Page 70 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

Forget eager. I’m downright desperate.

Olivia unleashes her evil-genius grin. “Two questions a day.”

There we have it. I shouldn’t be surprised. As painful as she is, I have to applaud her top-notch manipulation skills.

“Fine. Starting next hike and start talking.” I make a swiveling motion with my wrist, encouraging her to get this over with.

“Simple. When those guys stop pushing so hard, she stops avoiding.”

“That’s a fast track to losing her.” I sense it, how on the fence she is about us. All her worries over Max, concern he’ll get hurt if we date and then split up. Valid, but I know we won’t split up.

Olivia’s sigh is pure exasperation. “According to Psychology Today, trust is the number one predictor of relationship success. That means reliability, dependability, and support,” she says slowly, like English is my second language. “Stop pushing her and show her those things with your actions.”

She walks off to join the mushroom hunters.

I rub my eyes, more confused than before. Enrolling in law school is the start of my dependability. Sticking with it will prove my reliability. Graduating will allow me to support my family. The whole point of earning that degree is to show Sadie I’m the right man for her and Max. But I have been pushing too, coaxing her to get a sitter and go out with me. Maybe that’s part of the issue.

I’m shaking up schedules she’s come to rely on. The important parts of being a mom. Maybe I need to alter my focus there. Quit pushing her to change her routine. Show her I can fit into her life. Prove spending time together with Max is as important to me as time alone with her. Major trust-earning behavior.

Or I should ignore Olivia. Last I checked, she has internet access, not a doctorate in psychology.

TWENTY-TWO

On the drive to Sadie’s, I remind myself her concerns for getting involved quickly are valid. Finding our feet together will take more than a couple of dates and hot kisses. I listen to classic rock and switch my focus to today’s hike. How engaged the kids were, the kick of my pulse every time Max ran up to show me his mushroom sketches. When Jasmine won the fungus contest and a bracelet, her excited squeal nearly broke my eardrums.

Even better, after I told the group about witness protection and my real name, they didn’t get freaked out. I answered their questions while avoiding the subject of Max. They actually seemed more enthused than ever to chat with me.

By the time I’m parking on Sadie’s quaint street, I’m more relaxed, looking forward to seeing her and Max and my family. I open my car door and wince at the grating screech. Fuck, do I need a new ride. Not the Porsche from my high school’s Most Likely To list. A proper vehicle so I can shuttle Max around safely. Hell, I’ll even drive a minivan. That’s how committed I am to being a dependable family man.

“Desmond Bower?”

I crank my car door shut and grind my teeth. I should’ve prepared myself for running into a potential blast from my past. This is Windfall, after all. Home of the Scarecrow Scavenger Hunt, the Summer Art Walk, and the nosiest townsfolk this side of Whoville. The fact that I visited Sadie once and didn’t get accosted was a miracle.

I turn and sigh. There’s my past, all right. Justin Bernardini. The dude who puked beside me at the Spring Fair, nearly causing me to puke too. A periphery high school buddy from my golden years, known for burping the alphabet. He failed his driver’s license test four times and was voted Most Likely to Need the Jaws of Life. Honest to God, the guy had no depth perception. And here he is, his white skin extra tanned, his dark hair buzzed, looking fit and successful as he goggles at me.

“Man, almost didn’t recognize you.” He doesn’t hide his shock at my appearance or the not-a-Porsche I drive. He’s visibly stunned, his mouth gaping open.

“It’s been a while,” I grit out, my jaw feeling wired shut.

Not taking my get-lost glare as a hint, he plants his hand on my car. “Can’t believe about your dad and the witness protection thing.”

“Yeah, well.” That’s all I’ve got. No long diatribe about the life-ruining ways of money laundering.

He zeroes in on my neck and forearms. “The tattoos are badass.”

I grunt. Translation: Leave me the fuck alone.

“And this car.” He whistles.

I don’t even grunt this time. I have no clue if he’s purposely being condescending or if I’m more sensitive than I used to be, but I find my lats bunching. “Can’t say the past decade’s been easy.”

“I’m doing real estate,” he says, without me asking. “Sold the Goldstein farm last week. A hell of a lot of acreage, which means I’m one step closer to my dream vacation home in the Bahamas. And guess who bought the restored Victorian on Amber Street?” He points his thumbs at himself. “Married Ella May Saunders out of college and have two adorable girls. What about you?” He glances at my hand. “Still single?”

I run my tongue over my cracked tooth, a minute from launching my clenched fist into his nose, but I stay put and stay quiet. This idiot doesn’t need egging on.

“Just can’t get over seeing you, man.” His attention keeps darting to my ink and the car. “Remember how you ruled school back in the day? You were that guy—every dude wanted to be you and every chick wanted to date you.”

I was right about the condescension, and that he’s about to get hit.