Max’s face morphs into a shit-eating grin, Mom blows out an overexaggerated breath, and the girls giggle in delight.
“Well, it looks like you have your work cut out for you, big brother.” Bridget chuckles as she stands, slapping me on the shoulder.
“Nah, she’s already at the family dinner. Looks like she couldn’t resist me after all.” I take a long pull of my beer before clinking bottles with Max.
“Come on, kids, time to eat.” Mom stands, sweeping her arm for us to follow. When Mabel issues an order, we fulfill it every time.
Dinner consists of an array of Irish delicacies. Shepherd’s pie that’s bubbling around the edges, colcannon mash, and soda bread. It’s heaven, and much to my surprise, Olive isn’t timid about digging in with the rest of us. She could have been reluctant—eating with Max has that effect when you have to fight for even a small portion—but she grabbed a plate and seemingly enjoyed everything. We are stuffed to the gills now, but Mom insists on breaking out dessert.
“Max, when’s the first game?” Dad asks, ready to make small talk after a mostly silent meal.
“Coming up, a couple of weeks,” he says around a bite of blackberry pie, bits of crumbs tumbling from his lips.
“Where are the games?” Olive asks, dabbing her perfect mouth with one of Mom’s cream cloth napkins.
“At the arena over on Crow. Not too far from your place, actually.”
“That’s not on my usual running route, but now that I know the hockey team practices there, I might need to switch it up. I’ve never watched a game in person, I would love to see one.” Olive smiles politely at Max but refuses to make eye contact with me. I can’t tell if she’s being nice or trying to drive me nuts. Either way, it’s working. Feeling bold, I reach under the table and run my fingers lightly over her arm, taking satisfaction in the way a flush of red creeps up her neck.
“Yeah, for sure. Come by anytime. Happy to give you a tour.”
“What number do you wear?” She spies me out of the corner of her eye. Is she trying to trick me into reacting? By sheer force of will, I don’t.
“Twenty-two. It’s always been my favorite. It’s also the number of goals I scored last season.”
Max is eating up the attention. The rest of us quit asking about his professional hockey dreams about four concussions ago. At this point, I’m concerned about the number of brain cells he will have left if he doesn’t give the sport up soon. Don’t get me wrong, he’s good, but I don’t love not being able to be out there to protect him.
“Can I buy your jersey somewhere? I’d like to dress the part if I’m going to come to your games. Be a real Max O’Reilly groupie.” A devilish grin splits her lips. I haven’t quite seen this side of her before, but I have a sneaking suspicion that she’s not going to stop until I give her some sort of reaction.
“Didn’t take you for a puck bunny, princess. But if that’s what you’re into, you can borrow my jersey when we go together.” Igrowl the words just enough to let her know she’s won, careful to throw in that the only way I’d like to see her supporting my baby brother is with me by her side, even if it makes me look like an ass, again.
“That’s very sweet of you to offer, but I think I’ll decide who I attend with,” she whips back.
“Alright, kids. That’s enough. Thank you all for coming, but it’s getting late and Dad has an early morning helping Beau with restock. Sammy, be a sweetheart and get Olive home safe. She walked here, and it’s far too late to go it alone.”
Mom once again issues our marching orders. There’s zero point in resisting. Plus, I want to take Olive home anyway. But I’d love it if I could offer without it being because my mother told me to. I swear, it doesn’t matter how old I am, the woman will always tell me what to do and when to do it.
We all scurry about grabbing our belongings, carrying empty bowls and trays to the kitchen, exchanging hugs, and heading toward the door. In the shuffle of helping clean up and snagging my leftovers, I don’t notice Olive sneak out. When I step onto the porch, she’s nowhere to be seen.
My heart races as I think of her walking home alone. She doesn’t take her own safety seriously enough—not that we live in a dangerous place, far from it. But anything could happen. She could trip and hurt herself, get lost or take a wrong turn. I slide my helmet on as quickly as possible and rev the engine, determined to find her.
It doesn’t take long for me to cross town, it’s maybe ten blocks in total, but looking for her feels like it takes hours. My eyes scan the dark and abandoned sidewalks, searching until finally, I spot her sashaying through the white picket fence gate in front of her cottage. There’s no denying she hears me hovering. My bike does little to disguise my approach as the engine hums and rattles.
She doesn’t turn around to look, she simply raises one hand moving it side to side in a perfect pageant wave while unlocking her door with the other.Ugh!This woman is going to be the death of me.
eleven
Olive
A Sort of Pumpkin Patch
I should not have gone to the O’Reillys’ house last night. Something told me Mabel was up to no good, but I take my work seriously and didn’t want to disappoint Beau if word got back that I was turning down jobs. I knew from the minute I walked in that there wasn’t ever any book to examine, and when Max and the girls waltzed in, the jig was up.
But I also couldn’t be rude and just leave, and it was a little fun to mess with Sam. If I’m being honest, though, it was also a little awkward. I’m not practiced in letting loose or showing off my more playful side. But it felt nice, oddly like part of me wasmore open to putting myself out there. What is it about this man that intrigues me so much? He was growly and possessive about the hockey thing, but also sweet to his mom and funny with his siblings. I should be questioning if I can trust him, but for some reason, I’m not. I know deep in my belly that he’s one of the good ones, if for no other reason than the love he has for his family.
My alarm chimes for the second time since I’ve hit snooze. I skipped my run altogether this morning, which is completely unlike me, but I think I needed the rest. I toss the covers back and step onto the cool wood floor, making my way to the bathroom. I pull the door shut, locking myself in, just in case. I’m still a little spooked from the whole Irina situation. Stepping toward the shower, I reach beyond the glass doors to turn on the spray when I see it.
There’s no way. There must be something wrong with the reflection. The tattoo could not possibly be bigger than it was yesterday. I spin toward the mirror hanging above the vanity counter, rubbing the sleep from my eyes to be sure I’m really awake. Sure enough, extending from the scraggly heart are green pumpkin vines, varying in lengths from an inch to maybe four at the longest. Hanging off one of the vines is a small red book that appears to be vintage with tiny, almost imperceptible words where the title should be.
