It pained him that her family situation was so difficult. Her kid brother—Robbie—had revealed far more than Olive was comfortable with him knowing. She’d seemed to think he’d judge them. He’d felt many things, but judgment wasn’t one of them.
Sympathy, that she’d lost her father.
Respect, that she earned the family’s money.
Pain, that her mother was unwell.
And rage.
Rage, that she’d been faint from hunger.
He fingered the packet of peanuts in his coat pocket that he’d taken to carrying on the off-chance he ran into her. But he hadn’t in a few days. And that strange protective instinct had risen in him, again and again. Made him think about her in ways he never had another woman. It didn’t contradict any of his rules—his carefully crafted, iron-clad rules—but it was dangerous, nonetheless.
“Shit,” he said again.
A few hours later, Emil gazed up at the apartment building he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind.
There was nothing special about it. Brick with simple terra-cotta decoration around the entrance, it was a standard sight around town. Unsubstantial, too, occupying less than half a block, and only three stories tall. Upon closer look, however, Emil noted some worrisome signs. The white trim was yellowing, and a few bricks bore scars where mortar had cracked away. The front door sat slightly ajar, its warped frame no longer permitting it to close properly, and though someone had taken the trouble to sweep the stoop, a dark stain near the base remained stubbornly in place.
This was where Olive, Robbie, and their mother lived.
He frowned and turned his back on the building. What the hell was he doing, showing up unannounced? He had no way of knowing if Olive was home, but his feet had led him there, regardless. Before he could do something stupid, like pull the call bell outside her front door, he strode down the street.
A block down, he slowed. There was some commotion at the tiny park on the corner—a series of high-pitched whoops followed by a loud crack. Emil shielded his eyes against the hazy, fading sun and scoured the mostly dirt lot for the source. A young mother negotiating with a wailing child bundled in so many layers he appeared round—not them. Two men, their pants speckled with dust and grime from hard labor, sitting on a bench, passing a brown paper bag back and forth—not them. And at the far end of the park, a spindly kid holding a wooden bat jumped up and down while a young, slender woman chased after a ball—them. He raised two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply.
Olive and Robbie turned as one. He raised a hand in greeting, already moving across the patchy grass to intercept them. Robbie returned the wave enthusiastically, but Emil’s eyes were on Olive. He didn’t miss the way she lit up when she recognized him, nor the way she quickly looked down and fumbled with the baseball mitt on her hand. Then he saw the forest green scarf around her neck.
His scarf.
The one he’d toiled over for weeks and had resolutely refused to let Astrid strip him of. The one he’d wound around Olive’s neck without hesitation, though he’d later managed to convince himself it was out of pity for her plight. But now—now, as he gazed at her in his scarf, the dappled sunlight playing over her features, he felt nothing but deep, primal satisfaction.
“Hello,” he called, his voice louder than usual.
“What are you doing here?” Olive asked in lieu of greeting, her delight fading into a worried frown. “I’m afraid I cannot investigate right now.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” he said quickly.
“It’s not about what happened the other day, is it?” A flush crept up her cheeks. “I assure you, it was out of the ordinary, a momentary weakness?—”
“We’re all allowed moments of weakness, Olive.” He gave her a look. “But that’s not it either.”
“Oh. Then…why?”
“Why?” He scrambled for an answer. “I was in the neighborhood.”
Her brow wrinkled as she looked around them. “This neighborhood?”
“All right, fine. I was thinking about you. I wanted to see you.”
“Oh.” She licked her lips, sending a jolt of desire through his limbs. “Oh.”
Robbie pushed in between them. “Want to play with us?”
“Yes,” he replied quickly. Anything to save himself from this horrible bout of truth-telling. “That is, if your sister agrees.”
Olive studied him a moment longer, then nodded. “A new victim is most welcome.”
“She’s bloodthirsty, Mr. Anderson. That’s why her pirate name is Bloody Ollie.”
