Don't Marry the Mechanic: A Sweet Romance (The Debutante Rules Book 1)

by Emily Childs

  “Remind me why haven’t you come over? Doesn’t make much sense, I’ve been to your house a lot.”

  “Well, you’ve never invited me.”

  “Not true,” she says, 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 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.”

  I don’t remember the calls, but that time is sort of an ugly blur. “Why did you call?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I was nervous. Your face was the first one that popped into my head. I wanted your opinion. We hadn’t seen each other for a while, so I assumed you didn’t answer because—”

  “Olive,” I say. “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.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” She laughs and sits close to me on her couch.

  “Well, should we get to this rule making?” I take a sip and square to her on the cushion.

  “Yes.” Olive sets her glass on the coffee table. “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 tosses a fuzzy, yellow pillow at me. “Yes, like that one.”

  I laugh softly. “Alright. No embarrassing stories in polite company. Okay, I’ve got one. 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.”

  “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, derriere privileges. You can have the same.”

  Olive straightens her shoulders. The challenge is on, and I meet her glare with a smug grin. “Fine,” she says. “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?”

  “Now, we’re talking.”

  “Ugh, you’re such a pig.”

  “Okay, so no stories” – I count off on my fingers – “No, Mr. Whitney, yes to 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.” I’m not lying, but am fine if she thinks I’m joking.

  “Well, control yourself,” she giggles. “What about nights like tomorrow?”

  “What about them?”

  “Do you want me to compens—”

  “Whoa,” I interrupt. “Tell me you aren’t about to ask me if I want to be paid to go to dinner with you.”

  “It’s different now 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. 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.”

  I thought she might throw another pillow, but she seems strangely relieved.

  I sling my arm around her shoulders, tugging her against my side. “Hear me, Ollie—I would go out with you tomorrow night even if we weren’t doing this charade. Got it?”

  She smiles and nods. “Got it, Rafe.”

  “Okay, have we established our rules?”

  “One more. After the bridal shower we tell Millie the truth.”

  I sigh loudly. “Deal.”

  Mama had been through enough the last three months. Breaking her heart after I’ve made her so happy is the worst thing I’ll probably ever do, but Olive is right. There’s no engagement. She’s not mine.

  All that means Millie Whitfield will experience another, fierce heartbreak. And I hate it.

  Chapter 10

  Olive

  I pad across my apartment to catch the phone before it finished ringing. My hair is sopping wet around my face, and I’m gasping by the time I press the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Olive, why are you panting?”

  “Hi, Mama,” I say, clinging the towel to my body as a puddle forms at my feet. “I was showering, and rushing to answer your call.”

  “It isn’t polite to be breathing so heavily into a phone call. Better to call someone back.”

  I roll my eyes. “Sorry.”

  “I’m calling to invite you to lunch this afternoon with the ladies from the club.”

  Choice is not an option when my mother extends an invitation to sit with the ladies from the club. Pity. I’d really been looking forward to a lazy Saturday before dinner tonight. “I’d love to. What time?”

  “I’ll expect you at one. Don’t be late, now.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Bye, Mama.”

  I lean against the wall, dripping, the towel hardly covering me. Who cares? No one is around to sneak a peek. Then I note the two wine glasses still on my coffee table and smile. Rafe stayed late, or early, I suppose. We’d watched talked and laughed until I cried. It’s been too long since I’ve heard Rafe’s deep, shuddering laugh. His voice is deep, but sometimes when he really lets go his laugh shoots up an octave.

  I fell asleep on his shoulder.

  He smelled so darn good, I hated moving when he eased off the couch.

  Sweet to the bone, Rafe tucked my head onto a throw pillow, covered me with an afghan, and I’m pretty sure I patted his face as a farewell.

  Rafe always leaves me better. Feeling better, thinking better. Just better. The same as when we were kids. After Rafe met Dalia, I immersed myself in school. Rafe isn’t one to offer his heart to just anyone, so I felt it prudent to give them some space. Then Tom happened. He’d always been Beau’s sidekick growing up, and it took a whole lot of pleading before I finally agreed to go out with the man. I fell into what was expected, convinced myself Tom’s charm, his brains, and connections were all I’d need.

  The truth is I never felt the spark of something deep. The kind of feeling that starts in the toes, curling up into the stomach, into the chest, until it’s so beautifully overwhelming that taking a breath seems too great a risk, in case one gasp might wipe it all away.

  The feeling exists.

  I’ve felt it with someone else.

  Two hours later, donned in a pastel pencil dress and pearls, I pull my BMW to the front of the house. My parents gifted me the car for my senior year, and I intend to sell the car when I graduate, to really live on my own.

