Olivia
I ride down the unsealed road out of town, admiring the canopy of live oaks and the clear aquamarine of the water beneath the rickety old bridge through Magnolia Springs State Park. I’ve never seen water this clear in the South, but I guess it isn’t really a surprise. Magnolia Springs has been featured in Southern Living magazine for being the cleanest town in the South, and their water is no exception. Greyson Cotton had warned me about gators in one of our lengthy conversations, but I can’t see how anyone would need to worry. A gator would stick out like a sore thumb in water this clean.
It’s still early, just gone ten a.m, but the day is already shaping up to be a steamy one. I have half a mind to lean my bike up against the weathered railing and just dive right on in, but I have someplace to be, and I’ve already wasted enough time, so swimming will have to wait.
I hear an engine behind me, but the one-lane bridge is too narrow to pass even a bicycle so I peddle double-time for another few yards until I’m back on the road again, where I steer my bike onto the shoulder.
“How’s that chain workin’?” August’s voice comes from the truck that pulls up alongside me.
I startle and almost careen off the road and into a ditch, but I right the handlebars just in time and glance at him. I stop the bike, and his brakes screech to a halt. “It’s good, thank you. I really appreciate it.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he says, and glares out the windshield. This man really doesn’t like to be thanked. “Where are you headed?”
“To the shelter. I picked up the keys this morning.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. Think of it as payment for braiding Bett’s hair this morning.”
“Okay,” I say. I don’t waste time arguing with him—what would be the point? Stubborn as I am, I doubt it’s an argument I would win. I’m betting August Cotton could disagree all day long and not so much as show a single emotion or break a sweat. I slide off the seat and wheel it toward the back of the truck. He climbs out of the vehicle and lifts the bike over his head with ease, setting it gently down in the tray. I smile as I watch the way his biceps bunch and release, but I look away before he can catch me staring. Flush faced, I climb into the truck and wonder what it would be like to lie naked with him, his big body on top of mine, or even beneath, though I have serious doubts that he’d let that fly. Control freak.
August climbs into the truck. It’s not without its difficulties, but he makes it look as if he’s always had a prosthetic limb. He glances over at me with an expression that could only be described as a smirk, shifts the stick in gear, and we peel away from the corner. Five minutes later, we’re pulling into the front yard of the shelter, and boy am I glad that I accepted his offer because it was a good half hour from town. Which makes me wonder why Kathy Abernathy and the rest of Magnolia Springs has such a big problem with the idea of these dogs in their midst. I bet you could go a whole day out here without ever running into another soul.
I turn to August to offer my thanks, but he shuts off the engine and pulls the keys from the ignition. I frown, wondering what he’s doing.
“Are you comin’?” he asks.
“You don’t have to come in.” I shake my head and climb out of the truck. The grass is overgrown; I’ll need to hire someone to come take care of the lawns and landscaping, and the outside of the building could use a lick of paint or two. There are a handful of shingles that need replacing on the roof, but still, I smile up at the building, because it’s all mine.
“They leave the door unlocked for you?” August’s gaze is no longer on me, but zeroed in on the shelter.
“What? No. Of course not.” I follow his gaze and find the front door ajar.
“Stay here.” August climbs the stairs, and I shadow him along the footpath. He pushes open the door. I can’t see anything around his broad shoulders, but he inhales sharply and his back stiffens. “Shit.”
I push past, and my heart slams against my chest as I take in the room. It’s completely totaled. What was once a little rundown in the realtor’s pictures is now completely destroyed. There’s shattered glass everywhere underfoot, the countertop is in pieces, and broken furniture is strewn all around the room. I step inside and turn three hundred and sixty degrees. Everywhere I look there’s a fixture ruined, drywall kicked in, or something left in pieces. And the very worst of it is the graffiti on the opposite wall. A woman on all fours being pounded into from behind by a dog. This wasn’t just some random defacing of property; this was aimed at me. Anger strikes a pang in my heart, heat claws at my cheeks, and tears prick my eyes, but I won’t let them fall.
When I turn to August, his eyes are on me, and his expression is furious. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and I hold my breath because I’m not even sure he’s in the same room as me right now or if he’s some seven thousand miles away in a place the world forgot. Apparently, he’s still here, because he clears his throat and makes his way through the debris to a back room filled with more broken junk. There’s a desk and chair—also broken—and a little TV with a built-in VCR sitting on a ledge in the corner. He hits the button on the VCR. It groans to life and protests as he tries to eject the tape. Eventually, August must grow tired of waiting for the thing to make up its mind, because he yanks the plugs from the wall and tears the thing apart, smashing the tiny television but breaking open the VCR in the process.
“What are you doing?” I shout, dodging a stray piece of circuit board that flies toward my leg.
“Collecting evidence.”
“Wouldn’t the tape have run out by now?”
“Old Man Tinker always had a problem with vandals. It’s only been a month since he sold it, right?” August fiddles with the inside of the VCR, attempting to free the tape. “The Realtor might’ve been checking on the place to make sure nothing happened to it before you could pick up your keys.”
He sorts through the mess he made, lifts the tape, and hands it to me. I’m sure I look astounded. I feel it too. I knew he was an impatient man, but this? Also, now I’ll have to buy a whole new monitor because clearly someone has it out for me here. “Hopefully you’ll find what you need on there. Take it to Sheriff Webb; she’ll see somethin’ done about it.”
“I’m not going to the police.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because the people in this town already hate me enough.”
“And?”
