Page 27 of Olive Becket Plays the Rake (The Seattle Suffrage Society)

He wasn’t offended when Olive also spooked.

But he was a little offended she’d fled his presence like he was a bloodthirsty hellhound.

She had bolted down the boardwalk as fast as she could go, her unbuttoned coat flapping in the wind, as she shouted—Olive had shouted—for her brother to reveal himself.

As Emil had suspected, the kid had found Old Meany and was none the worse for wear, happily listening to the man’s tall tales.

And then his chatty neighbor had fallen silent and gazed at Olive like she was a heavenly apparition.

It was mortifying to learn he and the community nudist were mesmerized by the same woman.

The door to the doctor’s office opened, and Winnie emerged, a glassy-eyed Olive sporting a sling leaning heavily on her arm.

“There he is,” Olive sang, her voice lilting and dreamy. “The man with the perfect face.”

He snorted with amusement and spared Winnie a glance. “Laudanum?”

“A hefty dose,” she replied. “And boy, is she flying.”

“No more pain?”

“None whatsoever,” Olive assured him, blinking unnaturally slow. “I feel wonderful.”

“So I see.” God, she was endearing even when she was under the effects of a powerful drug. His hand twitched with the temptation to reach out and stroke her cheek. “What did the doctor say?”

“He said intimacy between a man and woman can be—”

“About your arm, silly,” Winnie interrupted with a grimace. “Oh, she’s going to regret that one tomorrow.”

Emil’s mouth went dry, and a fire curled low in his abdomen. She’d asked the doctor about intimacy? In general, or with him? Before or after the laudanum had taken effect?

“I have so many questions,” he managed.

“I bet you do.” Winnie’s attention flicked past him, then her features lit up with exaggerated curiosity. “Say, I wonder if that lamppost is made from steel or wood. I’ll be right back.”

Before he could react, Olive was transferred neatly to his arm, and Winnie was halfway across the street in what had to be the fastest, most suspicious retreat he’d ever witnessed.

“I always liked her,” he said.

“Me, too.”

“We probably only have two minutes before her scientific research concludes.”

“We should make the most of it,” she said, gazing up at him with an endearing smile.

“I agree.” He tucked her uninjured hand in the crook of his elbow. “Why were you asking the doctor about intimacy?”

She glanced around, then stood on her tiptoes. She miscalculated the distance, her lips hitting his ear and sending a shiver down his neck before she found her balance.

“Because,” she said, her breath snaking through his scarf. “I would like to be intimate with you.”

“I would like that, too,” he whispered back.

“I want to know what an orgasm is.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. Dear God, he had not been ready to hear that admission while standing in the middle of downtown. “We will certainly talk about orgasms. And perhaps have one.”

“Why not two?”

“Why not?” Would she even remember this conversation the next time they met? “I’ll give you however many you’d like.”

“All right.” Her fingers tightened on his arm. “Will you take me home now?”

“I will.”

Emil sat across from Olive in the hired carriage, watching her devour the packet of peanuts he’d kept in his coat pocket.

Winnie, in another astonishing show of poor chaperoning, had chosen to ride up front with the driver.

All he’d had to do was promise her a box of her favorite macarons from Henri’s Patisserie.

He’d deliver three, the price well worth a few private moments alone with Olive.

She swallowed noisily and asked, “Are you going to kiss me again?”

“Soon, but—” He huffed out a laugh when she closed her eyes and puckered her salted lips. “But not now. Not while your senses are befuddled by laudanum.”

“But I want to,” she pouted, opening her eyes to glare at him.

“And I want you to remember it,” he countered. “I’ll make it worth your wait, I promise.”

“Fine.” She propped an elbow on the windowpane and supported her chin in her palm. “Quick, who am I?”

This playful side of her enchanted him. “I have no idea.”

“I’m you, silly. You’re always leaning on things. Lean, lean, lean.”

“Thank you for pointing that out.” He chuckled when her lips puckered once more. “I’m still not going to kiss you.”

“You’re a good man, Emil Anderson.”

“To my everlasting regret.”

