by C J Marie
She nodded. “It’s not all on you, I just like to blame you. I could’ve stopped this at the beginning. I’ve been thinking though, since there are more and more people believing this is real we need to establish some ground rules.”
“Rules? What are you talking about?”
“You know, like on Sunday—we both weren’t expecting to kiss and all. I think some… limits would be good.”
He shifted in his seat, folding his arms. Rules were a good thing, but limits were becoming increasingly difficult with the woman. He didn’t like it. They’d always had a comfortable, friendly relationship. He didn’t need to be messing anything up with his lewd thoughts he’d been entertaining of Miss Olive Cutler.
“Why are you pouting?” she teased.
“I’m not pouting, I’m only wondering if these are your rules, or if I get a say too.”
“You can have a say, you big baby. Now, come on, let’s go plan our fake engagement.” Olive jumped out of his truck, but Rafe stayed put. He’d never gone inside Olive’s apartment, and the idea was strangely intimate. “Are you coming? Or is that going to be one of your rules, not going inside your fiancée’s apartment?”
“You think you’re a regular comedian don’t you?” Olive shrugged and winked. Rafe tucked his keys in his pocket and sauntered next to her toward the building.
Olive’s apartment wasn’t huge, but it was high end. Her countertops were made of white granite and the furnishings seemed to have come straight off a display floor. Rafe breathed in the tropical scent of the place from a plug-in warmer near the front door. It reminded him of an exotic island. He grinned lifting a glass vase filled to the brim with snail shells off a shelf. “You still have all these?”
“Those are treasures, Rafe,” she teased, nodding to another vase half-filled with seashells. “I’m working hard on the other one. Someday I’ll have an entire room dedicated to shells. How amazing would it be to have jars filled with shells from around the world? That’s the dream at least.”
Rafe set the shell jar down and shoved his hands in his pockets. “This is nice, Ol.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never been inside,” she muttered with her head shoved inside the cabinet. She grabbed two wine glasses and held up a bottle of merlot, silently asking him if he’d like some. Rafe nodded and found a place on her couch. “I’m milking it while I can. Once I graduate, I plan to find my own place and live on my own salary for once. But why not let Daddy spoil his only daughter through college?”
Rafe laughed. “At least you’re honest about it.”
“Why haven’t you come here all this time? Doesn’t make much sense, I’ve been to your house several times.”
“Well, you’ve never invited me.”
“Not true,” she insisted, popping the cork and pouring the wine. “I asked you to come help me move my couches; you were at Dalia’s parents’ house. I invited you over for a mixer my entire hall was having last year. You were—”
“At Dalia’s birthday party.”
“And,” Olive wasn’t finished as she sat on the opposite couch after handing him a glass. “I called you one night, with the intention of having you come over, when I thought Tom was going to propose.”
“That doesn’t count, I don’t remember any such a phone call.”
“Three phone calls, actually. No response. Little did I know it was around the time… you know, big D was doing her thing.”
Rafe studied her face as she sipped from her glass. He didn’t remember any missed calls, but that time in his life was an ugly blur. “Why did you call?”
She shrugged, running a finger over the crystal rim. “I don’t know. I was nervous, I suppose. Your face was the first one that popped into my head. I wanted your opinion, I guess. We hadn’t seen each other for a while, so I assumed you didn’t answer because—”
“Olive,” he said. “I’ll always answer, no matter how little we’ve been talking in between. You just have bad timing. Trust me, if that was the night you called, I wouldn’t have been a good choice for relationship advice.”
She chuckled and shook her head. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”
Rafe took a drink and leaned back against the cushion. “Well, should we get to this rule making?”
“Yes,” Olive said setting her glass on the coffee table and hugging one knee to her chest. “Ladies first. Rule one: no telling embarrassing stories that are sacred to the years of childhood.”
“You mean like the time you peed your pants because you got stuck in the tree and wouldn’t jump when I told you to?”
Olive tossed a fuzzy, yellow pillow at his face and clicked her tongue. “Yes, like that one.”
