RACHEL
A tap on the glass causes me to sit up straight. I let out a huff and get out of the car. Over the roof, those violet orbs that haunt my dreams stare back at me. “Car trouble?” he asks, tapping the roof.
“Yes, Oliver, you would be correct.”
“Do you want me to take a quick look?” He moves around to the bonnet.
I shake my head. I already know what’s wrong—it’s the case of what isn’t. “It’s the alternator, the battery…amongst other things. How long have you got?” I ask.
Olly shrugs with a small smile, something very boyish in the gesture. “Well, it’s not worth getting upset over. I’ll grab my keys and give you a lift.”
I don’t get to respond before he jogs back inside. When he returns, he’s wearing a pair of pristine white trainers, donning sunglasses, and swinging his keys on his finger. He angles his head for me to follow, so I do. His car is…well, blimey.
“Climb in,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say and clip on my seatbelt.
“Couldn’t have you all stranded, could I, Princess?” I cross my arms and huff. “Oh, come on, you’re offended when I call you Princess?”
I look out of the window, giving a non-comital shrug, on the verge of tears again.
His fingers tap my thigh, and I turn my face towards him. “Hey, I’m sorry. I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he says, scanning between me and the road.
“It’s fine, Olly, I’ve just had a rough couple of days,” I reply. And that’s putting it mildly. I have so much pressure from my parents, never living up to their expectations. Not to mention Marcus dropping the bombshell about him and Dubai. I have no idea how to make this work for Molly.
“Anything I can help with?” he asks, sincerity in his voice.
I chew on my bottom lip, deliberating his question. “Maybe some other time,” I reply.
His eyes dart to mine and back to the road. “Well, I’m a good listener. I’ve even been known to give good advice a time or two. Offer is open whenever.”
I try to hide my smile as I stare out the window. Apart from Soph and Felicity, my circle of friends shrank when I had Molly, and then when my Nan died, it pretty much diminished. “I’ll bear that in mind,” I reply quietly, fingering my watch. I have no idea how I am going to pay to have my car fixed. Even with mate’s-rate—if Nate can fit me in—it’s still more money than I can afford.
We pull up outsideSofia’s. “Coffee?” I ask. It’s the least I can do. He nods and parks.
I’m grateful he’s not invading my space as I raise the shutters and walk out back to enter the code to the alarm system. Sophie is working on always having someone open and close with us—safety in numbers.
I switch on the lights and wash my hands before turning to the Barista machine. His eyes are on me, burning into my back, causing my fingers to fumble, not quite as agile as they usually are. I open the fridge to pull out the carton of milk. It slips from my grasp, and to my horror, explodes everywhere.
Milk drips from my face and hands, patches on my clothes, and the rest pools around my feet. It’s insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but try telling my hormones that—I burst into a flood of tears.
Olly rounds the counter, his eyes darting between my sorry state and the milk tsunami. He moves around the mess, and in one move, picks me up by my waist. He sits me down on a stoll in the kitchen, and then he’s in the supply cupboard pulling out the mop and bucket.
“Oliver,” I hiccup.
He walks back towards me, grabbing a tea towel. Instead of handing it to me as I anticipate, he lifts my head, two fingers probing gently under my chin as he wipes me clean. His eyes, almost magenta in colour today, are so open—clear, yet full of questions I don’t know how to answer…answers I don’t know myself.
When another tear escapes down my cheek, he swipes it away with his thumb and then leans in close to my ear, whispering, “No use crying over spilt milk.” A giggle breaks free from my chest until it’s cut off by his lips pressed into my cheek at the corner of my eye. “I meant what I said in the car—"
A hammering at the backdoor cuts him off before he can finish.
“Delivery,” I say, trying to sniff back my tears without snotting all over myself.
“Keys?” he asks, holding out his palm. I shake my head but pass them to him before he slips out the back door. I hear murmurs followed by laughter. I peek my head around the door frame as he talks to Ron, our usual delivery guy, like they are old pals.
He peers over his shoulder and gives me a wink. I pull back and rush into the toilets to try and sort myself out.
When I come back, he’s already mopped up the spill, and the boxes from the delivery are lined up on the far wall. “Oliver…” I begin but have no idea what to say.