“You’re a good man except when you’re sniffing around to see if I wrote the suffrage anthem.” She gave him a pointed look. “Which I did. Obviously. It’s brilliant and I am brilliant.”

He tipped his head back and laughed. “She finally admits it. One point for laudanum.”

“Stupid laudanum.” She wrinkled her nose. “Are you going to turn me in?”

“No.”

The quickness of his answer surprised him.

Shouldn’t he at least hesitate? Shouldn’t he at least care that he was tossing aside an opportunity to slingshot his agency into profitability?

Shouldn’t his pride smart with the realization he wouldn’t emerge victorious?

But he didn’t. It didn’t. He felt only peace.

“No,” he said again.

Her gaze dipped to his lap, then back. “Thank you.”

“But we are going to talk about it once—”

“Once the laudanum wears off. I know.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m just so tired of being afraid.”

His heart clenched at her admission. He hated that she felt that way. “We’ll figure it out, Olive. I promise.”

“All right.” She gave him a tremulous smile. “It will be interesting to work together. Truly work together, I mean.”

“She admits she was playing against me. Another point for laudanum.”

“I was doing a good job!”

“You were,” he agreed. “How you planted a live mouse in a library, I’ll never understand.”

“That part wasn’t on purpose. But Madame Celestia’s distraction was.”

“I knew something was strange about her.”

“She thinks you’re my Knight, my protector. Isn’t that the funniest—” She broke off with a gasp. “Oh my God. I was in a chariot, there was danger, and then you came running over.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “And now you’re taking care of me. The tarot was right.”

“I’m no knight,” he said at once, his entire body resisting the notion. “Not at all.”

“Hmm,” was all she said, studying him with narrowed eyes.

He tore his gaze away and peered outside. “We should be there soon—”

“You know what makes me mad?” she interrupted. “Winnie is a bobcat, and I am a lamb.”

“Is she?”

“Yes! But when they say—when you say—I’m a lamb,” she said slowly, “It means I’m weak. Defenseless. Adorable.”

He turned back to her, lips twitching. “Which you’re not.”

“Definitely not.”

“What if I also happen to think you’re adorable?”

She lifted her head and squinted at him. “Adorable in a sensual, powerful sort of way?”

“Definitely. The best kind of adorable.”

“Then I’ll accept adorable.” She lowered her chin back to her palm. “But I still don’t like lamb.”

“What about changeling?” She gasped with mock outrage, and he laughed again. “You’re right, neither suit.”

“Then what does?”

“Min k?raste.”

The term of endearment slipped past his lips and hung in the air between them.

He wanted to snatch it back, to stuff it back down his throat and bury it in his heart where it belonged.

He never used pet names with the women he took up with, especially not pet names in his mother tongue.

It was too personal, too close to breaking his rule on commitments.

But he had said it. A cold sweat broke out on his brow.

“What does that mean?”

He could have sagged with the intense wave of relief. Of course, she hadn’t understood. She didn’t speak Swedish. “It means kitten,” he lied.

“Emil!” She swatted his knee. “But kittens are adorable, too!”

“It can’t be helped. It suits you.”

“Kitten,” she repeated, then sighed. “It’s kind of like a bobcat.”

“See, there you go.” He peered out the window, relieved to find they were nearing Olive’s home. The conversation was getting away from him fast. All they had to do was drive two more blocks without mishap and—

“And you will be my beloved,” she said dreamily.

He closed his eyes and groaned.

“I’m going in.”

“No, you’re not,” Winnie insisted. “That would be highly inappropriate. What if someone saw you?”

“I’ll pretend I’m a handyman.”

“In that suit? Don’t be daft.”

“Winnie,” he said gently. “I’m not leaving until I know Olive is safely up the stairs and under her mother’s care.”

“She hurt her arm, not her legs. She can walk just fine.”

“Not while she’s on laudanum,” he pointed out. “Look at her.”

As if on cue, Olive pitched forward and would have face-planted if Emil didn’t catch her around the waist and haul her against his side. All while managing not to jar her injured arm. He fixed Winnie with a triumphant stare.