He splayed his arms over the back of the couch, laughing softly. “Alright. No embarrassing stories in polite company. Okay, I’ve got one.” His voice darkened. “You don’t call me Rafe Whitney. I understand some people will because that’s what has been established, but please don’t go along with it.”
She smiled in her gentle way and nodded. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Oh, and I get to rest my hand on your butt.”
“Excuse me? Absolutely not.”
“It’s a normal thing couples do, Ol. I get butt-squeezing, back-pocket-tucking, whatever privileges. You can have the same.”
Olive straightened her shoulders. The challenge was on, and Rafe met her glare with a sneer. “Fine. Then I invoke my right to kiss you—whenever I see fit. Not you, but me.”
“Is that all you’ve got?”
“What would you like me to do, Rafe? Strip you down in the center of the room and have my way with you.”
He flushed, but laughed. “Now, we’re talking.”
“Ugh, you’re such a pig.”
“Okay, so no stories,” he counted off on his fingers. “No, Mr. Whitney, butt privileges, and kissing privileges. What sort of kissing are we talking about?”
“Appropriate kisses, Rafe, as needed. I don’t give passion from these lips freely and all. A man has to earn such things.”
“Ollie, I have to admit you're making me think things that would make you blush.” He led her to believe he was joking, but inside—Rafe was thinking things—several, seductive things.
“Well, control yourself,” she giggled. “What about nights like tomorrow?”
“What about them?”
“Do you want me to… compens—”
Rafe held up his hand. “Tell me you aren’t about to ask me if I want to be paid to go to dinner with you.”
“Well…” she gaped. “It’s different with you getting money to be engaged to me. I don’t know what to do on some things.”
“Ollie, you know why I agreed to get paid for the events. It has nothing to do with you being desperate or because I don’t want to be around you. Come on, woman, how long have we known each other? As annoying as you can be, princess, you’re not bad company.”
He thought she’d throw another pillow, but Olive seemed strangely relieved. Rafe stood and took a seat next to her. He slung his arm around her shoulders, urging her to look at him. “Hear me, Ollie—I would go out with you tomorrow night even if we weren’t doing this charade. Got it?”
She smiled and nodded. “Got it, Rafe.”
He released her shoulders when they stared at each other too long and clapped his hands together once. “Okay, have we established our rules?”
“One more. After the bridal shower—we tell your mom the truth.”
He nodded through a sad sigh. “Deal.”
Rafe’s mom had been through enough the last three months. Breaking her heart after he’d made her so happy was the worst thing he’d probably ever do. Olive was right, though. There was no engagement, she wasn’t his to claim. That meant, Millie Whitfield would need to experience another heartbreak. The idea turned his stomach.
***
Olive rushed across her apartment trying to catch her phone before it finished ringing. Her hair was hanging in sopping stri
ngs when she gasped and clutched the phone to her ear. “Hello?”
“Olive, why are you panting?”
“Hi, Mama,” she said, clinging the towel to her body and slumping into the reading chair. “I was showering, and just rushing to answer your call.”
“It isn’t polite to be breathing so heavily into a phone call. Better to call someone back.”
She rolled her eyes, but kept her smile on her face. “Sorry, Mama.”
“I’m calling to invite you to lunch this afternoon with the ladies from the club.”
It was never an option when her mother extended an invitation to sit with the ladies from the club. Olive sighed. She’d been looking forward to a lazy Saturday at home. “I’d love to. What time?”
“I’ll expect you at one. Don’t be late, now.”
“Yes, ma’am. Bye, Mama.”
Ollie flopped back onto the couch, the towel hardly covering her naked skin, but who was there to sneak a peek? She smiled, catching sight of the two wine glasses still on her coffee table. Rafe had stayed later than anticipated. They’d watched late night talk shows past midnight. It seemed so long since she’d heard Rafe’s shuddering laugh. His voice was deep, but sometimes when he really let go, his laugh went up an octave. Olive wasn’t ashamed to admit she’d fallen asleep on his shoulder. He was simply too comfortable and smelled too darn good. She vaguely remembered Rafe easing off the couch and tucking a throw pillow beneath her head. Olive might have patted his cheek—she wasn’t sure what was a dream or reality.