  But I also really love this car.

  I pat the dash affectionately, then work my way around the veranda toward the back porch. I fan my face when I round the corner, following the pitchy voices echoing across the yard. Dot and her mother are there, and I breathe out a sigh of relief knowing I won’t be alone.

  “Oh, wonderful. You’ve made it, Olive Jane,” Mama says, holding out her hands before I can sit next to Dot.

  “This is lovely, Mama.”

  Her eyes brighten, pleased for the praise. She claps her hands together. “Well, then, let’s eat.”

  I prefer honey barbecue to the tiny sandwiches with some kind of veget
able mash in the center, but the tea and lemonade were worth the trip.

  “Olive,” Dot’s mother, Sue Ellen, pipes up after chatter stalls. “Forgive me but I was certain your handsome man’s name was Thomas.”

  “Thomas is an old flame from before her beau now,” Mama interjects.

  Sue Ellen smiles with a nod. “Ah. I see. Well, you must be thrilled, Bernie. I’m biting my nails for Dorothy-Ann’s day.”

  “Soon, Mama,” Dot gushes. “Soon.”

  “Now, Ollie, is that the ring?” Sue Ellen asks, nodding at the diamond. I should’ve taken Millie’s ring off, but I like how it feels.

  “Oh, yes. It was his grandmother’s.”

  Mama shoots me a look which I promptly ignore and hold out my hand.

  I see how hard Sue Ellen is trying to be polite. She grins, but it’s forced, sort of shaky as she ogles the small stone, the simple setting. “Lovely,” she finally says.

  “I think it’s perfect, Ollie,” Dot adds with a wink.

  I smile as a thank you and swallow my nerves, grateful Dot isn’t making any suspicious looks, or teasing me about Rafe. Although, I take some offense Sue Ellen, a common face at the Big House, never noticed Rafe enough to recognize him.

  I suppose I ought to be grateful. If she knew the truth then Mama’s sham will unravel and I’d have to deal with her.

  “We’re fortunate Olive found herself such a match in Mr. Whitney,” my mother says, drawing a frown to my face. I make a note to speak with her about using Rafe’s daddy’s name without his permission. For him, I’ll be bold and stand firm even beneath the scrutiny of Bernadette Cutler. “I expect they’ll go far. The Whitney’s are business titans, you see.”

  “Perhaps, but Rafe is a self-made man,” I blurt out. “He had the backbone to build his own life from the ground up.”

  Mama grins, but tilts her head as if to warn me to watch my mouth.

  “What does that mean, Olive?” asks Martha Butler, a self-important woman who criticizes people down to what breed of dog they own.

  “Rafe worked on his own dime, ma’am, building all he has now, while tending to his family as needed,” I say. Not a lie and a truth I realize I’m proud to admit. No one works like Rafe Whitfield. “That’s what I find so admirable about him, he 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 chortles. Sue Ellen swats her knee, but the hens all crow and cluck as they do.

  “Impressive, Olive,” Martha adds. “He treats you kindly?”

  “Now, Martha,” Mama starts, “do you think we’d take to a man who didn’t?”

  Martha shrugs. “Perhaps your version of kindly sits different from your daughter.”

  “I’ll put you both at ease,” I say. “Rafe is a gentleman through and through. Yes, Ms. Butler, he treats me well; he always has.”

  I glance at my mother, and catch her smile waver for a fleeting moment. Does she feel guilty lying? I do. This is a guise, no matter how much I wish it weren’t.

  “So, I expect we’ll get to meet these Whitneys at the shower?” Sue Ellen asks. “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.

  “Oh, I expect you’ll meet the lot,” Mama insists. “Rafe is quite close with his family.”

  My stomach jumps. What is she doing? Rafe is close with his family, but the Whitneys don’t deserve the word. With a bit of luck, my mother steers the conversation to husbands, their quirks, a few jabs at new ladies recently invited into the country club. My engagement is forgotten.

  When the ladies gather their purses and hats and skedaddle, I help with dishes, heart racing. I need to speak with my mother.

  “Mama,” I say, returning the tea to the fridge. “Why did you use the name Whitney?”

  Did her jaw flinch? My mother sighs and wraps the last few sandwiches. “The Whitneys are powerful people; they are Rafe’s people, and if anyone decided to look him up . . . well, I thought a bit of truth might help.”

  “It makes him uncomfortable, but he’d never admit it to you and Daddy. You know they’ve mistreated August, Rafe, and Millie.”

  “That is one opinion.”

  “One opinion? Mama, their daddy abandoned them. 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.”

