by C J Marie
The last six weeks, Rafe could easily say had been the least interaction with Olive Cutler as long as he could remember. Although, she did come to see his mom every Sunday. Sometimes at the same time Rafe was visiting too. Okay, but what did all that mean to her mother?
Cautiously he looked toward Bernadette and nodded. “I would consider Ollie a friend to everyone.”
“Perhaps,” Bernadette agreed, taking a small sip from her glass again. “This unfortunate event has left me and Mr. Cutler in quite a predicament. You see, non-refundable deposits have already been made on several engagement parties. Not to mention the bridal shower of the season, I assure you.”
Rafe tried not to roll his eyes as he plucked the shears off the grass. Thankfully, Bernadette didn’t notice. The closer truth was, appearances needed to be kept, and an engagement broken off before the first party was disgraceful—at least to the Cutler’s people. The idea was right up there with a messy divorce, or illegitimate children with the staff. Rafe could understand on that point better than most.
“I do offer my apologies to you and Mr. Cutler, but I should be getting back to work.”
“I have a curious thought that keeps building in my head,” she said quickly. Was Bernadette smiling? Rafe wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her truly smile. “I wonder if you’d be willing to help Olive. You’d be compensated, of course. Maybe it would be enough to help secure the proper care for Millie.”
Now, she had his attention. Anything to help his mother had his attention.
“What could I do to help, Olive?”
“Nothing’s been announced, Rafe. Most of the guests aren’t even from Honeyville. They’re from Charleston or up North.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Ma’am.”
“Calling off an engagement before it even begins will be traumatizing for Olive.” He didn’t think traumatizing was the right word—maybe traumatizing for her mother, but not Olive. “I’d like to offer you the chance to escort Olive through the more important events, then we will announce the split.”
Rafe’s tongue swelled and his lungs burned as he held his breath. His brows furrowed when he glanced at Bernadette again. “Escort, Ollie? To her engagement parties?”
“Correct.”
“But, she’s not engaged, Ms. Cutler.”
Bernadette crept closer, her smile slyer than a fox in the hedge. “No one needs to know that yet, Mr. Whitfield.” Whoa. He got a Mr. added to his name. “If you’re there with Olive, no one will be the wiser.”
“Be there in what way?”
There was no possible way Bernadette was suggesting what it sounded like. No way because Bernadette Cutler was old southern culture if you catch the drift. There was a deep-seated class system in people like Bernadette and Rafe didn’t even make the next level to the Cutler class. Try more like five prongs, or so, down the ladder. The Whitfields worked for the Cutlers—that was it.
“Play the part of Olive’s fiancé at the events. It’s simple really, you will hardly be asked to say anything.”
Rafe choked on his own tongue slightly. “I beg your pardon, Ma’am, but uh, won’t people know who I am? And they know Tom.”
Bernadette grinned. “I doubt the people at these parties will… know you, Rafe. We can brush Tom’s name off as a misprint by a careless printer confused by another Abernathy announcement or something down that line. And the wedding invitations haven’t been sent yet. Don’t worry, the Abernathys will be prone to keep their son’s misdeeds out of the public eye as well. People will believe what’s before their eyes more than a piece of paper.” She said the words so pleasantly, but they cut so fiercely. “You have ties to Louisiana as well.”
“August lives in Baton Rouge,” he muttered.
“Perfect. Rafe from Baton Rouge.”
“I’m a mechanic, Ma’am.” And he was proud of it—unless Bernadette Cutler was looking down her nose at him.
“No, Rafe,” she smiled. “You’re a self-made man, and own a string of high-end car shops in New Orleans and Baton Rouge. See how easy we can make it? No one will search your name, I assure you. What do you say? It’s five events, Mr. Whitfield. Fifteen hundred each event.”
Rafe tightened his grip on the shears. “You’re offering me over seven thousand dollars to be Olive’s fiancé?”
“Think of it as a temporary fiancé, Rafe. Yes, I am. Of course, you understand your reputation will be dubbed as an unfaithful liar in the end. For Olive’s sake, of course. Infidelity riles even the tightest of feathers in our circles. Get her through the bridal shower in two months and that’s it. You can’t tell me the extra money wouldn’t help.” He couldn’t, because the extra certainly would help his mom. “Goodness, son. It’s not like I’m asking you to marry her.”
