Grayson shakes her head, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, before she walks over to take a customer’s order. She can’t be okay with this. Can she?
“Sheesh, you were dealing with Ms. Johnson?” Wren says, her lips pressing together in understanding. “Sounds like Livie did you a favor.”
I glance at the two of them, momentarily struck because, if not for the three-year age gap, Olivia and her sister could almost pass as twins.Almost.
Their hair color is the same shade of red, and both have heart-shaped faces and freckles sprinkled over their cheeks andnose. Besides that, the similarities fade. Olivia’s green eyes have this hazel-gold shimmer in the right light, while her sister’s are a cooler shade. Where Wren moves with sharp, practiced confidence, Olivia radiates a softer kind of presence.
I cross my arms together, feeling my shirt tighten around my biceps and shoulders as I say, “There’s a long discussion in the future for you and Rick.”
“We were trying to save your life.” She smiles innocently and holds up a paper bag. “I also promised him a blueberry scone. There is a cinnamon one in there for you.”
“Why couldn’t you have thought of a more normal way of helping him out?” Wren tosses at Olivia, squinting her eyes while grabbing a large coffee cup. “Want the usual? It’s on the house.”
I nod in response as Olivia replies, “It’s not my fault you assume anything about me is normal. That’s on you.”
Wren chuckles before starting the churring sound of the espresso machine. Olivia bats her long lashes at me, trying to appear innocent, but I pretend to be immune to her puppy-dog eyes, even though deep down it kills me.
I take the bag into my left hand and the latte from Wren in the other, my eyes trained on Olivia’s the whole time. We do this a lot—challenge each other with a staring contest until one of us breaks. Today, I have the victory as Olivia caves to slip on her puffy pink coat. I beam pridefully and take a sip of my latte.
“Thank you, ladies,” I announce, tipping my cup in a goodbye.
“Thank you for coming to our fake rescue,” Grayson shouts as she gives me a wave before disappearing into the back of the shop.
As Olivia and I walk outside, the frosty air hits us, taking my breath away for a moment. I take another sip of my latte, welcoming its warmth and comforting flavor of cinnamon and vanilla.
“How’s Wren doing?” I ask as we walk to mycruiser.
“She’s hanging in there. She likes working at The Groovy Bean and teaching her Zumba classes in the evenings.”
Wren recently went through a divorce and moved back to Covewood a few months ago. She’s currently living in her old bedroom at her parents’ home, refusing to stay in Olivia’s spare room, even though she’s offered many times.
Under the sunlight, I can see the dark circles under Olivia’s eyes. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Why? Do I have designer bags under my eyes?” She grins, but it doesn’t brighten her face like it normally does. Instead, it makes her seem small.
I bump into her shoulder and stop outside of my car. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, Officer. Everything's just peachy. Speaking of peachy, make sure to tell Elliott I dropped off some peach scones with lemon glaze at The Groovy Bean.”
“Do you need a ride?” I open the driver's side door and point inside. “I could toss you in the back for fun after what you just pulled.”
She shakes her head, a giggle bursting from her parted lips. It’s a good look on her, this smile. Much better than the sad, reserved look she was wearing moments ago.
“No, thank you. I actually drove here.” She points across the street where her car is parked. “It’s freezing. I’m going to go. I’ll see you later.” She gives me a wave and no time to respond before she rushes toward her vehicle and hops inside.
I watch as she drives away, turning onto a street that leads to her house before I start my car and make my way toward the police station. As I drive a few blocks, a sudden motion catches my eye as a kid on the side of the road starts waving his arms and shouting something I can’t quite make out.
As I head toward the blond-haired boy, who looks to be about nine years old, he points up at a small oak tree and says, “Mister! Come help! My friend is stuck up there.”
I follow the kid until we’re at the base of the tree, and sureenough, another little boy about his age is clinging to a branch for dear life. I don’t care for heights. There’s something about defying gravity and being away from the safety of the earth that instantly spikes my anxiety. I can already feel my palms become clammy with the thought of having to climb this tree.
“Please get me down!” the other boy shrieks, squeezing the tree limb tighter.
Jesus, please help me not die today.
“What’s your name?” I ask the first boy.
“My name is Reid. He’s Andrew, but I call him Buzz.”
