Weather the Storm (Southern Roots Book 3) Read online

  §

  I must have slept way longer than I thought, because when I wake, it’s pitch black in the room, save for the slight hazy light filtering in through the cracks in the blinds. Sitting up in bed, I wipe the sleep from my eyes and listen for any signs of Simon moving about.

  Satisfied when my ears are met with silence, I slide from under the covers and pad out to the living room to retrieve my phone…only, it’s not on the coffee table where I left it. Huh. Wonder where it is.

  Changing course, I head into the kitchen to check the time. The digital display on the microwave tells me it’s just past five thirty in the morning. Did I really sleep that long?

  I flip on the light and sure enough, my phone is plugged into the charger on the counter. I guess Simon must have moved it for me. With that mystery solved, I start a pot of coffee, and begin rummaging through Simon’s fridge to see what I can whip up for breakfast. I’m starved, which makes sense seeing as I went to bed without lunch or dinner. Luckily, it looks like he has all the makings for Southwestern omelets.

  After whipping the eggs until they’re perfectly frothy, I pour half the mixture into the sizzling hot buttered skillet. I sprinkle a generous handful of cheese over the eggs, along with two spoonfuls of salsa and fresh cilantro leaves. I fold my omelet as I slide it from the pan to the plate, set it aside, and immediately set to work making Simon’s.

  I manage to plate it just as he shuffles into the kitchen. He watches, his eyes trained on me like a hawk circling its prey. Quickly, I grab his plate, along with a fork, and rush it over to the dining table.

  “What’s all this?” he asks, his voice thick with sleep.

  “Breakfast.” I paint a hopeful smile across my lips.

  “I can see that,” Simon states plainly, still not moving toward the table.

  “Aren’t you going to eat? Do you not like omelets? I…I can make something else. J-just tell me what you want.” My hands begin to tremble as I worry that I’ve upset him again.

  “I like omelets just fine, Magnolia. What I’m trying to figure out is why you’re up before the sun making me breakfast.”

  “I was…I was up, and figured you to be an early riser, what with you teaching and all. So, yeah…” I trail off, watching as he lowers himself into his chair. I dip my head when he picks up his fork and scoops up a bite, and I only blush a little when the fork disappears between his full lips.

  “It’s delicious.” I watch as he forks more into his mouth.

  Pleased by his comments, I go about filling the sink with water to scrub the dishes I’ve dirtied, but Simon calling out stops me. “Aren’t you gonna join me?”

  “I need to clean up this mess. A clean kitchen is a happy kitchen.” I recite those words more from memory than belief, words Grant basically beat into me.

  I cringe at the sound of Simon pushing his chair back from the table and start to shake when I feel him come up behind me. “What are you doing?” he asks, close enough that I can feel his breath on my neck.

  “Cleaning.”

  “Once again, I can see that. What I mean is, why aren’t you eating with me?”

  “Because I need to—”

  Simon cuts me off. “Clean, I know, you’ve mentioned that, but here’s the thing, Goldilocks: you cooked for me, so I’ll be doing the cleaning, and I’m sure as shit not going to sit at the table and eat the food you made me while you let yours get cold because you’re washin’ the dishes.”

  With his hands on my shoulders, Simon guides me around to face him. I stand stock-still as he reaches past me and snatches my plate off the counter. “Now, let’s both go have a seat and enjoy this delicious breakfast you made us, and when we’re finished, I’ll do the dishes.”

  “Okay,” I agree, not wanting to upset him.

  “Good girl, now go have a seat.” I make to take my plate from him, but he holds it up out of my reach. “Ah, ah,” he scolds, almost as if talking to a child. “You go. I’ve got your food, and I’ll pour your coffee.”

  Resigned, I situate myself in the chair across from his, fidgeting and fighting the urge to finish cleaning. If I’d ever joined Grant at the table with dishes in the sink, he would’ve… I shudder to even think about it.

  The clink of my plate against the wood of the table shakes me out of my thoughts, and two seconds later, a steaming mug of coffee is placed next to it. “Thank you,” I say, keeping my eyes on my plate.

  “You’re very welcome.” He sits and scoots his chair toward the table, and then we both begin eating. “Got two things I want to say. First, I’m sorry for the way I behaved yesterday. I was out of line, and I’d like to explain myself, if you’ll allow it.” I nod between bites, and he continues. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was just upset when I saw your apartment. The thought of you living there and not being safe made me a little crazy—don’t ask me why, because I’m not entirely sure I can explain it, but, Magnolia, please stay here, at least until we can find somewhere better for you.”

  “If that’ll make you happy, okay.”