“I don’t think Olive will agree.”
Bernadette smiled viciously. “Well now, I’m not sure she has a choice.”
Rafe swallowed hard, feeling her pale eyes carve her contract onto his soul. What could go wrong? Olive was pretty, spunky, and they liked each other. Yet, as Rafe nodded, he had the sinking feeling this wasn’t going to end as easily as Bernadette planned.
13 years ago
“Wait up, Rafe, Auggie!”
“You said you could run like a boy! You’re running just like a girl,” Rafe laughed, his words whistling through the space that once belonged to his front teeth.
“Come on, Lolli-pop,” Rafe’s twin, August, shouted from the lead.
Olive skidded to a stop, her gleaming pig-tails slapping the sides of her cheeks. “I can’t go in there,” she gasped, staring at the old tool shed.
“Whatcha mean you ain’t going in there?” Rafe demanded.
“I didn’t say I ain’t, I said I can’t. It’s full of… bugs, and daddy told me never to go out of the yard without asking.”
August taunted Olive before slipping into the rundown structure, leaving Rafe alone with their tag-along. “You telling me you’re turning into a princess now, Ollie? After you gone and begged me to take you to our fort?”
“I’m not a princess,” she snapped, stomping her jelly sandal in the crabgrass.
“Are to—Princess Ollie.”
“You hush up, Rafe Whitfield.”
“Ah, come on now,” Rafe muttered wiping his dirty hands on his jeans, complete with holes in the knees. “Being a princess ain’t so bad. You can be a tough princess, you know.”
“I’m not a princess, and I’m not a baby, Rafe.”
“I know, I was at your birthday, dummy. Course, eight’s not as good as nine.”
He took a step closer to Olive. Rafe was short and lanky, but he still had a way of helping Olive feel safer. Even when they caught fireflies at night, she wasn’t often afraid if Rafe and August were around—although Mama didn’t like her rustling around in the dirt with the sons of their housekeeper.
“Listen, Auggie and I have been making sure this old thing is safe. I’m good at building things, Ollie. It’s what I’m going to do when I grow up, you know.”
“What’s that?”
“Build things. Huge skyscrapers. Bridges, stuff like that. I’m gonna design ‘em, build ‘em. Everything.”
“Sounds neat,” Olive crooned. “Maybe I should do that.”
“Ah, come on. Girls ain’t good at that stuff, especially girls like you. Takes lots of math and things. You just do what you do best, Ollie.”
Hands on hips, she glared at Rafe. “I can do whatever you can do, Rafe. I’ll tell your mama you’re picking on me again.”
“I ain’t picking on you, you big baby,” he said, tugging her elbow toward the shed once August flicked on the old kerosene lantern. “I think you should keep being a princess.”
“Oh, yeah and why is that?”
Rafe turned and looked at her. His thin arm steadying her as she slipped through the uneven entrance. Good thing she’d donned her old play pants instead of her ruffled skirt she’d worn to the afternoon tea party with the Lubbocks. “Mayb
e because if you keep being nice, Ollie, I’ll build you a castle someday.
Chapter 2
The big house was what Rafe had called the Cutler’s home since he was a kid. As a four-year-old, the place seemed more like a castle than a home. While the Cutler’s house was large, it wasn’t quite the castle he’d once thought, but it did shelter southern royalty. The Cutlers were influential people. Most of them alright, some, Rafe would rather they started walking and kept going, if you catch the drift.
Standing in one of the guest rooms on the second floor, he blew out a nervous breath and secured the black tie beneath the pressed, white collar. He should have known Ms. Cutler would have a closet dedicated to fine suits. Bernadette insisted he didn’t have time to run home and clean up. Early guests were already arriving, so Rafe had been shoved into the guest shower, told to clean off the grime of lawn duty, and get dressed for his new role. A role he wasn’t so sure Olive would be too keen to accept.
“Well, don’t you clean up nice.”
