Page 57 of Peaches

Sometimes I notice the way he looks at me, like he’s just as startled as I am about the way he feels, and I wonder if his world is just as off-kilter as mine when we’re together. Like what we’re doing is changing the very shape of us, even though it’s not at all what either of us were after. But then other times . . .

Other times I wonder if I’m just a naive girl with a stupid crush on an emotionally unavailable bad boy. If I should protect my heart while I can andrun.

I’ve been trying to hold out, to let him seek me out first. It’s only fair, right? After slipping away in the dark? Though, I guess he was the one who showed up onmydoorstep that night. Maybe it’s my turn to make the next move.

Doing my best to shuck away all the uncertainty that holds tight beneath my ribs, I make it through my shift relatively unscathed from any further catastrophes where my mother and Mark are concerned. But Mark’s good mood is just as noticeable: as the dinner rush begins to wane, I find him in the kitchen working on an assortment of desserts.

“Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it,” I say through the expo window with a smile. “It smells amazing.”

Mark’s grin rises as he turns to look at me, wiping his hands on his long apron. “I’ve got something up my sleeve just for you actually.”

“Oh?” My brow arches. “Bribery?”

His laugh is loud and booming, and it makes my chest squeeze. “Yeah, something like that.” He lifts a pan and tilts it for me to see, and I almost melt.

“Cheesecake!” I squeal, looking from the yet-to-be-baked delicacy to Mark’s warm face. That single hoop earring sparkles as he pivots to set it back down. “You remembered.”

He shrugs. “You used to ask for one every birthday. Not hard to forget the way you nearly swallowed it whole every damn time.”

It’s true—it’s always been my favorite. I don’t remember when or why I stopped asking for it, but it pierces into me that he hasn’t forgotten. I look at him again and take in the worn backward hat he uses to keep his hair out of his face, the laugh lines embedded around his eyes and mouth. He’s been around so long that I think I forgot to appreciate howgoodhe is, how good he’s always been to Mom and me, to this café. “I’m happy she has you,” I tell him. And I mean it.

His eyes shift back to mine, his wide grin slipping into something softer. The sincerity that wraps around us is nearly palpable. “I’m happy I haveher, Olivia. Thank you for being okay with it.”

I throw him a smirk that, in my mind, is equal parts playful and dangerous, but probably only makes me look constipated. “Break her heart and I’ll break your face.”

He laughs again, but I see the way his eyes shine. “I’d hope so.”

I have to wipe my own eyes when I turn to head back out to the dining floor.

* * *

A few hours later,I’m marching under the scattered streetlights of town square with a to-go box full of cheesecake and a train of thought stuck back on the sticky tracks of Rhett Bennett.

My face burns from the cold night air, but despite the cold, I hardly ever drive to work—I love having the walk home to unwind and shake off the day. It’d been a relatively easy dinner shift: Gus Romano brought in his mother who is visiting from Florida, and a group of parents from the school district’s PTA met for a couple of hours, discussing fundraising opportunities over plates of hot roast. Nosy Maeve didn’t make her usual Sunday night appearance, but according to old man Gerry—who’d stopped by to say hi to everyone after picking up a chocolate pie from Luna’s bakery next door—Maeve was busy hosting bunco at the library.

I have to admit, her absence was a welcomed reprieve—especially after she called the Bennetts womanizers the last time I saw her.

I wonder if Rhett’s working tonight at the bar. For a heartbeat I consider dropping by to see for myself, but my feet are sore from being on them all day and . . . what if he’s not even there? If he’s not, one or two of his brothers surely are, and after showing up at the ranch unannounced, I’m sure they’d have questions that I don’t even know how to answer.

Still, despite feeling a little foolish, I miss him. My mind has traced over thoughts of him every night before I fall asleep, how his body felt against mine in the bath and, later, in my bed. And I worry about the darkness in his eyes—the way he’d seemed distracted.

Idohave his phone number, I realize, and Istillhaven’t used it . . .

I’m barely through my front door before I’m scrolling to find his name in my contacts, pressing the call button with an eager finger. He answers on the second ring, and my heart does a triple backflip.

“Hello?” he says, voice gruff through the phone. It sends a pulse of desire through every nook and cranny of my body.

“You answered,” I declare, hoping the cool evenness of my own voice at least hides a little of the effect he has on me, even from afar.

“You called,” he says pointedly, and I can picture his uneven smile as he says it.

“I wanted to check on you. See how you’re doing.”

“That so?” he asks, voice lowering. There’s some background noise, and it doesn’t sound like he’s home.

“Sorry, are you busy?”

“Uh . . .” He trails off for a beat. “No, just give me a sec.” There’s some chaotic rustling and a bang. I hear something that sounds a lot likefuck off, Boone, and then after a few more moments, he’s back. “Okay, I’m good now.”

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