Finding the gumption to get ready for her ladies luncheon, she held onto the ease of the night with a grin. Even when life went off the rails, something about Rafe Whitfield made things seem a little better. It had been that way since they were kids. She’d missed such ease in recent months. Perhaps the better part of a year. Had time faded so quickly? After Rafe met Dalia, Olive immersed herself in school. Rafe wasn’t one to offer his heart to just anyone, so Olive gave them space. Then came Tom. He’d always been Beau’s sidekick in mischief growing up. Even with their history, it had taken a few valiant attempts on his part for Olive to even go out with the man. She’d enjoyed his company and Tom was charming, handsome, a gentleman, everything Olive was supposed to want in a man. Only, Olive never found the spark that set her heart and soul on fire. Perhaps it was foolish to accept his proposal, but deep inside Olive knew it had been expected. Frowning at her bathroom mirror she shook her head. Expected. The thought was slightly disturbing this early in the morning.
Donned in a pastel pencil dress, white heels, and pearls, Olive pulled her silver BMW to the front of the house. She loved the car she’d been gifted by her parents senior year. She was leaving her apartment this summer, and had intended on selling the car and really taking the step out on her own once she started teaching, but Olive really loved her car. She wasn’t too proud to admit selling the silver bullet would be agonizing. It was a decent, sturdy car. No need to rush a sale just yet.
“Miss Olive,” Arnold nodded from his place in the shrubs at the front of the house.
“Hi, Arnie,” she greeted. “How you faring this afternoon?”
“Doing well. Everyone is out back,” he smiled.
“Thanks, Arnie. You let Beth know I said hello, now.”
Arnold saluted with a grin before pruning commenced again. The house was cool, though the sticky air was building the longer the sun baked the earth. Olive fanned her face as she stepped onto the back veranda. Her mother was chittering away with several ladies in sun hats. She caught sight of Dot and her mother, Sue Ellen, and rushed to sit by her friend before an old gossip could snatch her away.
“Oh, wonderful, you’ve made it, Olive Jane,” her mother said, holding out her hands before Olive could sit next to Dot.
Olive grinned politely and kissed her mother’s cheek. “This is lovely, Mama.”
“Well, then,” Bernadette crooned toward her guests. “Let’s eat, shall we?”
Olive would have preferred honey barbecue instead of tiny sandwiches with some type of vegetable mash in the center, but the tea and lemonade was delicious and fresh. “Ollie, you must tell us more about that handsome guy you got yourself hitched to.” Sue Ellen chirped. “Bernie, you must be absolutely thrilled. I find myself chewing my nails waiting for Dorothy-Ann’s day.”
“Soon, Mama,” Dot gushed with a girlish giggle. “Soon.”
Olive caught her mother’s eye. As always, Bernadette held her body with an air of propriety as she sipped her tea. “We’re fortunate Olive found herself such a match in Mr. Whitney.” Olive frowned. Rafe confessing how he detested the name, caused her own hostility at the sound of it. “I expect they’ll go far. The Whitney’s are business titans, you see.”
“Although, Rafe had the backbone to set out and make his own name,” Olive interjected. Her mother grinned, though there was a slight tilt to her head, the starting stages of a warning to watch her tongue.
“What does that mean, Olive?” Martha Butler, a self-important woman who criticized people down to what breed of dog they owned, asked.
“Rafe worked on his own dime, ma’am, building all he has now, while tending to his family as needed,” Olive said with a grin. “That’s what I find so… admirable about the man. Never asks for a thing and knows how to dig in and dirty his hands a little.”
“We know how much you like his dirty hands after that kiss on Sunday,” Dot chortled. Sue Ellen swatted her knee, but the hens all crowed and clucked at the image.
“Impressive, Olive,” Martha added. “He treats you kindly?”