Rafe glimpsed over his shoulder, frowning when the narrowed gaze of Beaumont Cutler locked with his. He was one of those Cutlers that could keep on walking. Rolling his eyes, Rafe turned back toward the mirror. Beau was holding an unlit cigar between his fingers. Rafe was positive Beau thought he was a reincarnation of an old, pre-war plantation owner. The man even had a monocle he wore on special occasions. All he needed was a handlebar mustache that curled on the ends.
“I’ve been known to clean up in a suit, Beau.”
“Listen, Whitfield,” Beau muttered, his voice a low gravelly tone. “I don’t know what Aunt Bernie is thinking, but seems Uncle Lon approves of this charade. I’m here to let you know,” Rafe tensed when Beau tugged his arm and their noses nearly touched when they faced each other. “If you touch my cousin, or try anything even Uncle Lon won’t be able to save you. Understand?” Beau tapped the cigar on Rafe’s shoulder.
“Step back,” Rafe warned.
“Or what?”
“You know exactly what,” Rafe scoffed through a grin remembering the time Beau and his prep school pals tried to shove August into a ditch. “How long did it take for your nose to heal back in high school?”
Beau glared and used the cigar as a pointer. “Watch yourself, Whitfield. You don’t belong up here.”
“Seems I do,” he countered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a fiancé to escort.”
Rafe shoved past Beau, making certain their shoulders brushed on his way out. Outside, he kept his cool, aloof expression. Inside, he was a hurricane of tumultuous unknowns. Olive’s reaction being the number one uncertainty. Rafe could stand at her side as the sultry fiancé and avoid too much mindless chatter with the elite, but there was the biting feeling in the pit of his stomach that this plot might insult Olive’s sensibilities. She was a princess, but she was the tough princess of the Big House in Rafe’s eyes.
Rafe swallowed, buttoning the suit coat that remarkably seemed tailored to his body. The pants were slightly long. He hoped Olive might lean more toward the want to side of the situation and realize this arrangement helped them both. Yet, when he stepped to her door, his confidence in her reason faded by the sound of her raised voice.
The bedroom door clicked and Bernadette stepped out of Olive’s bedroom. She caught Rafe out of the corner of her eye, the fierce grin returning to her lips. “Very prompt. Your entrance is about to be announced. Now, get on out here, Olive Jane.”
Rafe heard the swift tap, tap of Olive’s heels, but startled back when her enraged honey-jar eyes found him in the hallway. Her finger tapped him in the center of the chest. “What the devil are you thinking, Rafe Whitfield? I’m not some business arrangement.”
“Olive, you stop this tantrum right now,” Bernadette hissed. “Wash that flush off your face, girl, and get on out here.”
“I’m coming, Mama, but not until after I have a word with my fiancé,” she bit, tugging on Rafe’s arm, with a final searing glance over her shoulder at her mother. “You’ll excuse the impropriety, but we need to speak in private.”
Rafe wasn’t sure if he was impressed or terrified Olive had pulled him into her bedroom in front of Bernadette. The bedroom wasn’t overly huge, but Rafe was pretty certain his kitchen could fit inside. Olive’s bedroom still had the pink frills from childhood, like the ruffled canopy over the four poster bed. Teddy bears still littered the window seat, and porcelain dolls with parasols sat on a shelf on one wall. He couldn’t fault her for the room, she didn’t live in the Big House anymore. Though he’d never stepped foot inside her apartment near the battery, Rafe suspected she hadn’t taken any dolls for décor.
Leaning against the wall, he smirked at Olive when she wheeled around again. Her smooth cheeks flustered in an angry blush, and her hands rested on her hips exactly as she always did when she was steaming out her top.
“Don’t look at me like that, I’m helping you out, Ollie.”
Probably the wrong thing to say, especially when her eyes flashed like lightning and Rafe was suddenly worried about his manhood. “Helping me out? Is that what you’re doing?” Olive grinned devilishly. “So, that’s what I am now? Some pathetic, tossed-aside woman, that can’t get a man unless she pays him.”
