Olivia
Where is My Husband! - Raye
To the poor soul destined to marry me? I’m ready when you are.
They’re doing me dirty out here. Case in point, the date I went on last week. Yeah, adate.Courtesy of a dating app Zoe swore was better than the cesspool I tried last year.The guy, let’s call him Ryan because I’ve already forgotten his actual name, opened up with:So, are you more of a paddock or a kitchen girl?That was his flirty icebreaker.
I nearly left right then. But because I’m me, and because it has been six months since anyone looked at me with even mild interest, I stayed. He talked through dinner about his prize bull and the John Deere he’s rebuilding in his shed. I nodded, smiled, shoved pasta into my mouth, and wondered if the ceiling fan above me could come loose and take me out mid-sentence. Andwhen I finally thought I’d earned an early exit, he asked if I wanted to “ride shotgun” back to his place.
No, thanks, cowboy. I’d rather walk barefoot over Lego.
So, yeah. That was my week. A shitshow wrapped in a stale bread roll. And the cherry on top? Work at the farm is still chewing me up during the day, then babysitting in the mornings and afternoons, and zero clarity about my future. If we really are living in a simulation, whoever’s running mine needs to explain what the fuck they’re doing. Thanks.
Dinner tonight at Bradley and Amelia’s is supposed to be soothing. Comfort food, family talk, the usual ribbing until someone slams down a fork. Amelia tells me about her week with year two, because she’s not teaching kindergarten anymore, which still makes her pout. “They’re cheekier,” she says, sipping her wine. “But they’re clever, and I actually love it. Even if I miss my littlies.”
Bradley watches her intently. I roll my eyes into my lemon tart, because it’s disgustingly sweet how smitten he is. His gaze flicks to me. “How’s work?”
I launch into the only answer I’ve got. “Good. Teddy’s warming up. Slowly. The routines are helping, and I—”
He cuts in, shaking his head. “No. I mean the farm.”
I groan, stabbing my tart. “Of course you did. The farm isn’t work, Brad. That’s just me helping out. You know that.”
“Help that you’re being paid for,” he says, blunt as always.
I tut, waving him off. “Whatever. I think I like the babysitting gig.”
Amelia perks up, smiling at me with that warm, earnest face that’s been my safe place since I was fifteen. “You’re wonderful with kids. You always have been.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Bradley mutters.
“Bradley Mitchell,” Amelia scolds, smacking his arm. “She doesn’t need your lectures. She’s allowed to figure out what she wants.”
I beam at her. “Thank you, wife of the year.”
“Don’t push it,” Bradley warns, but there’s no bite to it. Just his usual big-brother gruffness. Still, the questions keep coming.
“So what’s it like over there? He treating you right? House safe? Locks working? Alarm system—”
“Oh my God.” I drop my fork. “Are you interrogating me or him? I think you’re more protective of your best mate than you are of me.”
“Not true,” he says immediately.
Amelia pinches his fingers together. “It’s a little true.”
“Look, if you’re asking if Sebastian Daniels has me chained to a post somewhere, the answer’s no. He’s… fine. Professional. Bit grumpy. Eats like a man who hasn’t enjoyed a proper meal in years, so you’re welcome that I’ve been cooking.”
Bradley’s eyes narrow, suspicion rising like a tide. “You don’t need to cook for him.”
I throw my hands up. “So what, am I supposed to cook just for Teddy and leave his dad to fend for himself? That’s just… rude.”
Bradley shakes his head. “You’re not his housekeeper, Liv.”
“No,” I counter, stabbing my fork at him. “I’m not. But last I checked, feeding people isn’t a crime. You sound like a cranky old man yelling at me for being polite.”
“As long as he’s professional,” Bradley warns, his voice softening but still firm.
“He is,” I shoot back. Then my lips curve into a grin. “Don’t even get me started, Mr. Best-Friend-Stealer.”
