Page 17 of Peaches

There’s nothing I hate more in this world than being the subject of stares and whispering bullshit from Saddlebrook Falls’s finest—and when I sayfinest, I don’t mean law enforcement, though I definitely don’t love attention from them either. I’m talking about the bored and retired gossip peddlers like Maeve Piston and Gerry Thatcher, two of the biggest shit-talkers, who both just so happen to also be here at June’s Café.

I feel their attention on me like an uncomfortable sunburn, the steady heat from their gazes blistering against my skin. As a general rule, I do my best to keep my ass out of town so I can avoid this shit. Other than my bar shifts at Wild Coyote, I’m either at home working the ranch with my brothers, or on the slim chance I have a hankering to get out of dodge, I go for a long ride out in the country on my bike or meet up with Colt in another county.

I’ve been planning this date tonight with Olivia since the moment I dropped her off last weekend, and nowhere in those plans was I here, at her mom’s café, in the middle of town square, on what’s clearly a busy night. But when I got to her house and found that she wasn’t home, I’d been frustrated enough that I couldn’t just let it go.

Either Olivia was standing me up, or she’d forgotten about our plans.

Based on the warm flush of her cheeks and the guilt that flooded her eyes when she saw me walk in a moment ago, it’s obvious she wasn’t trying to stand me up. She looks exhausted from working all day—I don’t blame her a lick for forgetting. Still, it’s not easy to tamp down the irritation I felt the whole way here at the thought of being fucked with again, and itdefinitelyisn’t helping to be stuck in this booth like a damn zoo animal for everyone to gawk at.

I should have just pushed for a raincheck and headed home to get a handle on myself, but when Olivia’s bright eyes pierced through mine and she indicated that she still wanted to do this, I couldn’t say no. Hell, I let her sit me down at this worn table to wait for her.

I’ve never waited on a girl in my life.

I sit straight and watch the doorway that leads to the kitchen, anxious for her to walk back through it. When she does, I drink her in like the relief she is in this moment, a balm over my spiking anxiety.

“Here you go.” She smiles, setting a full glass of water on the table before pulling a straw from her apron. “Want something to munch on?”

I shake my head. “Nah, can’t—I have plans with a girl soon.”

Her lips twitch, and it loosens some of the tension in my chest. “Lucky girl,” she teases.

I scoff. “I don’t know about that.”

Olivia cocks her head. “Thank you . . . for waiting. And sorry again, about before. I shouldn’t be too long.”

I roll the straw between my fingers, meeting her eye when I say, “Don’t worry about it.” The last thing I want to do is pressure her to hurry or make her feel rushed—I’m notthatmuch of a dick. Yeah, it’s agonizing sitting here with these people around me, but my issues with them have nothing to do with Olivia.

A few years ago, I swore to myself that I’d never step foot in town like this again if I could avoid it—not after I’d stormed my way into the middle of a Sunday church service, still piss drunk from a long night of bourbon and bad decisions. I’d been on somewhat of a self-induced bender to distract from my dad having fallen off the wagon again—Billy Turner, who owns the fig orchard near Wild Coyote, found him in the middle of the street in front of the bar one morning, passed out in his wheelchair—but I knew I was playing with fire, what with all the bullshit stunts I’ve pulled over the years.

Nobody, not even my own family, has ever understood the real reasons for my bad behavior. It seems easier to chalk me up as a nuisance, and I guess I’ve let ’em. But the ever-present animosity between my family and the town has always been at the root of it all, and I have a hard time controlling my agitation when I’m exposed to them like this.

I glance at the clock and find it’s eight-thirty. The sun set an hour ago, taking with it what little warmth we get this time of year. Temps will fall into the forties soon enough—I just hope the delay in getting to our date doesn’t screw up my plans. My heart skitters as my nerves rise. I’m the cocky sonofabitch who offered to give her a “sense of adventure,” as if wining and dining andfunwere just a few of the many things tucked up my sleeve, and now I have to make sure this is worth it for her.

The sound of chairs sliding against linoleum snares my attention and I turn to see Gerry and the gaggle of girls he’s with all rising from their table. One has a crown on her head and an assortment of gift bags in hand—a birthday party then. I trace the faces of each kid before landing on Gerry, who’s throwing me an obvious glare. My brother might enjoy his company at the bar, but I don’t think Gerry likes me much. I sneer back at him and hold his eye contact until he grows uncomfortable enough to look away first.

That’s what I thought, old man.

Olivia breezes out from the kitchen again, pressing her hands together in front of her chest. “Thanks for coming in. Happy birthday, Simone.”

The crowned girl—Simone—beams. “Thank you!”

I turn my focus back to my water, pulling the straw up to my mouth to take a long pull as I listen to the group leave. Before long, Maeve and her three friends also wrap up whatever card game they’re playing and scuttle out of here, and then I’m relieved to see Olivia’s mom appear from the back. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen them standing next to each other, and it’s obvious they’re related. Olivia’s features are a much more toned-down version of her mother’s. Where June’s hair is a bright, natural red, Olivia’s is more of a strawberry blonde. June’s skin is pale with layers and layers of freckles and Olivia’s more olive with a smattering of freckles around her nose and cheeks.

A sudden burst of curiosity about her father rises through me, wondering what he might look like. Whoever he is, I don’t think he’s ever been around. Maybe my wondering doesn’t make me any different from the rest of the busybodies in this town, but I’ve never found it fair that June and other single mothers get such negative attention when it’s obvious the men in these situations are the ones who probably fucked up. For someone to turn his back on Olivia . . .

June ties an apron around her waist as Olivia talks her through each table. I see the surprise in June’s eyes when she notices me, head whipping to face her daughter as she no doubt asks what the hell I’m doing here. Olivia’s cheeks flush again, a deep rosy bloom, and she responds something low that I have no chance of hearing. She presses a quick kiss to her mother’s cheek before disappearing into the kitchen.

June eyes me warily, and while it’s preciselythatlook that normally fuels my annoyance with this town, this time all I feel is my chest deflate in disappointment. I don’t know what Olivia told her, but I don’t like the idea of her mother being worried about her daughter because of me. I’m not an animal, and I’m certainly not out to hurt anyone.

“Okay,” Olivia says through an exhale when she reaches my table a few minutes later. “I’m ready!”

Her apron is gone, exposing the tight fit of her blue jeans and sliver of exposed skin above her waistband. I’m happy to see she’s added a heavy coat to keep her warm on the back of my bike, unlike the one she wore Saturday night.

“That was quick,” I say as I stand, thrilled that we can bail this fucking place.

She nods. “Yeah, I basically told my mom if she didn’t relieve me, I was going to pass out from hunger.”

I turn to where her mother stands by the back computer and find her keeping a close watch. “Did you tell her you were eating with me?” I ask low.

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