Page 39

Olivia

M y mother always kept tulips or other delicate flowers in the garden in front of Aspen House. Every year, we’d plant the bulbs and watch the flowers spring up. Having the dirt beneath my nails, the sun on my skin, and the ground beneath my knees brings the memories back. I can smell the earth, the sweet scent of soil and life… and I practically feel my mother’s presence with me. Even now.

Theresa smiles as she pats the damp ground and covers the plants with a white tarp to protect them from the chill. We’re planting cover crops and winter peas.

Weed, dig, bury, pat, water.

“You seem lost in thought.” Her voice brings me back to the present.

“Sorry. I was…” I feel an excuse on the edge of my tongue, but for some reason, I don’t feel the need to lie. “My mother and I used to do this. A loooong time ago, before she passed.”

“How long?” she wonders aloud.

Years ago, the question might’ve stung. But the pain isn’t as sharp, the wound not so sore. “Five years,” I say as I finish my pile. “Car accident.”

She nods appreciatively, moving down to start her next patch. “Losing someone is hard. A parent especially. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

The cool wind whips across my back, and I sit upright, stretching my arms over my head as I spot Crew on the opposite side of the yard. He’s carrying a thick stack of lumber over his shoulder, muscles flexing as he carries the materials to the guest house. He’s been lugging back and forth all morning, and despite the chill, he’s glistening with sweat.

“Crew says you own a business.”

Concentrate , I remind myself.

“I do. An event planning business. Mostly weddings and bachelorettes at the moment, but I’m hoping to do more.”

“Do you like it?”

I hum, trying my best to answer honestly. “I do. Bringing people together is a beautiful thing.”

It’s true.

Or it was , at least.

I feel so far removed from that feeling lately.

“But?” she pries, and I grin at how well she peel saway my defenses.

“But I’m tired. Love is…” I laugh, trying to explain it. “Exhausting. Consuming. A lot of effort goes into a day most people have imagined since they were young.”

“I can’t imagine how it must be in a place like Sutton. Everything’s so expensive and lavish. I bet it all starts to lose meaning after a while.” That’s exactly how it feels, and I almost tell her as such until she prods further. “Have you thought about your own wedding?”

I smile, shaking my head at her careful attempts to get to know me. “Of course I have ideas, but I think a wedding should be more about the person you’re with. And I’m not…”

“You’re not with anyone,” she finishes.

“No. I’m dating, just… No luck.”

She nods as she plants a new pot in the ground, carefully breaking open the soil to expose the roots. “That I know of, Crew hasn’t dated since losing Winter.”

The mention of her brings a swell of feeling to my chest. We’ve talked about Winter a few times. I know he blamed himself for her death. I think I held the same guilt for far too long.

“I think your son carries a lot. Grief makes loving… hard. Being loved is even harder.”

“You’re right.” She smiles again, eyes watching me for a long moment. “Thanks for letting me rope you into some manual labor.”

“I don’t mind,” I giggle, and when she hears Jimmy knocking at the patio door to signal he’s ready to come outside, she stands.

Brushing the dirt off her jeans, she removes her gloves. “I’ll get started on lunch.”

I try my best not to look in Crew’s direction as I finish the rest of my de-potting. I dig a hole to drop the last plant into, but I give in anyway, lifting my gaze. Even dripping in sweat and covered in sawdust, he looks sexy as hell, but the fact that he’s already looking in my direction makes lightning erupt across my skin.

He drops another few planks of wood, wiping the dust off his hands before looking back to the task at-hand. I drop my own eyes with a sigh.

Before too long, Theresa calls us in, and we pause long enough to scarf our faces full of food before working again. My dad calls at some point, and I let it go to voicemail.

I push off calling him back until it’s dark out. After clearing the dishes from dinner, I dismiss myself early for bed. Crew lingers behind with his parents, but I’m glad that I have the guest house to myself to shower and get dressed before dialing my dad.

Crew steps inside, the musk of sweat and soil heavy on him as he shoulders through the door and sees me on the phone.

“Hey, Dad,” I say when he answers immediately.

“Button! Are you alright??”

Crew motions toward the bathroom as he grabs a pair of clothes. I nod, turning to talk into the phone. “Yeah. I’m okay. Been enjoying some time away from work, but… Got a lot on my mind.”

“Taylor called and told me more about the fire and the letter. He said his wife had the baby too. Gabrielle. She’s a preemie.”

