Two hours and the-best-nap-of-my-life later, Oliver and I are thanking Clara and Samuel from the bottom of our hearts. Claraaccepts my gushing as Oliver puts our bags in the back of his friend’s SUV, but when I reach out my hands to grasp hers, she shakes her head and takes a small step back.
“No thanks necessary. God provides through his people,” Clara says, giving me a modest smile.
“Safe journey to you both,” Samuel says, his hands clasped.
Oliver helps me step up into the huge SUV, and I instantly feel uncomfortable for three reasons:
First, this isn’t just any SUV—it’s a Rolls Royce. I didn’t realize until right now that I knew what the Rolls Royce logo looked like, but I see it on the steering wheel. The cream-colored, butter-soft leather seats look like they’ve never been touched by human hands. And is that actual wood trim? It is. It’s actual wood trim.
Second, my thrift store Mary Janes feel criminally inappropriate against the pristine running board, and even though my clothes are all clean having come from my suitcase, they can’t possibly be clean enough for a vehicle that costs more than I’ll probably make in ten years.
And third, the driver isn’t Oliver’s friend, Scottie. She’s in the passenger’s seat.
The driver is Jake Rodgers, one of the biggest players in Major League Baseball, with a reputation even bigger.
Scottie looks back at me with a smile. Her light blonde hair is bone straight, and her tortoiseshell glasses give her that effortlessly cool look I’ve always envied but never understood. My second-hand sensibilities don’t extend to anything neighboring sleek.
“So you’re the girl who met Fletch on the plane and actually decided to take a cross-country journey with the guy?” She looks me over with an assessing gaze. “You’re either braver than me or crazier.” Her lips quirk up slightly. “I’m Scottie,” she says. Hereyes drop to where Oliver is holding my right leg across his lap. Despite her half-smile, one eyebrow arches. “And that was fast.”
Is she protective of him? Our conversations have made it clear that he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but maybe Scottie’s friends with his ex. Or maybe I’m missing something.
I give her a smile I know looks more comfortable than it is. “Oliver’s only holding my leg because I rolled it yesterday, so I need to elevate it.”
She gives us a slow nod. “Right, Fletch mentioned that. Sucks about the ankle.” She turns back around and slaps the shoulder of the man driving. “Anyway, this is Jake Rodgers—best friend of both of my brothers and the guy who’s decided to crash Christmas and campaign for godfather of MY new nephew. He’s the worst thing that ever happened to me,” Scottie says with more irritation than affection.
Jake scoffs. “Bro, you ruinedmylife. Your brothers and I were fine until you came along.”
“You and Hudson were two when I was born, you dork, and Dallas was three. You expect me to believe you have all these deeply-rooted memories of playing in the turtle pool in the backyard without me?”
Jake peels out of the Yoder’s yard, spitting gravel up in a way that makes me … not love him already.
And I love everyone already.
Jake has the same big, strong, handsome guy thing that so many professional athletes have, with long, light brown hair and a smirk that’s more rude than cocky.
Scottie groans. “Is there any part of you that thinks, hmm, I shouldn’t be a complete tool in front of my new boss.”
Jake snorts. “Like the Firebirds are going to send me down to the minors. I’m Jake Rodgers.”
“Yeah, and you hit on the GM’s wife at Thanksgiving, you clown.”
“I didn’t know who she was,” he says.
“You knew she was married.”
“Isuspectedshe was married. It’s not the same thing.”
Oliver and I exchange wide eyes while Scottie and Jake bicker like siblings. Jake acts like he couldn’t care less that we’re here, but if there’s one thing that my job has taught me, it’s what it looks like when someone’s pretending to be someone they’re not.
And Jake Rodgers is a big, fat pretender.
Oh, I have no doubt he’s a jerk, but not the kind he comes across as.
The kind who learned young that no one else was going to put him first if he didn’t.
The longer they argue, the more exhausted Oliver looks, not physically, but mentally.
“No offense,” Oliver says after ten minutes, “but could you two shut up?”