Rafe sighed and stepped closer. Olive didn’t back down, and for a moment they stood with their bodies inches apart, challenging each other. Rafe tugged up one side of his lips and lowered his voice. “Would you quit being a baby? You know you’re not the sort of woman who needs to pay a man. Come on, Ol…” Olive was real, despite her status in the community, Rafe didn’t feel the need to hide their differences with the younger Miss Cutler. “You know this could help out my mom.”
Olive’s lips pressed tight and slowly her hands moved from her hips to folded over her chest. She was athletically built, unlike her mother who was thin as a toothpick. Rafe could appreciate Olive’s strong shape, and he did, on more than one occasion he’d caught himself mesmerized by her curves. Of course, he’d never tell her that. After a tense moment of Olive’s brain processing a mile a minute, she huffed out a drawn sigh.
“Alright, Rafe,” she muttered. “But this is for Millie. I don’t need saving, understand?”
Rafe glanced down at her finger pressed over his heart. Slowly, he wrapped his hand around her palm. The brush of their skin sent his pulse into overdrive. Unexpected, and unwanted. He didn’t need wandering thoughts about Olive complicating this new arrangement. Olive’s glassy gaze met his before bouncing to their locked fingers. She didn’t pull back though, they were engaged after all.
“Trust me, Ollie, no one would mistake you for needing saving.”
“Good,” she huffed, opening her bedroom door, while still holding his hand. “Because those people down there—trust me—you’ll be the one needing to be rescued, Mr. Whitfield.”
***
Olive had no idea what in the blazes her mother was thinking hiring Rafe to be her pretend fiancé. It was embarrassing at best and completely degrading at the worst. There was an entire shopping list of things that could go wrong. Olive kept the heat buried in her cheeks. Someone would recognize Rafe. His delightful face wasn’t exactly unforgettable, even if it was often covered in oil and grease. Perhaps his clean and proper disguise would fool them all. Apart from the staff of the house. The groundskeepers, the cooks, they all knew Rafe well, but Olive hoped they’d stay quiet out of mutual affection for both her and Rafe.
“They won’t say anything,” Rafe whispered, reading her thoughts, as together they walked behind Arnold, the head groundskeeper. Arnold kept eyeing them over his shoulder. “I’ll let them know who this is helping. You know if it’s for mama, they won’t squeak.”
It wasn’t squeaking Olive worried about; it was her pride. She couldn’t shake the shame that a man—being compensated—was pretending to be her fiancé. How was this okay? Why couldn’t she simply stand against such an idea? She’d done nothing wrong—Thomas Abernathy was the dirty dog who couldn’t stic
k to one woman at a time. Yet, Olive couldn’t help but admit to herself it was a kind of relief that she wouldn’t need to announce her failed relationship today.
Arnold halted at the door leading to the great room where the guests were gathered. She could already hear her mother’s shrill tone chuckling and crowing with people Olive probably had never met. Her mother called them Olive’s guests, but in reality they were there for Mama and Daddy. Bernadette Cutler was going on about a silly misprint or something when Olive glanced at Rafe who seemed almost nervous. Almost. The man either was a stone, or had impeccable control over his emotions.
She held her breath when his blue eyes found her. Rafe squeezed her hand like he used to as kids and flicked his brows twice. He did have the ability to calm her—a skill not bestowed to many. She took in his appearance once more, when he turned his attention back toward the wooden double-doors. Olive had caught three glimpses of Rafe Whitfield in a suit and tie. Once when his family was heading to his granddaddy’s funeral, but he’d only been twelve then. The other on his and Auggie’s senior prom. He’d been slightly mouthwatering back then. The final time was Auggie’s wedding. Both Whitfield boys had looked delightful, like two princes from a fairy tale.
“You’re turning into a Whitney today, Rafe,” Arnold grumbled, casting a furtive glance at Olive.
“What did you say?” Rafe said with a shadowed gaze.
Arnold shook his head, glancing at the ground. “A Whitney, that’s the name Ms. Cutler is using. Come on, son, you didn’t think you’d keep your last name and risk someone out there finding out.”
Rafe stiffened, and mouth pulled into a tight line. Olive rested a gentle hand on his forearm, a guilty pang building in her gut. “Rafe, are you going to be okay? We don’t have to do this.”
