Page 5 of A Heart On A Sleeve

three

Olive

A Bright Yellow Vest

My feet pound the pavement, the wind whistling through the trees as I run.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, streetlights cast dark shadows around every corner.

There’s something exhilarating about the feeling of sweat dripping down my body, the heat in my lungs like a hot-air balloon burner propelling me forward.

I’m basking in the warmth of my working muscles, a contrast to the crisp air of early fall in the Northeast. I should be scared by the number of mysterious things lurking just beyond my reach, but the need to feel a rush of adrenaline, to push myself out of my safety net, is freeing.

I round the winding road leading into Mage Square, and my pace slows.

The dim glow of the Victorian oil lamps brightens the usually busy center just enough to emphasize the parts of this town I’m beginning to love most. There’s the quaint gift shop that’s outfitted to supply shoppers with a myriad of magical-themed toys, freakish candy, protective sage, and ancient spell books a plenty.

Or Union Tavern, which I’ve come to know serves the best turkey Reuben to ever touch my taste buds and beer served at exactly the right temperature in a frosted mug so cold you can almost hear it crackle.

There’s no shortage of interesting yet slightly corny things to find here.

Mage Hollow goes big on playing into their supposed “witchy” past. They claim to be a more accepting version of Salem, the original home of those who prefer black cats and broomsticks over perfectly appointed linens and ocean-themed decor.

A bright glow emanates from the far corner of the square affirming one clear truth: Beau Brooks is no slouch.

Despite my initial suspicions about his extended lunch breaks and seemingly ridiculous working hours, the man gets down to business.

I’ve always been an early riser, waking before anyone else to run, ready myself, and of course have coffee—Mom always says a good Southern woman is never seen without a full face of makeup and a smile.

That means, getting all the unsightly stuff done before the sun comes up.

For the past four days, my morning jog has led me here, only to find the lights illuminating the windows of the Black Kettle while Beau scurries around inside, stocking shelves.

I’ve offered to come in early to assist, but he always says the same thing: The morning is my special time, the early bird does not get the worm here, Olive .

I’m tempted to ignore him and show up early anyway.

But I don’t want him to be annoyed by me just a few days in.

I’m trying to make a good impression, to start my career on the right foot.

And that’s just it, to me it’s so much more than a career—it’s freedom from the flashing red sign held over my head by every wannabe suitor that reads: her father has money .

Not to mention my mother who trails behind them ready and willing to sell me off for what is practically the modern-day version of a goat.

Checking my watch to note my mileage and the time, I whip around to head back in the direction I came from.

Running past the shop might make Beau squirrely; it’s not worth the scolding.

I tap the volume on my AirPods up, running quicker to pace with the beat.

Darkness encroaches on me, slightly impairing my vision as I make my way back out of the square, carefully watching each of my steps on the cobblestones.

I’m making swift progress until I run into a brick wall, or what feels like one, with a thud.

I rip my earbuds out just in time to hear a somewhat familiar and irritatingly sexy voice growl out, “Jesus, the fuck are you doing out here.” Nope, not a wall. Just Sam.

“Running?” I say, a bit of sarcasm in my tone. It’s too early for niceties even if I’m swallowing down the lump of guilt that lodged in my throat as soon as the words left my lips.

“It looks like you’re asking to be mugged.” He shakes his head at me, or at least I think he does. It’s hard to tell as I’m still plastered against his broad chest, his cedar-and-cinnamon scent overwhelming me with every breath I take. I shove off, peeling his grip from my biceps.

“Nope, not that.” I glance around to see if anyone is watching, a force of habit from years of learning not to cause a scene. The only thing I notice is a pile of boxes in the back of a truck. Maybe his truck?

Sam shifts his weight back and forth, almost like he’s the one who’s a bit nervous. “Uh, yeah . . . it was a joke. What would compel you to be out here alone?”

“Running,” I repeat. “You know, it’s that thing people do for exercise.” I try and fail to mask the nerves in my voice.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it. But most people that look like you do it in the safe confines of a fancy gym with towels and those disgusting green drinks or whatever.” His face turns sour.

I muster my sarcasm, simply to repay the favor of his rudeness.

“And here I was thinking you were bringing me a towel, my mistake.” I look at him from under my lashes, feeling my stomach twist in guilt again when I notice his face sink just slightly.

“Actually, I prefer running in nature.” I don’t know what’s gotten into me, I’m usually a lot better at playing pageant nice.

Maybe it’s his general air of cockiness that flusters me.

“Sure you do, princess. And I drink pumpkin spice lattes.” His ever-present scowl pops back into place, as if my wanting to take in the fresh morning air is offensive. “No need to pretend we’re something we aren’t,” he snips out.

I’m growing tired of his dirty looks. Every time I’ve come remotely close to him over the last few days, I’m accosted with that glare.

At first, I thought maybe he was staring at me, but his gruff tone tells me he has a distaste for my personal brand of being.

The feeling’s mutual, at least when he speaks.

I can’t deny his ranking on the lickability scale, much to my dismay.

“Well, this has been . . . delightful. I’m gonna go.

” I spin on my heels, running briskly toward my cottage.