“Now, Ms. Butler,” Bernadette started. “You think we’d take to a man who didn’t?”
Martha shrugged. “Perhaps your version of kindly sits different from your daughter.”
Olive tipped her head and rested her tea glass on the table. “I’ll put you both at ease. Rafe is a gentleman through and through. Yes, Ms. Butler, he treats me well, he always has.” Olive’s voice softened, and she glanced at her mother. Bernadette’s smile wavered. Did she feel as guilty lying to these faces as Olive did? Though, nothing Olive said was a lie. But the truth being said under the guise of a lie—Olive shifted in her seat—it was still a lie.
“So, I expect we’ll get to meet these Whitney’s at the shower?” Sue Ellen asked. “If Sawyer can’t get the courage to ask my daughter, I might want to pick a few of their single men for our own family.”
More chortling and crowing, with a polite snort from Dot. She knew the truth, but Olive found her friend’s ability to slip into the alternate reality impressive and slightly unsettling.
“Oh, I expect you’ll meet the lot,” her mother insisted, with a quick glance at Olive again. “Rafe is quite close with his family.”
Talk of the Whitneys churned Olive’s stomach. Rafe was close with his family, but the Whitneys didn’t even deserve to be considered the Whitfields family in Olive’s opinion. Thankfully, conversation shifted through the afternoon toward old husbands and their quirks, with a few jabs at new club members thrown in.
Olive leaned against the counter in the kitchen after helping bring in the plates and glasses from outside. “Mama,” she whispered once the guests had gone. Her mother lifted her eye from placing the pitcher of tea in the fridge. “Why did you use the name Whitney?”
Bernadette paused. Did her jaw flinch? If it had, the moment was fleeting. Soon, her mother was straight and poised as always. “The Whitneys are powerful people, they are Rafe’s people, and if anyone found the need to research using a family of prestige would satisfy.”
Olive furrowed her brow. “It makes him uncomfortable, though he’d never admit it to you and Daddy. You know they’ve mistreated August, Rafe, and Millie.”
“That is one opinion,” her mother said with a stern glance.
“One opinion? Mama, their daddy abandoned them for their entire lives. Tell me, do you expect when the man dies, Rafe and August will get any sort of inheritance? He’s a scoundrel and Rafe wants
nothing to do with the name.”
Her mother paused, her eyes flashing in a way that silenced Olive. “You have one side of the story. Although, I don’t find much respect for the way the… situation… was handled by Mr. Whitney, I’ve personally met the man. I suppose he’s decent enough.”
Olive felt heat rush her face. “No decent man would do what he did to his family.”
“You would do well to watch your tone, Olive Jane. The name was used to protect Rafe, and you, for the time being. I thought it was a wonderful suggestion.”
“Suggestion?”
“Yes. Beau suggested using the name. Your cousin cares about your reputation.”
Olive stomped her foot, a habit she wished she didn’t have, and huffed. “I don’t want saving my reputation to hurt Rafe.”
“That’s enough,” her mother snapped. Olive bit her tongue to hold in any retorts. “It’s done. What would you have me do now? Admit I don’t even know my future son-in-law’s last name?”
“No, ma’am,” Olive muttered. She should keep quiet, but Olive never was one for toeing the line. “Although, I don’t think the reality of who Rafe is should be something hidden. There’s no shame in being engaged to the real, Rafe Whitfield.”
“Olive,” she hesitated. “You understand why the name Whitfield just wouldn’t suit.”
Olive shook her head. “I understand, but if I’m honest, Mama, I can’t say I agree in the least. You know what sort of man Rafe is. Why wouldn’t that be enough?”
“It’s the way things are,” she relented. The answer was weak at best for Olive’s sensibilities. “And the way things are has given you a wonderful life, young lady.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she grumbled. “I best be going, Mama. Rafe and I are going out with Dot and Sawyer tonight.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To dinner. We’re meeting, Dot.”
Her mother’s jaw noticeably pulsed now. “What are you doing, Olive?”
“Nothing, Mama. We’re going out as friends.”
