Page 8 of A Heart On A Sleeve

six

Sam

Sam's Sandwich Service

“Dude, quit staring at her. You’re making it weird.” Max smacks me on the shoulder, redirecting my focus from where Olive stands at the other end of the bar. I tip my beer to my lips, shrugging at his comment.

I’ve been playing this little game of cat and mouse with her for the past few days, and while I’m still not convinced there could be anything between us other than physical attraction, it’s been a fun and educational new hobby.

Like when she ran into me, I was shocked to see her outside and not in a gym.

I didn’t expect her to enjoy the great outdoors or be unafraid to run in the dark.

It surprised me, in a good way, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s more to her than meets the eye.

I’m pretty positive she doesn’t find me equally as intriguing, but why would she?

I’m not fancy like she is. I’m also thirty-two compared to her maybe twenty-four—but the biggest reason lies with how grumpy I’ve been toward her during each interaction.

I can’t name the reason for my mood, I think it’s just her.

Something about the way she snaps that mask right into place when we interact, it drives me crazy that I can’t do a single thing to keep her walls down, even just for a second.

“You gonna tell me what this is all about, anyway?” Max nudges my shoulder again, sipping his beer. “Bridg said she thinks you have a little crush.”

I scoff at him, motioning for the bartender to come over, when I spot Olive walking out the oversized front door. “It’s nothing, she’s just new in town. She needs someone to look out for her.” Max coughs into his fist muffling the word bullshit , like we are teenagers again.

Howie approaches, laying two twenties on the dark wood bar in front of me.

“She, uh, she said you can’t buy her drinks without asking permission.

” I can tell by his body language that he doesn’t want to be in the middle of whatever he thinks is going on.

He’s fidgeting with a bar rag and looking at his shoes instead of making eye contact.

I was trying to be nice, to buy her drinks to make up for being kind of an ass before.

I guess I should have been more direct .

. . Why am I so bad at this all of a sudden?

I push the money back to him. “Take it. Consider it a consolation for trying.” He nods at me, walking away to slip the bills into the tip jar that’s teetering on the edge of the backlit shelf, opposite of where I’m sitting.

“Can I get a turkey Reuben to-go with fries,” I call over to him.

He doesn’t reply, just lifts his chin in acknowledgement.

“Where are you gonna put that?” Max asks, raising his brow at my order.

We just finished eating no less than fifteen minutes ago, so it probably does seem weird for me to request a second dinner.

But he doesn’t know that I noticed Olive’s lack of a meal.

That I saw and disliked the thought of her not, at the very least, leaving with a warm sandwich to eat when she gets home.

I don’t know why I feel compelled to look out for her, to take care of her.

She carries herself around like she’s got her shit together, but I guess I’ve noticed, in the little moments when no one else is watching, how she picks her fingernails or glances at groups of people talking as if she wishes she was included.

Like earlier today, when I stood outside of Black Kettle waiting for her to see the gift I left her, I thought it was going to be entertaining, that I’d get to watch her not play it cool for once.

Instead, she clutched the vest tightly to her chest before tossing it aside and saying something to Beau.

Maybe I’m being presumptuous, but it made me think—even if she would never admit it—that the gift meant something to her.

She may be a debutant, a Southern belle on the outside, but there’s more to her, and I want to find out what it is, even if I shouldn’t.

Max elbows me, this time in the ribs, “Hello . . . are you going to answer me?” Pulling me back from staring at the TV that’s airing some late-season baseball game I’m not actually paying attention to.

I chuckle a little, finishing the last swig of my lager. “It’s for my fucking lunch tomorrow. Not everything is a big conspiracy.”

My brother laughs, an outright bellow of a sound. “Now that’s really bullshit. Mom’s making tortellini tomorrow for the festival.” He looks at me, his eyes trying to decipher what I’m up to. “It’s for the girl, isn’t it?”

“No, Max.” I sigh heavily. “It’s for tomorrow, between appointments. I have to eat something. I can’t be running out to get an early meal from Mom, at least not if I intend to be done in time to help with set up.” I’m overexplaining, lying through my teeth to my only brother.

I hate lying, and I’ve done it twice this week.

But I don’t need anyone meddling even more than my mother surely already is.

And I haven’t even decided if I’m actually going to drop the sandwich off.

This whole thing could be true, I could lose my nerve and not put it on her porch.

Thankfully, I don’t have to keep up the ruse for long as Howie slides a paper bag across the bar to me.

When I take my wallet out to pay, he holds a hand up and shakes his head no.

I shift to stand. “Thanks, Howie,” I say, smiling at the man who just reduced his tip to give me this food. I place my hand on Max’s shoulder. “Bye, bro. See ya tomorrow.” I clap his back one time and walk out the door, hoping I can muster the courage to actually deliver this thing.

Pushing into the crisp early-fall air, I take a deep breath and head out of the square.

I’m not being creepy by knowing where Olive is staying; I actually know the owner of the home she’s renting, and it happened to naturally come up in conversation.

It’s also on the way to my place, so if it doesn’t look like she’s there or awake, I can just carry on.

How the hell am I going to deliver this, though?

That's the real question. Drop it on the porch and ring the doorbell? I don’t have her number.

Fuck, I didn’t think past my ridiculous urge to feed her.

Rounding the corner, the faint sound of a porch swing swaying in the breeze tickles my ears. Olive’s hair blows in the breeze with it, like fire dancing in the moonlight.

Shit!

I also didn’t think about how I would handle actually seeing her.

Dropping the bag via an old-school ding-dong ditch felt easier than talking to her.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the view, but we don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to even something as basic as talking.

I take my steps slowly, trying to buy enough time to figure out what I’m going to do, but she spots me approaching when I’m about a house away.

“Sam?” Olive calls out.

I increase my pace, moving to stand at the end of the path leading to her porch. “Yeah, funny seeing you here.” She’s dressed down, almost like she’s ready for bed.

“At my house?” she asks, standing to move to the porch steps, bringing her adorably relaxed face into my view. She’s holding a book.

I run my free hand over my hair and down my neck, scratching lightly. “Uh, yeah. I, um, know the owner. I guess I heard someone had rented it recently.” I don’t admit to outright knowing this is where she’s living. My stomach flops with the awkwardness of this whole thing.

She smiles sweetly, that same pageant-worthy, bless-your-heart look, “ Okay . . . good night.” Olive turns toward the door, but I stop her by stepping through the gate, causing a creaking sound as I do. She whips back around, a puzzled look on her face.

“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 around her.

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, I had 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.