong person.”
Chapter Thirteen
MAGNOLIA
It’s been a couple weeks since the fateful weekend I confessed most of my past to Simon, but I’m still guarding some secrets that are close to my heart, telling myself those are for another day.
It’s not that I want to keep things from him, but I know telling him will only change the way he thinks of me, and I’m not ready to lose whatever it is he and I have.
Over the course of the last two weeks, Simon not only taught me how to drive, but also had me added to his insurance. I was worried that since I had a gap in coverage the rates would skyrocket, but somehow Simon was able to get me an affordable price. We argued over how we were going to split the payment—I told him we should each pay our own portion, while Simon argued we should half it down the middle. I told him that wasn’t fair, because he shouldn’t have to pay more than he was paying prior to adding me, and thank the Lord, he finally listened and agreed to my suggestion…though I’m pretty sure he never deposited the cash I gave him for the first month of the policy.
Regardless, it’s something else to hit the road knowing I’m no longer a danger to myself or others. Being able to get up and go whenever and wherever I fancy is the most precious kind of freedom. For that alone, I’m forever indebted to Simon McAllister.
Today, I’m using my newfound freedom to meet the girls for a late afternoon coffee date and a little shopping. I still majorly suck at parallel parking, so I forgo the open spot in front of Dream Beans, our local coffee shop, and head a few blocks down out of the way to a small parking lot. It’s easier, and the walk in the fresh spring air will do me good.
By the time I make it to Dream Beans, little beads of sweat dot my hairline along my forehead. It may only be March, but it’s gearing up to be a brutal spring that’ll only give way to an even hotter summer. I always thought it was hot in Charleston, but South Carolina has nothing on Dogwood, Alabama.
That said, I’d gladly live in the middle of an inferno if it meant Grant couldn’t touch me ever again.
When I step through the door, the cool air in the coffee shop makes my skin turn to gooseflesh. Wrapping my arms around myself, I scan the funky little café, looking for my girls. Luckily, they’re loud as hell, which makes them hard to miss.
I step up to the reclaimed wood coffee bar to place my order. “Welcome to Dream Beans. What’ll you have today?”
Offering the barista a timid smile, I spout off my order. “Just a small coffee with room for cream, please.”
She taps on the touchscreen order pad a few times before telling me my total. “That’ll be two dollars and fifty-six cents today.”
I fish out a five-dollar bill and tell her to keep the change.
“Your coffee should be ready in just a few. We’ll call your name when it’s up.”
I thank her before winding my way to the table in the back where Seraphine, Myla Rose, and Azalea are all seated. “Well, look who finally made it!” Seraphine hollers as I approach.
Ducking my head, I smile at them and take the seat next to my cousin.
“Where’s Brody?” I ask Myla Rose.
“With Cash’s mom. I swear, she can’t get enough of him.”
Her words make me smile. If there’s one thing in this life I know without any uncertainty, it’s that her son is well loved.
“Gotcha. That’ll certainly make shopping easier.”
“Who cares about shopping!” Azalea scoffs. “I want to know about you and Simon.”
Internally, I cringe. Ever since seeing him hold my ha
nd at Azteca’s, they’ve been on me about him. I’ve skated by at the salon, avoiding them by busying myself with clients, but I have a feeling the jig is up.
“There’s n-nothing to say. We’re…we’re friends.” I try to sound strong and convincing, but it’s hopeless. I sound about as strong as a sapling in a hurricane.
Azalea smirks at me, and I know she’s about to tear my story apart. “Just friends, huh?” She tilts her head, assessing me with her striking green eyes. “Hey, Myles, do friends hold hands?”
Myla Rose shakes her head no, a small smile lighting up her face.
“Do friends live together? Buy each other cars?”
“W-wait a minute!” I interject. “I…we don’t live together, we’re roommates, and Simon didn’t b-buy me a c-car, he helped me buy one. Yes, some money came out of his p-pocket, but I’m gonna pay him back!” My cheeks are red, and my skin is hot by the time I finish. I don’t want Simon’s friends to think I’m some leech, attaching myself to him and using him. The very thought horrifies me.
Azalea opens her mouth to speak, but the barista calls my name before any words can tumble out. Thank God.
I shove my chair back from the table and stalk over to the counter.
“Sorry that took so long. We had to brew it fresh.”
“N-no problem.” With my back still turned to my friends, I take small sips of the hot beverage, trying to get my emotions under control.
I flinch when I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Mags,” Azalea says, her voice pleading. “I was only joking. Please come sit with us.”
I nod, eyes down, and follow her back to the table.
Our conversation usually flows effortlessly, but thanks to my outburst, we’re silent. Even though I’m mortified, I know I need to apologize. “I’m s-sorry for—”
The words are hardly out of my mouth before Azalea cuts me off. “No! You have nothing to apologize for. I was pushing, and I shouldn’t have. You and Simon aren’t any of our business.”
I reach across the table and give her hand a quick squeeze. “It’s just…” I release a long sigh. “I don’t want y’all to think I’m u-using him. I like him so much, but he and I…it’s complicated.”
