Page 17 of A Heart On A Sleeve

“Okay but, uh, Sam, this is just dinner. Please don’t get the wrong impression, I wasn’t trying to invite myself. I would never do that. I didn’t even bring a bottle of wine, and I feel awful about it.” There’s the charming girl I’m finding myself entirely too fond of.

“Sure, princess. It’s okay if you find me irresistible.” I wink, walking toward the door. “But you could have just used the number I gave you if you wanted to see me.” I leave her standing in the kitchen doorway, mouth agape as I mentally fist pump with glee.

As I walk out onto the sprawling cedar deck, Nora, the baby of the family, is perched on the arm of the chair her boyfriend, Tom, is occupying.

Bridget is slouched into a two-seater wicker couch, and Max is sitting in between my parents, comfortably sprawled out in an Adirondack chair with the fire pit serving as his footrest.

“What kind of pie did you bring me, darling?” My mom looks guilty, and her scrunched up eyebrows tell me she’s desperate to avoid the obvious setup she’s responsible for.

“Blackberry today. I was looking for grape but it isn’t out yet.” I offer her a small smile and a look that says we will be discussing the meddling later.

In other families, a new love interest would never be invited to a family dinner so soon. Not so in this pack of nosy Nellies. They can’t help but sink their teeth into the naive Southern belle. I can tell by the way my mom looks at Olive, she’s got some plan cooked up.

“Sammy, how was the market today?” Bridget bellows, intentionally attempting to maintain my status as the center of attention.

“Busier than usual, I guess. There were lots of out-of-towners from the festival.” I shrug, conveying ambivalence.

“What about you, Olive? What did you do today?” Nora asks, smiling into her wine glass. Neither of my sisters are willing to let this awkward tension die.

“Oh, um. Not much.” Her nonanswer causes me to glance her way. Clearly she went to the market, but for some reason she doesn’t want them to know that. It seems a certain beauty might be in over her head.

“Well, you went to the market. Remember we talked?” I add. Mom’s face practically glows in delight. I shouldn’t give her ammunition, but it’s impossible not to goad Olive, even just a little.

“I, uh, yes. How could I forget? You were reminding me that you’d like to go out sometime, right?” Her eyebrow rises in a challenge. Game on, sweetheart.

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.

” I growl 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.