“I’m trying to build a business here, August. I’m attempting to get people to trust me and let me into their lives in order to make them better. The last thing I need is more residents running me out of the town I’m trying to build something in.”
“Suit yourself.” He shakes his head. I turn to leave when I find him carting out the TV and ruined VCR. He sets them down off to the side of the room, and then picks up what used to be a chair and dumps it in the middle, throwing more broken pieces of furniture on top.
“What are you doing?” I frown.
“Cleanin’. What’s it look like, princess?”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s fine; I’ll be fine.”
“When’s your opening date?”
“A month from today.”
He glances around the ruined shelter meaningfully. “Yeah, you need my help.”
“August,” I say, but he shoots me a look.
“I got nothin’ better to do today. Now come on, time’s a wastin’,” he says, and leaves the room to collect more of the scrap from in the back.
Come lunchtime, he doesn’t make any attempts to slow down, and I’m beat. I wipe the sweat from off my brow and watch him a while. Damn, is the man fine. He’s a wall of muscle and determination as he strips wallpaper from the walls in great big sheets that have no intention of letting go. As much as I hate to admit it, I really do need his help. Otherwise I’ll still be here next July, attempting to get the place sorted.
“Hey, you hungry?” I ask hopefully.
“Nope.”
“Thirsty?”
“Nope.”
I frown. Well that’s just not natural. A huge man like him, expending all this energy, and he ain’t hungry? “Well I am.”
“Okay.”
“Do you, do you mind if I take your truck? I wanna get some water to keep on hand here.”
“You? Take my truck?”
“What? You think I can’t handle it?”
“I know you can’t, princess. What was your first car? A Jaguar?”
I frown again. I sure am doing a lot of that these days. “A Chevy, actually.”
August raises a brow but doesn’t say anything.
“We had this big old bomb of a thing. My daddy taught me how to drive it before he passed. Never did teach me how to fix it up though, so she turned into a rust bucket that had to be towed away from the trailer. Broke my heart to see that baby go, but Mamma needed the cash for …” I glance at him, realizing I hadn’t meant to divulge all that. For a man who’s as accommodating as a sheet of paper in a rainstorm, I sure find myself talking an awful lot around him. “For food.” I finish, wetting my lips and glancing at the wall to avoid his scrutiny.
“You grew up in a trailer?”
I dust my hands off on my shorts. “Yep. Not all of us had a big old house like Tanglewood to grow up in. Who’s the princess now?”
His brow furrows. “I didn’t know.”
I chuckle and side-eye him. “Would it matter if you did?”
He nods and then fishes in his pocket, tossing me the keys, which of course I fail to catch and have to bend over to retrieve. When I come up again, August’s gaze darts from my ass to my eyes, and the corners of my mouth turn up in a grin. “Were you just checking out my ass, Mr. Cotton?”
“Yep,” he says, and goes back to working on the wall.
“You want anything?” I ask again. I have no intention of not feeding him, but I’d prefer to know his likes and dislikes than buy him something he might be allergic to.
August stares at me as if I’ve just asked him a loaded question, but he doesn’t answer.
“August?”
“No. I’m good. Thanks,” he says, and turns abruptly. He strips more paper from the walls, only now the action seems angry and twisted with violence. I walk away, wondering what the hell I’ve done to bring about this most recent mood swing. I can never win with this man.
At the market, I’m a right mess. I garner looks from the time I rock up in August’s truck without him right until I’m checking out at the register. As usual, everyone swivels their head in my direction, and this time I’m sure it’s not because the new girl in town is doing something obscene so much as it is the dirt on my shorts and T-shirt, and the plaster dust in my hair. I let it all roll right off me like water from a duck’s back. I love small southern towns, but I’m no stranger to their sheltered views toward outsiders. Let them talk, I say. Letting it go is usually the easiest way for it to blow over. I’m no more interesting than anyone else here, and they’ll come to learn that pretty quick.
After picking up some cleaning products, a few grocery items for Tanglewood, and a couple of hoagies and two sweet teas from Stevie Rae Mae’s—my new favorite barbeque house in the whole world, thank you very much—I head back to the shelter with my goodies in tow. August emerges from inside and watches me with a grin as the truck pulls up the drive and backfires, putting to a smoky stop only a few yards away. He leans against the doorjamb watching me, and for a beat I just watch him back. I don’t know what it means, these silent exchanges that occur between us. I’ve never been so unnerved as when he looks at me, really looks at me, and I don’t know whether I want to crumple under the weight of that stare or walk right up and kiss him.
August is the first to move, pushing off the doorway and heading toward the back of the truck, right past me. I open my door, and leave our sandwiches and iced teas behind because he’s hauling the groceries out of the bed of the truck. Afraid he’ll see how bad my cookie hoarding is, I make a grab for them. Instead, I accidently tear open the paper sack and the contents of the bag spill. He swears as he bends awkwardly to pick them up, and I do the same. We wind up butting heads on the way down, and I notice it’s not easy for him to crouch with his prosthetic. August groans as he almost loses his balance, and I put a hand out to steady him. I’m met with angry dark eyes. He rips his arm away from mine, and I scramble to pick up the spilled items as he stalks toward the shelter.
I stare at his retreating form, at his gait and the angry man who’s giving me his back right now because I completely emasculated him. If it were anyone else, they never would have thought twice about my hand on their arm steadying them, but August is a Marine, the toughest of the tough, and I should have known better than to offer him my help. This particular Marine won’t accept help from anyone.