Olivia
For the fourth day in a row, I leave the realtor emptyhanded. My keys still hadn’t arrived from Elberta and I would have hired a locksmith, but it seems that not a single one lives or works in Magnolia Springs or Foley. I’d be paying for someone to come all the way from Mobile, and considering they’d charge an hourly rate? Yeah, that isn’t happening. I have half a mind to go and break down the damn door myself, but that won’t serve me in the long run. Instead, I’ve agreed to give Georgia and Mr. Renoux one more day.
I could have asked August to run me to Elberta, but I don’t like the idea of owing him any more than I already do, so I’ve made myself as useful as I can around Tanglewood by cleaning nonstop and helping with Bettina where I can without August knowing. I’m pretty sure he knows anyway, but if he does, he doesn’t say anything.
I make a quick stop off at the market to grab a pint of ice cream and a carton of Oreos—those birthday cake ones with the sprinkles inside—because today is decidedly a cookie day. I ride back to the house with one hand on the handlebars while my other holds a teeny-tiny piece of happiness. The day is as hot as it is long, and when I finally make it back to Tanglewood, I collapse into a heap at the kitchen table. I don’t even get up from my seat in order to reach the spoons in the dishrack. I’m halfway through stuffing my face with ice cream and cookies when August comes in from outside. He doesn’t notice me sitting in the middle of the kitchen, but opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of milk, screwing off the cap and swigging it straight from the container. This makes me smile, because I do the exact same thing when I’m at home. But I’m the only one that drinks that milk, and this is kind of gross.
“Not everyone wants your cooties, you know? You should use a glass,” I say before I can burst out laughing. He whirls around with the bottle still firmly pressed against his lips. I’ve startled him, and as he screws the cap back on and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks sheepish. And I think for the very first time I hear August Cotton laugh—not a derisive laugh, but a real one. A God’s honest laugh. I grin wider than any cat who got the cream. There’s an awkward moment where he stares at me, and I stare back, and then I ruin everything by thanking him for fixing my bike, because a simple thank you to August is the equivalent of a slap in the face.
“Don’t mention it.” He turns his back on me.
“Why can’t you accept a simple thank you?”
He opens the fridge door and shoves the milk inside. August frowns, his jaw set tight. “I didn’t do it for that.”
“Why did you do it?”
His shoulders fall, and he exhales a noisy breath. “It needed fixin’.”
“Are you used to fixing everyone’s problems but your own?”
The responding glare lets me know he’s pissed. As if I couldn’t already tell. “Why can’t you let this go?”
“Because you need my help, August Cotton.”
“I don’t need shit from you,” he snaps.
I rise, place the lid on my carton of ice cream and step toward him. Like a caged animal who’s cornered with nowhere to go, he tenses. His features tighten into a hard line, but there’s a hint of nervousness in his eyes. He swallows hard. Who’d have thought the Big Bad Wolf could be afraid of Little Red? Good. That’s the way I want him, frightened as the day he was born, because I’ll need to break down all of his defenses if I’m going to break him of this torment.
Another step toward him and he takes one back. We repeat this several times until he leans against the counter beside the fridge. I reach up to open the freezer. He flinches. Cool air wafts across us, and my nipples harden. I don’t know if he can see or not, but his gaze never wavers, he just glares at me as if he could incinerate me with a single look. I place my ice cream inside the freezer, but August doesn’t back up the way I’d expected him to. Instead, the hard line of his stomach brushes my side, and this time I’m the one who flinches. He leans in, but he doesn’t say a word. I inhale sharply, a breath of cologne, sweat, and summer, of heat, and even longing.
August paws at my shoulder, and then I’m thrust up against the cool refrigerator door, staring into eyes that sear down into mine. One hand grasps my waist, and he leans toward me, but he pauses just inches from my face, a heartbeat away from kissing my lips.
“I thought you didn’t need shit from me?” I whisper, because I can’t kiss this man, even though I want to. I can’t jeopardize his healing because I’d like to take a roll in the hay with him, and I don’t trust myself right now.
His eyes narrow, and he jerks away as though he’s been slapped. “I don’t.”
For a beat, we stand there, searching one another’s gaze, and then he backs away and leaves the room. I sigh and sag against the refrigerator door. I am a stupid, stupid woman.
Eventually I leave the kitchen and climb the stairs to my room where I fall onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, desperately trying not to think of August Cotton’s hard body pressed up against mine.