Connie C. laughs. "You sound like my daughter when I get around the grandkids," she says. "Here you go, little Olivia."
"I swear, I think she's associated you with ice cream, Connie," I say, holding the cup while Olivia tries to spoon some into her mouth, the liquid dripping down her chin.
"There are worse things to be associated with," she says. "How's business, Autumn? That fire up there didn't hurt your harvest now, did it?"
"Not terribly," I tell her. "We caught it in time. We're actually almost finished harvesting."
"Luke Saint has been helping you out, I hear." She slips behind the counter and begins placing my groceries in the paper bags, but I know she's really sussing me out for juicy gossip. I force my expression blank. Connie is one of the worst gossips in town – her general store and the local hair salon are the two main sources of information in West Bend, and everyone knows it. And the last thing I need is for her to get the idea that there's anything other than a business relationship going on between Luke and I.
I haven't talked to Luke since we hooked up. No phone call, no text, no Luke knocking on my front door with groceries in his hands and that crooked grin on his face.
Nothing.
"Yep," I say. No elaboration. "Do you have any of that French bread you had before?"
"Oh, it's in the back, sweetie." She thrusts a head of broccoli into a bag. "Hang on, I'll grab you a loaf."
I exhale, relieved at the brief reprieve from Connie's questions. And from thinking about Luke.
At least, that's the case until he walks in the door.
Luke is wearing jeans and a t-shirt that looks like it was dyed to match the color of his eyes, a cornflower blue hue that's warm and icy at the same time. When Olivia sees him, she holds up her spoon and grunts, waving it in the air excitedly and sending droplets of ice cream all over the floor. He looks at me for a good long moment, then down at Olivia. "Hey there, Olivia," he says. "That looks like some delicious ice cream."
When he looks up at me, his eyes look tired, dark circles underneath, and his face is wan. "Hey, Red."
"Grocery shopping?" I ask brightly. Too brightly, I think, clearing my throat. Be casual, I tell myself. Be cool. Like I do this all the time, hook up with someone and then, you know, act like a big asshole.
"Just popped in for a couple of things." He glances behind me, looking uncomfortable.
"I – uh, wanted to say something, Luke," I start. My heart thumps loudly in my throat, so loudly I swear he has to be able to hear it in the room. I wipe my palms on my jeans. Why are my damn palms so sweaty?
Just apologize to him, Autumn, I tell myself.
"Oh yeah," he says, distracted. "Don't worry about it. I haven't given it a second thought."
Oh. Not a second thought. I feel like someone punched me in the gut.
"Here you go, dear," Connie says. "Luke Saint. Well, speak of the devil. Did you feel your ears burning? We were just talking about you no more than thirty seconds ago, now weren't we, Autumn?"
If my face could flush any darker, I'd be the color of an eggplant. I look out of the corner of my eye at Luke, but the expression on his face is unreadable. This is the kind of thing he'd usually be prepared for with a quip, some kind of wisecrack to embarrass me even more.
Oh God. He must hate me that much, that he doesn't even care to be a smart-ass about it. I have thoroughly fucked things up.
"No, uh—" I stammer. "We weren't talking about you, I don't think…"
"I was just asking about how you were helping her out at the orchard," Connie says.
"And I was just telling her that I was grateful for your help," I say, my voice curt.
Luke nods, his expression drawn. "Yes." He looks at his watch. "I'll see you at the orchard on Monday, then."
I swallow hard, watching Luke's back as he walks out the door and trying to stifle the uneasy feeling I get in my stomach as he leaves. It's just a casual fling, I tell myself yet again.
"Well, now." Connie eyes me as she slides the loaf of bread into my shopping bag. "He turned around and left without even getting what he came in here for."
"Yes," I say, my head swimming. He obviously didn’t like what he saw in the store.
"He's a good-looking one, that Luke Saint is," she says, clucking. "All of the brothers are. Damn shame about that family, though."
"Shame about what?" I ask, still looking at the door as if I can will Luke to turn around and come back in.
"Oh, you wouldn't know because you haven't been around here long enough, have you, honey?" She shakes her head. "The father was a real son of a – well, you know – never treated those kids right. Mother wasn't that much better. Real pretty, though. Killed herself after the father died."
"That's terrible." June had already told me about their parents' deaths, but now all I can think about is that scar on Luke's back and what it means about the kind of hell he's lived through.
"It's an odd thing, though," she says.