Page 29 of Baby, It’s You (Clairesville #1)

Hunter

A fter talking to Mr. Purngast for a little while longer, Olive realizes the time and needs to leave so she can get back to the bar.

Once we get to the truck, I am still in shock, unable to process everything that just occurred.

I can feel the energy vibrating from Olive, too, her own excitement palpable.

I slide into the driver’s seat and her eyes are wide when she slams the passenger door next to me.

“Wow!” she gushes. “Can you believe that?”

I shake my head and chuckle. “That was not how I expected our morning to go.” Meeting one of the greatest authors of many generations, here in Clairesville…

“I have every book he has ever written!” Olive continues, pushing her dark hair away from her face.

“I used to read the books as a kid when I lived at the trailer park, dreaming of another world, not knowing that the author also lived in that trailer park as a child !” Her voice is a shriek now, sending me into a full-on laugh.

Then she bounces towards me and engulfs me in a tight hug.

It catches me by surprise and takes my breath away momentarily.

I don’t want it to end. I squeeze her in my arms, resting the edge of my chin on her shoulder for a moment, her scent of roses stronger than before.

How desperately I want to cup her face in my hands and kiss her, but she told me this morning I was a friend .

The friendzone, ouch. It did sting, but I will also take friendship if that’s all she wants.

I just want to be near her and make her day a little better.

When she finally backs out of the hug, she looks at me, still grinning. “Thank you. If it wasn't for us making the video series, I never would have found that out.”

I smile back, “Hey, all I’m doing is filming. The stories are doing all the heavy lifting. Jane really sounds amazing.”

“She is.” Olive bites the inside of her cheek and I can see emotion swirling in her eyes. “I wish you could meet her—the her who basically raised me. It’s just different now; sometimes she doesn’t even know herself.”

I clear my throat. “I was wondering if you wanted to film one of the episodes talking about your relationship with her. We don't have to put her on camera. I don’t want to take advantage of her in a vulnerable state for views or anything. Her character speaks for itself through these stories, but I want you to talk about her. Your relationship is the one that matters the most to me. If you’re comfortable with it, of course. ”

“I would love that,” Olive quietly says and looks out the window.

I roll down my window and then she also rolls down hers as I back the truck up. I hand her my phone. “Choose from my playlist.”

She touches her heart in mock honor. “This is escalating quickly. First you give me a gift, now I get to go through your phone,” she teases me.

I look at her out of the corner of my eye and say, “Eight-seven-three-four,” before glancing back to the road.

“What?” she asks.

“That’s my password. Use my phone whenever you want. I’m not someone with anything to hide.”

With one eyebrow raised she says, “My best friend would love you. You’re like every girl who has ever been cheated on’s wet dream.”

I chuckle and ask, “Have you been cheated on?”

She is momentarily distracted while she punches in the code and begins looking through my music. Realizing the question is probably not one she wants to answer, I’m about to tell her that she doesn’t have to when she responds.

“Nope! I don’t date.” Olive snorts. “No relationship equals no cheating and lying. Problem solved.”

I’m wondering who did a number on her to make her think every relationship is like that when I hear a song start playing. “Right Down the Line” by Gerry Rafferty surrounds us, the notes to the intro smooth and provocative.

I meet Olive’s eyes. “I love this song.”

“Same.”

She lifts her hands in the warm breeze and sways them, singing along to the words as I head out onto the main road.

The song ends while we sit at a red light and I quietly say, “You know, not all guys are like that.”

“What?” she asks.

“Not all guys are bad in relationships; not all guys are cheaters or liars,” I respond, louder this time.

“Of course not,” she tells me. “Seymour and Jane, Mr. Ray and Mrs. Sonjia, Rob and Missy; there are good relationship guys out there, they are just all old or married.”

I stare at her for a long moment, wanting to tell her, Me, Olive, me. I’m faithful and I like you. I’m too shy, though, to try and cross that boundary she has set between us.

“Green!” she exclaims, pointing to the light and snapping me out of my thoughts.

I turn back towards the wheel, cursing myself for not speaking up.

“Let’s play a game.” She claps her hands together.

“Okay, sure,” I respond.

She jumps right in. “Would you rather have bug eyes or a monkey’s ass.”

I throw my head back, laughing. “What does that even mean?”

“Like a million little lenses together that give you the crazy wide vision, bug eyes. Or a butt that sticks out to attract your mate, like a baboon.”

“I think only the female baboons have that,” I tell her.

She shrugs her shoulders. “Okay, so you're hypothetically a woman, too.”

“Okay, I guess the butt, then.”

“Oh, of course. Such a male response.” She rolls her eyes playfully.

“I couldn’t handle having that type of vision; my mind would explode from trying to process so much,” I defend my response. “Also, you can judge someone’s Would You Rather answer, it’s universally known. So, give me a nice butt.”

Olive holds her hands up. “Okay, okay. I guess you are right. The ass it is, then.”

“Speaking of ass,” I say, as we pull into the bar parking lot, “I think your boss is here.” I point at a stuffy-looking guy in a polo, leaving out the front of the bar. He aggressively walks over to a silver car that I assume is his.

Olive groans seeing him. “We aren’t even open yet. Why is he here? Hopefully he’s leaving.”

We watch him grab something out of his passenger seat, a file folder, and then stand by his car, like he’s waiting.

I park in a spot next to her purple car and she grabs her stuff, then turns to me. “Thanks again for this morning, I had a blast.”

“Me, too.” I smile at her. “I will edit the footage later and send it to you.”

She slides out of the car. “I can’t wait to see it. Everyone is going to lose their minds after seeing Mr. Purngast. He is literally so secretive, no one knows details about Freddie Finnely. Who knew Whiskey’s would be the thing to reveal his identity?”

“People will be lining up now to view the men’s bathroom wall,” I joke, knowing it’s probably true, though.

“Olive,” I hear the man bark out from behind her.

“Yes, Tripp?” she responds, still looking at me.

“I need to talk to you. Come to my office, now.” He sneers. “Quit flirting in the parking lot and do your job.”

I make eye contact with him, the furthest thing from a smile on my face. He has no right to talk to her that way and I would love to give him my two cents.

Olive gives me an apologetic look. “Gotta go,” she says quickly, and starts to walk away.

I continue to stare at this Tripp guy, his gaze never leaving mine.

I can’t wait till she can take the bar from his grubby hands.

He finally breaks our staredown, and turns to walk towards the bar, following Olive.

One day I hope to give him what he deserves, but not while he owns the bar. I will play nice for her. For now.