Chapter Eleven

MAGNOLIA

The following morning, I wake to Simon knocking on my bedroom door. “Come in,” I mumble, burrowing down deeper into the fluffy covers.

“Look at you, sleepyhead. Time to get up.”

“Why?” I pull the comforter down just enough to peek at him. “Seraphine gave me the day off.”

“Yup,” Simon replies. “So I could teach you to drive.”

Groaning, I sink back under the covers so only my hair is visible. I feel the mattress dip, alerting me to the fact that Simon is now in bed with me.

Oh my God, Simon is in bed with me.

Suddenly, my libido is raging, and all I can think about is all the things we could do in this bed, which is so unlike me. Like I said, Simon McAllister is waking up a side of me I never knew existed.

He tugs the covers down before flinging them to the floor, leaving me in nothing but that shirt of his. I gasp as the cool air meets my skin, and Simon stares, speechless. He feasts on the sight of my exposed legs, slowly dragging his gaze from my pink-polished toes to my thighs, where his eyes linger.

His slow perusal has me feeling like the temperature in the room is rising. I try my best not to squirm under his scrutiny but fail. “It’s…impolite to st-stare.”

Simon all but growls, “The things I’m thinkin’ aren’t very polite, so I guess that’s fitting, huh?”

His words draw a whimper from me, but not one of fear. No, sir, this is desire, pure and simple. “Simon,” I whisper, and he dives for my lips.

He kisses me thoroughly, morning breath be damned. He kisses me like a man starved for a year then presented with his favorite meal. He devours me wholly, and my God, being devoured feels so, so good.

After what seems like hours, Simon breaks our kiss, always stopping us before we get out of control. “Shower. Dress. Meet me in the kitchen in twenty.”

Not wanting to stop but knowing it’s for the best, I agree and scurry from the bed to the bathroom. As alluring as it is to attempt to quench the need Simon has lit in me, I don’t, fearing he’ll know something’s up if I take longer than usual to get ready.

Dressed casually in a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, I amble into the living room and find Simon waiting on the couch. “Ready?” I ask him.

“Born ready. The question is, are you ready?”

Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I give him a hesitant nod.

Simon springs up from the couch and snags my keys from the hook as he breezes past me. “Then what’re you waitin’ for? Let’s go!”

I follow behind him, beelining toward the passenger side of my Civic.

“Where’re you going? Can’t learn to drive if you’re not behind the wheel, Goldilocks.”

Shrugging my shoulders, I say, “Figured you’d show me first.”

“Nope, gotta do to learn. Hop in.”

Our fingers brush as we pass one another and he hands me the keys. My hands tremble slightly as I slide into the driver’s seat and begin adjusting the position of the seat and the mirrors.

Simon watches with a slight smirk as I move the seat up a smidge and then back, up and then back, before finally settling on the same spot I started in.

I repeat the process with the mirrors—in then out, up then down. Finally satisfied, I insert the key into the ignition and turn…only, I turn for too long, and the engine makes this awful choking sound.

Tears burn, threatening to spill over. “I’m hopeless.”

“No, you’re not. Try again, and as soon as you hear the engine turn over, let go.” Simon’s voice is low and calm, so soothing.

I try again, doing as he said, and sure enough, the engine cranks.

“Now, check your mirrors and put the car into reverse.”

Once again, I follow his instructions, checking both my side and rearview mirrors before shifting into reverse. We sit there for several quiet moments with the car in gear and my foot stamped down on the brake.

“You gonna go?” Simon teases.

“Mmhmm. Just nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous. Ease off the brake.” I do as he says and look to him for guidance, startling slightly as the car begins to creep backward. “Using your toes, lightly tap the gas pedal.”

I shift my foot from the brake to the gas and tap, sending the car lurching. “Lightly tap! Lightly!” Simon hollers, and I slam on the brakes, the sudden change in momentum sending us reeling forward. My breaths are coming rapidly, and Simon reaches over to throw the car into park. “Magnolia,” he murmurs, saying it in such a way that my galloping heart begins to settle. “Who taught you to drive?”

I drop my eyes to my lap, focusing on the little pills of lint so I don’t have to meet his stare. “No one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I…oh my God, this is…” I pause, trying to gather the courage to explain this mess to Simon.

He grips my chin and pulls my gaze from my lap to meet his. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about with me, not ever.”

Feeling emboldened by his words, I power through the story. “Like I said the other night, my mama had a hair salon growing up, and she stayed so busy, she couldn’t keep up. So, she asked me to drop out the second half of my sophomore year and apprentice under her. The salon was attached to the house, and any time we went anywhere, she drove. So, even though I got my license, I hardly got behind the wheel.”