I can feel him watching my retreat and it makes me nervous.

There’s something about him that seems to get under my skin.

Every time I walk (or run) away, I tell myself the next time it’ll be different. The next time he won’t rattle me.

My morning has been as predictably boring as it could be for only having been here less than a week, anyway.

After returning to the cottage and readying myself for work, I stopped into the Brewhouse for a pumpkin spice latte.

I second-guessed my coffee choice after the snide remark Sam made, but only for a brief moment before the drink’s glorious scent filled my nose and feminism reminded me I have the right to order whatever I’d like.

I didn’t walk away from a cushy life and a trust fund just to let another person dictate my every move.

As I push through the door of Black Kettle, a small jingle bellows my arrival at the same time Beau announces, “There’s an odd gift waiting for you on your desk.” He looks up from where he’s seated behind the register, his usual perch, and eyes me over the rim of his round spectacles.

Ignoring his announcement, and assuming it’s a euphemism for another restoration to work on, I sing song, “Good morning to you too, Beau,” waving my hand in the air smoothly as I walk past the center tables toward my desk. “What in the . . .”

An offensively bright neon yellow vest and matching headlamp greets me, draped on my chair with a note pinned carefully on the fabric:

So you don’t run into any more unsuspecting men in the dark.

-S

I don’t get him. One minute he’s a complete stranger in the middle of the street staring at me like he might enjoy the view, and the next he’s grumbling about my lack of self-preservation and leaving me gifts he has to know I’ll never use.

He doesn’t seem to like me. But then again, why the hell would he care if I run in the dark, and why does the whole thing bother me so much?

“I told you it was strange . . .” Beau trails off, walking past me to refill his coffee mug. He shakes his head and lets out a barely audible chuckle before taking a sip.

A heavy sigh escapes me as I clutch the vest in my hands, holding it to my chest. Sam’s familiar cedar-and-cinnamon scent creeps into my airspace, momentarily intoxicating me.

Snapping out of it, I ask, “What’s his deal?

” Beau looks at me like he doesn’t have even the slightest idea what I’m talking about. “Sam, that’s who left this, right?”

He smiles softly, one dimple appearing in his round, rosy cheek. “Sam is a good boy. Owns the tattoo shop across the way. Nothing to worry about with that one, Olivia.”

“Okay, but did you see him bring this in? Did he say anything?” I need the elderly man standing in front of me to give me details, to tell me something I can work with.

Where I’m from everyone knows everything—nothing is a secret at the Mobile Country Club. I mean, come on, what would a tattoo artist be doing hauling boxes in the wee hours of the morning or sneaking in to deliver random presents?

“Nope.”

One word, that’s it? How would Beau not see him? I’m so confused and slightly annoyed. “Look, there’s not much to say. I’m not a gossip, young lady. I need you to do something for me this morning.”

Choosing not to irritate him with more questions, I nod, letting him know to proceed.

“There’s a town meeting this morning, in about”—he checks the old-fashioned gold watch dangling from his vest pocket—“five minutes ago. I need you to go in my place.” I open and close my mouth a few times, unsure what to make of him asking me to attend a meeting when I’m apparently already late.

Grabbing my bag and stuffing Sam’s gift inside, I finally nod before answering, “Okay, uh, where is it?”

“Just over at the library this time. We normally meet for brunch on Sundays, but with the festival, they moved it up.” Beau walks back toward the front, setting his mug on the counter and grabbing his book.

“Is there a reason you aren’t going? Or is there something you want me to find out? I can take notes,” I offer.

He shakes his head. “No need. I just don’t feel like listening to it. Let me know if anything interesting happens.” Beau dives back into his book, and I make my way to the door. When I have one toe on the threshold, he chimes in again, “Maybe you can thank Sam for the gift.”

My stomach flips. I didn’t take Beau for a meddler, but I guess he's more of a gossip than I originally thought. I shake my head and scurry as quickly as I can to the large brick building two blocks away.

I haven’t had the chance to explore this one yet, but from the outside, the library perfectly matches the rest of Mage’s aesthetic.

The handle I wrap my fingers around is wrought iron, cool to the touch as I pull it open.

The black wooden door is heavy, and I have to throw my whole body into the effort to open it, causing my attempt at a quiet entrance to be all but lost. The door creaks loudly, and every head in the room snaps in my direction.

Just perfect!

Schooling my features, I smile politely and tiptoe around the edge of the room, weaving between the stacks of books that line it in even rows.

I’m comforted by their smell—libraries and bookstores are my happy place—that is, until a smug grin greets me from the one and only Sam O’Reilly.

The tables that line the center of the room are mostly occupied.

There are two open seats to choose from, one next to a woman with silver hair tied up into a bun, and one next to the unfairly attractive tattoo artist, whose blue eyes are practically burning a hole through me.

I start toward the seat by the woman, but she moves her purse to the chair.

I take a steadying breath, cautiously tamping down the eye roll I want to give her, and spin on my heel to walk toward Sam.

Sliding into the empty chair, I quietly dig my notepad out and face forward just in time for him to lean toward me and whisper, “You have a way of making entrances, don’t you, princess? ”