Page 27 of Peaches

She shrugs. “I’ll call in Suzie. She’d probably love some extra cash.” Suzie works here part-time, usually on weekday mornings. She’s single with no kids, and if she’s not working here, she’s usually complaining of being bored at home.

“You sure?”

She nods. “You need a day off, Liv. Go sow some wild oats.” Her right brow raises as if to drive the point home.

“Ha. Thank you,” I say with an eye roll, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

On my walk toward the employee exit, the envelope in my apron seems to burn through my jeans. I do my best to ignore it for now, swiping my purse out of the cubby propped on the wall, and barge out the door into the chilly night.

I need a fucking drink.

CHAPTERELEVEN

RHETT

For the third time in a week, I’m surprised to see Olivia walk into a bar. Except this time, when I spot the glow of her hair and the shape of her body moving through the crowd, she doesn’t have her petite friend or that douchey city boy trailing behind her.

This time she’s alone.

And she looks pissed.

Her eyes shine under the bar light and I see it then—the sadness too. Something’s wrong. The last two times I saw Olivia in a bar, she wore her usual easy mask of politeness even though she was obviously uncomfortable in both situations. But now she wears her real emotions all over her face, and my heart kickstarts as I think through what I could have possibly done to make her look like that.

As if on instinct, her eyes rise and meet mine, and I’m rooted in place. I have half a mind to rip this bar right out of the floor with my bare hands so I can help close the distance between us, but I swallow back my need to rage at the way she looks and try like hell to exercise a sliver of patience.

“What’s wrong?” I say as soon as she reaches the bar. I study her face for any clues, trailing my gaze down her body to see if she’s hurt somewhere.

“I need a drink,” she rasps out just as the first tear falls.

My thumb aches to wipe it from her cheek, to press into her soft skin like I did last night. But I hold back, aware of the bar full of townies and the fact that my youngest brother is only feet away from me, chatting it up with fucking Boone of all people. So, I simply nod, turning to pull down our best whiskey from the top shelf.

“Not whiskey,” she protests.

I don’t face her when I say, “Trust me?”

I think she might argue, but then she hums her assent.

I grab a shot glass and fill it. “How’d you get here?” I ask.

“I walked.”

I meet her gaze. “Good.” I slide the glass toward her. “Drink.”

She eyes the bourbon for only a moment before lifting it to her lips, taking it all in one go. I watch her eyes well and her lips tuck into her mouth as she swallows around the burn. And then she sets the glass back down between us.

“Another?” I ask, grabbing a bar rag from the sink.

She shakes her head. “Not unless you want me fast asleep on this bar.”

Images of Olivia inmanydifferent scenarios on top of this bar have me stumbling a step, but I recover swiftly and press on. “Okay, how about wine?”

She peers somewhere behind me, looking at the bottles on the shelf. “You have wine here?”

“Not for anyone else.”

Her gaze jumps to me and she swallows again. “Wine would be amazing, thank you.”

I nod. And then I tap my finger on the bar in front of the seat closest to the wall, away from everyone else. “Sit,” I say. “Please.”

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