“Right, but that was when you were a teenager. What about…” Simon pauses, trying to choose his words carefully. “Why haven’t you learned since?”

I take my time finding the right words, debating with myself on how much to share. Finally, I decide to bare my soul, because Simon’s been nothing less than transparent with me.

“I…I was eighteen when I met Grant. He saw me out and about with Mama one day and jumped through all kinds of hoops to find me, or so the story goes.” I use air quotes when I say “find me” because in hindsight, in a town that small, it’s clear that a man with as much money and power as Grant doesn’t jump through hoops for anything. No, he gets it delivered on a silver platter.

“We had what you’d call an old-fashioned r-romance. Him courting me made the papers, if you can believe that.” I bark out a humorless laugh and continue. “He was such a gentleman, always so proper and polite. For that first year, we never did more than hold hands. Turns out he was okay with that because he was getting plenty on the s-side. When Grant wasn’t taking me on very public dates or showing me off at galas and fundraisers, he was with one of his many mistresses.”

Simon lets out a disgusted grunt, but I power on, because I know this story gets worse before it gets better.

“I was just shy of twenty-one when h-he asked for my hand in m-marriage.” I can’t bring myself to even look at Simon right now. “Made a big deal about it, asked my mama’s permission first, presenting her with her own piece of jewelry before asking me. Grant knew just how to finesse things and people, how to get his way. Then again, Mama was so blinded by all his flashy clothes and fast cars and fancy words, she didn’t need much finessing at all. I was Charleston’s own rags-to-riches story—a real-life Cinderella.

“Things were pretty good for the first year or two. He was always pretty controlling, but he painted it as concern. Concern for my image—‘Now, Magnolia, what would people think of a woman like you gallivanting about on her own?’ Concern for my safety—‘Magnolia, really, you shouldn’t go out without me, especially dressed like that! Untoward men might assume you’re asking for their attention.’ Mind you, my clothes were all handpicked by his stylist. After a while, I realized his supposed concern for my well-being was his way of exerting control over me.

“I questioned him about it once, but the only answer I received was the back of his hand slamming into my cheek. I never asked again after that. Instead, I molded myself into what he wanted—into who he wanted.”

Simon reaches across the center console to wipe away the tears running down my cheeks. “There’s more, isn’t there?” he asks, and I nod. “It’s okay, Goldilocks, we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

Inwardly, I want nothing more than to never speak of Grant Ellington ever again, but with the way things seem to be progressing with Simon and me, he deserves to know the kind of damaged goods he’s getting.

“N-no, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, pinning his blue eyes to mine.

I nod and pick up where I left off. “No matter how hard I tried to be perfect for him, I always seemed to mess up. The smallest things seemed to enrage him—a speck of dust on the mantle, the food not being hot enough, the wrong facial expression. I spent years walking on eggshells, terrified of the man whose last name I’d taken.

“You know, in our vows, we took each other for better or for worse, and apparently that meant I had to be better or he’d be worse.” My sad attempt at humor falls flat, and instead of laughing, Simon eyes me until I continue. “Anyway, eventually backhanded slaps morphed into full-fledged punches, and black eyes became broken bones.”

Simon’s breathing is harsh and heavy. His fists are clenched so tight, it’s a miracle his knuckles aren’t splitting through his skin.

“One night, he…he al-almost k-killed me.” Simon lets out a tortured howl. “Left me there, c-crumpled on the kitchen f-floor and went to meet his buddies. I lay there for hours until finally the fear of him returning won out, and I crawled my way to where I knew he had some c-cash stashed in the kitchen. I d-didn’t take a lot, just enough to get here.

“I t-took a cab to the bus station, got on a bus to Atlanta, and stayed there for a bit in a shelter while f-figuring out what to do next. I used some of the leftover m-money to get a new phone, and I figured out a way to get in touch with Seraphine. She and Uncle Dave welcomed me with open arms. Seraphine even got me my job at Southern Roots. Uncle Dave bought me a bus ticket, and now h-here I am.”

When I finish the CliffsNotes version of my long, sad tale, Simon is looking at me with tears in his eyes. The thought of this big, strong man shedding even a single tear over me is almost enough to knock the wind out of my lungs.

Wordlessly, he reaches over and shuts off the car, pulling the key from the ignition. He extracts himself from the passenger seat before stalking around to my side of the car. “We can do this tomorrow. C’mon.” He sounds mad, but I know he’s mad for me, not at me, and that makes all the difference in the world.

I accept his outstretched hand, and together we make our way back into the house. Inside, Simon guides me to his recliner, where he settles himself before pulling me down into his lap. With his arms wrapped tightly around me, I feel not only safe but cherished and wanted and special—things I thought I’d forgotten how to feel, things I’d doubted I ever even was.