“You win,” she huffed. “But mind yourself.”

“I will.” Emil held Olive steady while Winnie used the call bell and speaking tubes to alert Mrs. Becket to their arrival.

Olive rolled her head across the crook of his shoulder and whispered, “Hi.”

“Hello,” he whispered back.

“I owe you one.”

“No, you don’t.”

A slight frown formed between her brows. “Do you owe me one?”

Chuckling lightly, he guided her up the narrow stairwell to the third floor.

At the farthest apartment, Robbie stood beside a woman wringing her hands in a familiar gesture.

Mrs. Becket might as well have been Olive’s twin, aged by twenty-odd years.

She hovered in the doorway, her gaze glued to Olive.

Emil had the feeling she wished to fly to her daughter, but it was as if there was an invisible line she could not cross. Compassion swelled in his heart.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Becket,” he said in lieu of a greeting. “Olive will be fine.”

Her gaze flew to his, and she smiled weakly. “Thank you, Mister…?”

Robbie tugged on his mother’s elbow, grinning up at them with excitement. “Mama, it’s Mr. Anderson! Olive’s friend who played baseball with us.”

“Oh,” she said faintly, her forehead scrunching into a worried frown. “Right.”

Emil tilted his head to one side. Typically, mothers were thrilled to make his acquaintance. Eager to exalt their daughters’ accomplishments and assure him he was more than welcome. Mrs. Becket did none of those things. It appeared she was like Olive in more than one way.

He liked it.

“Mr. Anderson is also one of my beau’s oldest friends,” Winnie piped up. “He was very helpful at the procession today, Mrs. Becket. We’re lucky he was there.”

“Mama, isn’t he beautiful?” Olive croaked at that moment. “Do let him in.”

Winnie laughed under her breath, and Mrs. Becket’s lined forehead eased into a timid smile. “I see, my sweet child.” Her gaze flitted back to Emil’s. “You’re welcome to come inside, Mr. Anderson. We’d be much obliged.”

Emil coaxed a loopy Olive over the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit apartment.

He supported Olive while Mrs. Becket rushed around, picking up what looked like freshly washed laundry and tossing everything into a basket.

While Winnie updated her on what had happened at the procession, Emil surreptitiously examined the apartment.

It was worse than he’d expected.

Cracks ran across the ceiling, evidence of poor craftsmanship, a lack of care, or both.

The walls were damp, as if permeated by the Seattle fog itself, and there was noticeable mildew on the one windowpane.

He shifted Olive and peeked into the narrow kitchenette.

One cabinet door hung askew, and the faucet had a slow, steady drip.

The attempts to dress up the disarray were equally evident.

Faded quilts and blankets covered every surface, and a few cheap frames with artwork hung on the wall.

The mantle was covered in a lace doily, and on it—he blinked.

On it rested the same watch he’d caught Olive trying to pawn. The truth hit him like a punch.

She hadn’t been lying. The watch was her father’s, and she had returned it to where it belonged.

He’d be annoyed if he weren’t so impressed.

She’d played him like a fiddle, and he’d leapt in time.

At least he now knew the money he’d given her hadn’t gone to waste.

Most likely, it had gone toward renting out this dump.

His brows pitted together. Maybe there was something he could do about the dump.

“Robbie,” he said in a low voice as Mrs. Becket and Winnie were busy lowering the folding bed to the floor. “Did your father have any tools?” The kid nodded. “Fetch them, would you?”

By the time he had Olive seated on the faded quilt, Robbie was heaving a tin tool chest onto the dinette table.

Emil caught how the boy’s small hands hovered near the box, eager but uncertain, like he wanted to be useful but had no notion how.

Emil remembered that feeling, standing on the edges of grown-folk troubles wanting desperately to do something.

Ignoring the way Winnie and Mrs. Becket watched him with astonishment, he flipped open the lid and rooted inside until he found a wrench he thought would suffice.

“Come here, kid. I’m going to show you how to fix a leaky faucet.”

And then they set to work.