“I noticed that you didn’t eat. At Union. I thought maybe you’d want this.” I reach my hand out, showing off the to-go bag. “Consider it my apology for trying to buy your drinks.”
She cocks one hip out to the side, placing her hand flat against it. “Is there something about me that screams, I want to eat your leftovers?” she asks, the line between her brows deepening at the same time the practiced smile slips into place. I have the sudden urge to run my thumb over it, to smooth out the confusion.
“It’s not leftovers. I, uh, got it for my lunch tomorrow.” Her face morphs from puzzled to frustrated, and I know I messed up. What I said doesn’t make sense even to me. Why am I so rattled by her? This is why I keep acting like a pissed-off jerk aroundher. It’s like I forgot how to be normal, and I’m frustrated with myself but I take it out on her.
Olive stares at me, her mouth opening and closing a few times before she abandons her stance and sits down on the top step of her porch. “I have to be honest.” She lets out a chuckle quietly to herself, placing a hand over her mouth. “I don’t really know how I’m supposed to respond here.”
I take a few steps closer, stopping when I’m about a foot from the bottom of the three steps leading to her cottage. “Can I sit?” I try to convey with my eyes that I’m going to attempt to not be rude to her for once. “Just so I can explain.” Olive nods, peering up at me with something suspiciously close to a grin.
I brush a few stray leaves from the bottom stair, cleaning a spot to take my seat. Once settled sideways so that I can see her while we talk, I sit the bag of food next to her. A few beats of silence pass as we take each other in, both of us vacillating between examining the other person and looking off into the distance.
“Are you going to explain, or are we just sitting here?” she asks, leaning toward me, saying it no louder than a whisper. It’s almost like she’s pretending we are sharing a secret, and it makes me laugh.
“Honesty time?” I raise an eyebrow, waiting for permission to proceed. When she nods, I continue, “Union Tavern makes the best turkey Reuben known to man. Eating it is a rite of passage in Mage Hollow.”
Olive looks at the bag, then me, then the bag, and back to me. “And you thought that because I’m new you would bring me a sandwich at”—she checks the time on her phone—“9:45 on a Friday night? I’ve had it before, by the way.”
“I was just being neighborly. Is that a crime, princess?” My words come out a little gruffer than intended, again. She has a right to think this is bizarre. I would. But at the same time, Ihad good intentions, and is it my fault that she turns me into a bumbling idiot in her presence? She seems to keep perceiving my attempts at flirting as being annoying or belittling . . . I swear, I used to be better at this.
Olive places her hand on her chest. “Well, isn’t that sweet of you.” The Southern accent in her voice comes out much thicker than normal. She’s mocking me. I wouldn’t say I don’t deserve it, but it’s still annoying. I already know she’s brilliant and beautiful—I didn’t know that I needed to add a sense of humor to the list of positives.
I move to stand, reaching for the bag next to her. “Well, I’ll just take this back then, princess. Since you don’t seem to like your neighbors.” A grin lifts the corner of my mouth at the same time a red blush sweeps up her neck. Olive attempts to swat my hand away, but I grab the bag and shift it into the hand furthest from her.
“I, uh, I like my neighbors just fine.” She stands and reaches across my body, brushing her chest against mine accidentally. I don’t miss the heavy breath she sucks in through clenched teeth at the contact. In this close proximity, I can practically see her pulse racing at the side of her neck. “And I love turkey Reubens.”
I let her snag the bag from my hand, not moving an inch away from her. “Maybe we could get—”
“I better get inside. It’s late.”
Olive takes a step back, replacing the distance we momentarily lost. I can’t help but notice the slightly rosy appearance of her cheeks. “You’re welcome, princess,” I say, winking at her in hopes that the pretty red flush will creep up her neck one more time. Even if she did dodge my attempt to ask her out, I like knowing I affect her in some way.
Without a word, Olive turns on her heel and marches inside her house. When the door closes and the lock clicks into place, a“Thanks, Sam” cascades across the quiet night air, muffled only by the door between us.
seven
Olive
The Hollow Hearts Festival
“Yes, Mother. I understand.” I nod as if she can see me. Thank heavens she can’t or I’d definitely be up a creek for the numerous eye rolls I’ve tossed her direction over the last . . . Ack! Thirty minutes.
“I just don’t want you to think that anyone would judge you if you came home. I mean, we all know this is a phase and you will realize you need to settle down. I wouldn’t want Theodore to be snatched up while you’re up there gallivanting.” Teddy is the esteemed son of an oil tycoon. In other words, the perfect husband for Anne Bowman’s one and only daughter.
“Mother, it’s not a phase. It’s my career, and you know, I just looked at the time. Ari will be here any minute for the festival. You wouldn’t want me to look disheveled now, would you?” I twist the knife, preying on what has to be her greatest fear. Someone could snap a photo of one of us looking average. The horror.
“Okay, make sure you wear Pillow Talk lipstick. It’s your best shade, dear. And for God’s sake, don’t slouch.”
Don’t slouch? I’m walking around an outdoor festival, how would I even pull that off? “Okay, Mother. Pillow Talk lipstick and no slouching. Gotta run.” I hang up, immediately slouching further into the couch just to spite her. You’d think after years of trying to fit the mold she crafted for me, I’d be used to it. But her words still sting every time just as much as the first.
A knock cuts my pettiness short. I hop up to greet Ari and Meg at the door.
“Hey, wow you look . . . Is that Pillow Talk?” Dang it, I can’t help that it’s truly the best shade.
“Yes, but don’t tell my mom.”
“Why would I tell your mom? She hates me,” Ari says.
“Never mind. Is this okay to wear?” I spin slowly to show off my outfit. I opted for tight black jeans, Doc Martens, an oversized cream cable-knit sweater, and a bow in my half pulled-back hairstyle. The bow, a pale rust color with creamy lace, is my favorite part.