  Mama pauses, voice low. “We don’t know Mr. Whitney well enough to judge the entire situation. We only know one side.”

  Heat rushes my face. “Is that why you’ve kicked him out before? Because you weren’t judging him?”

  She shifts in her seat. “I didn’t know you knew about that.”

  “Mama, don’t make excuses for him to justify using the name for this farce. I know what he did riles you the same as it does me. No decent man would leave his boys like that.”

  “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.”

  I stomp my foot with a huff. “I don’t want my precious reputation to hurt Rafe.”

  “That’s enough!”

  I bite my tongue, but narrow my eyes.

  Mama smooths the pleats of her skirt. “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.” I ought to keep quiet, but I’ve never been one for wisely 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 hesitates. “You understand why the name Whitfield just wouldn’t suit.”

  “No, forgive me, Mama, I don’t understand. Not anymore. You know what sort of man Rafe is. Why wouldn’t he be enough?”

  “It’s the way things are,” she relents. The answer is weak, at best, for my sensibilities. “And the way things are has given you a wonderful life, young lady.”

  “I best be going, Mama,” I say, utterly finished with this archaic conversation. “Rafe and I are going out with Dot and Sawyer tonight.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “To dinner. We’re meeting, Dot.”

  “What are you doing, Olive?”

  “Nothing, Mama. We’re going out as friends.” There is a palpable silence in the kitchen as I drift toward the front entryway.

  “Have you spoken with Thomas?” Mama asks.

  “Absolutely not. He’s left a few messages, but I don’t see the need to speak to him.”

  “I’d advise you to hear the man out. He was your fiancé, and Beau told me Thomas is torn up over losing you.”

  “Mother,” I snap. “The man cheated on me. In your home. I really don’t care if he’s torn up.”

  “Don’t raise your voice. I’m only asking for you to speak with him, not take him back.”

  I take out my rosy sunglasses from my purse to hide the way I roll my eyes. “Thank you for inviting me, Mama. We’ll talk later?”

  “Olive don’t forget about the dinner next week. You’ll see to it that Rafe remembers.”

  “We’ll be there,” I mumble and quickly leave the house. I don’t want any more talk of Thomas, Whitneys, or how Rafe Whitfield can’t offer the stars so somehow that means he’ll never measure up in the Cutler home.

  Chapter 11

  Rafe

  “You know, I’ve been to Europe four times,” Olive says. “It’s beautiful, historic, unique. But I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of downtown Charleston.”

  I smile when she smiles and breathes the ocean breeze deeply. I lean my back against the old, haggard stone walls of the military fort, resting one arm ato
p the black canon pointed at the shore. Sunlight bleeds across Sullivan’s Island in orange, pink, and gold ribbons.

  My mom told me once some great granddaddy on her side stood among these very walls defending the shores from the British. Then again during the Civil War.

  “I should have known when you said we’d meet them at the fort, you’d actually want to go inside it,” I say, bumping her arm with mine.

  Olive grins over her shoulder and pats the cannon. “That’s a given, Rafe. By the way, you clean up mighty nice, sir.”

  She scans my body, head to toe, unashamed and probably with the intent to embarrass me. I don’t mind her looking. I’m looking too. Olive always looked gorgeous in tight, colorful pants and sexy wedged shoes. Her blouse swoops off one shoulder again, but with her hair curled and blowing around her neck, I’m tempted to tie it back since it’s covering the delicate shape of her collarbone.

  “Well, you could’ve put some effort into your look,” I tease.

  She laughs and elbows my ribs. My phone buzzes, and my jaw tightens straightaway. I hurry and tuck it back into my pocket.

  Olive cocks her head. “What’s with the look?”

  “It’s nothing,” I say, but sigh when she lifts a brow. “Dalia’s been calling me lately.”

  “You’re kidding. Do go on.” Olive smiles mischievously.

  “There’s nothing more to say. I haven’t answered.”

  Dot’s shrill voice calls out to us from the sidewalk outside the fort. Olive bites her bottom lip and jabs me with her finger. “We’re not finished with this.”

  Oh, we’re done talking about Dalia. I usher Olive in front of me, taking the stairs to the lower levels honeycombed with tunnels, weapon magazines, and old supply chambers.

  “Have you ever considered talking to her?” Olive asks before we’re close enough to Dot and her boyfriend.

  “I guess we are talking about this,” I say, shaking my head. “What is there to say? We didn’t work out.”

  “Maybe she wants to apologize for being ferocious and awful.”

  “Love the description, Ol. But can’t say I care to hear any excuses. If she couldn’t take me then, she’s really not going to want me the way things are now.”