“Yeah.” I explain everything to him with all the calm I can manage. I set the phone down on speaker, braiding my hair before tying it off.

My dad is reasonably upset, and though I can tell he wants to say more, neither of us mentions our last conversation. We talk for about ten minutes before Crew emerges from the bathroom- freshly showered, clad in a loose tee and sweats. The sight alone is distracting, and when Dad calls my name, I know I missed something he said.

“Sorry, Dad. I was just about to head to bed.” I glance away, rubbing at the bandage around my palm absently.

“Look… We haven’t talked about what happened before you left. I- I’m sorry you found out that way-“

“Dad,” I snap, wincing at the edge to my voice. “I don’t want to talk about it. Not right now. Okay?”

The line is silent for a few moments. I sigh, ignoring Crew’s eyes on me. “Okay, Button. You’re safe? Not hurt?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m safe.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I hear him sniffle. “Okay. There’s a gala- Well, a dinner at the Rebren in a couple of weeks. Maybe you could join me. We could go together. Maybe talk. Over dinner," he rambles.

“Maybe we can talk about it when I get back. I’ll call again soon.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah,” I say, the words plucking at something painful. “Goodnight.”

I toss my phone aside, falling back against the mattress with a sigh. Frustration, sadness, confusion, and a messy bundle of other emotions threaten to spill out of me, so I force my eyes closed, inhaling.

Crew is rustling around in the bathroom again, but this time, he reappears with a small kit in his hands. I bounce when he sits next to me, holding out his palm.

At first, I’m confused, but when his eyes flicker toward my hand, I realize it’s because the burn is still an ugly red welt on my palm.

I huff. “I’m-”

“Going to let me help you,” he argues, and at his persistence, I slowly sit up and offer him my hand.

He unfurls the tape and gauze to reveal the weeping wound. His hand cups mine as he reaches into the first aid kit and grabs a tube of ointment and a fresh covering.

“Does this hurt?” he asks.

“A little.”

I hiss as he gently swabs cream into the burn. I blow out a breath, watching the look of concentration on his face as he begins wrapping my hand.

“There.”

Crew’s touch is firm but gentle, and I shiver when he runs his thumb over my wrist, right over my pulse. The touch is gone as soon as it comes, and I watch as he turns his back, disappearing into the bathroom again.

He strolls to the couch, rolling his neck as he sets his bag on the ground. He's made a routine of unlatching his holster, stashing his pistol nearby.

The longer I stare, the guiltier I feel.

“Will you please sleep on the bed tonight?”

“Here’s fine.”

“Your feet were hanging off the couch all night and you’ve been rolling the crick in your neck all day,” I reason. “There’s more than enough room.”

He looks at the empty space beside me, silently turning over the proposition.

Is it smart to sleep in the same bed as a man who’s watched me orgasm? Probably not, but neither is wasting half of a perfectly usable bed.

“I’ll sleep on the floor in protest if I have to,” I say, throwing my legs over the side of the bed just to show him I will.

I know the exact moment he gives in because he shakes his head, damp hair falling into his eyes. “Scoot over.”

I do, burying beneath the covers as he stands and flips off the light. In the dark, I can make out the outline of his body as he lays next to me. He pulls the covers to his torso as I hold my breath, trying not to think about the fact that we’re inches apart. I lie on my back, wiggling to get comfortable.

We’re quiet for a few moments, and I force myself to shut my eyes. He turns to face me. Somehow, we’re even closer now, and I blow out a breath as a sudden wave of heat washes over me.

“Fuck, Liv,” he grounds out. “You’re practically a furnace.”

“I can’t help that I’m hot,” I say, and I’m so glad he can’t see how red I turn at the implication. My breath catches as he shifts again, but this time, I hear the distinct sound of him removing clothing. My heart skips a beat. “Are you-?“

“My shirt,” he explains, laying back, but that only presses his arm against mine.

I swallow, squeezing my eyes shut and taking a deep breath to relax. We settle in, and I slowly shift so that my back is to him. His breaths become deeper, and my heart slows, my muscles melting into the bed.

For a minute, I think he’s asleep until he turns again- this time his arm stretches across the bed in search of me. His chest flattens against my back, bicep at my temple. His next heavy exhale dissolves every last bit of tension.

Our breathing syncs, that feeling of safety and calm washing over me enough that sleep doesn’t come long after.