  “It will, more than anything. I’ll even help you find something. As for the other thing I want to know—who hurt you?”

  His question causes me to gasp and choke on my sip of coffee. “What?” I wheeze out, stunned almost speechless.

  “I want to know who hurt you, and then I want to track his ass down and make him pay. No man should ever raise his voice, much less his hand, to a woman, and, Goldilocks, no offense, but someone’s done a number on you.”

  I suck in a deep breath and drop my eyes to my lap as I discreetly try to wipe away the tears that are falling. “It’s in the past,” I say, trying to convince both of us that it’s true.

  “Look at me,” Simon gently demands. I shake my head. “Magnolia.” He says my name like a prayer, begging me to look his way, but how can I? How can I show him my shame? “Please?” He whispers the word, his voice all gravel and grit, raw with emotion.

  Slowly, I look up in his direction, but not at him. I look anywhere but him, hoping this will be good enough, but of course, it isn’t. Simon stands from his chair and walks over to me, pulls my chair back from the table, and drops to his knees at my side.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been through, and I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. Consider it something else we’ll add to our list of shit to discuss at a later date. But, know this: my dad was a mean son of a bitch. He beat on my mama until she couldn’t take it anymore.” Pausing, Simon takes my hands in his. “I’ll never forget the way he used to wail on her like she was a punching bag at the gym. I used to hide in the hall closet and watch him through the crack in the door.

  “One night he hurt her real bad, and I, at all of ten years old, decided I’d had enough. I stormed out of the hall closet, determined to make him pay for hurting her. He had his back to me, and I hollered his name. Just as he turned around to yell at me, I socked him right in his cheek. Didn’t hurt him near as much as it hurt me, though. I broke my damn hand, and he broke my arm when he grabbed me by it and threw me into the wall.”

  The tears I’d been trying to hide from him are now trailing down my cheeks like waterfalls, dripping from my chin and onto our clasped hands. “Oh, Simon,” I start, but he releases my left hand and brings his index finger to my lips, shushing me.

  “Point is, that night, after my dad went to sleep, Mama took me to the hospital, and they set my arm and put a cast on it. She told me I was her hero, the strongest boy she knew. Guess she thought I was superhuman, because after we got home, she told me she had to run a quick errand and I should go on to bed. She never came back.

  “My dad took his anger out on me after that, until I was about fifteen, when I got big enough to shut that shit down. The whole reason I’m even telling you this is because I made a vow at ten years old to never be him, so I’ll never hurt you, Magnolia. I’d rather die than lay my hands on you.”

  I can hear the sincerity in his voice; he truly means it when he s
ays he’ll never hurt me, and for some reason, I believe him. Emboldened by the truth in his words, I do the unthinkable. I pull my right hand from his grasp and twine my arms around his neck, pulling him to me, his head to my chest, and I hold him close.

  “I believe you, Simon,” I murmur into his hair. We sit like that for what feels like hours, though it’s only minutes before Simon pulls back and draws up to his full height.

  “You deserve the best things in this life, Goldilocks. Don’t ever settle until things feel just right.” Simon presses a light, barely there, so-soft-maybe-I imagined-it kiss to my forehead, and all I can think is, This…this feels just right.

  Chapter Eight

  SIMON

  With great difficulty, I pull my lips from the smooth skin of Magnolia’s forehead. The kiss was meant to be an act of comfort, but the feel of my lips touching her skin—even just barely—has me feeling anything but comfortable.

  No, some parts of me—mainly those due south—are feeling some kind of uncomfortable, and I’m pretty sure that makes me an asshole of the most supreme order.

  “So,” I mumble as I rise back to standing, “how’s your head and everything feeling?”

  Magnolia brings a hand to her forehead—right where my lips just were, mind you—and gives me a shy smile. “I’m feelin’ good. I probably need to see about…” Her words fall off as a defeated look crosses her face.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, knowing I’ll do anything in my power to make her smile.

  “Just thinkin’ of everything I have to do.” Holding up her pointer finger, she says, “I have to find a car.” Another finger. “Get insurance.” And another. “Find somewhere to live.” Now, she’s holding up four fingers, looking even more somber than she did before. “And I need to see about work.”

  “Hate to tell you this, but before you can get a car, we need to teach you how to actually drive.” She cringes at my blunt words, but I soften the blow with, “But you’re in luck, because I happen to be a great teacher. As for a place to live, I mean it one hundred and ten percent that my guest room is yours. I have plenty of space, and you’re welcome to it. In fact, I insist. Stay—it’s one less thing for you to worry about.”

  “Are…are you sure?”

  “Absolutely sure. Now, once we get you a car, we will take care of insurance. So, there’s three things off your list. As for work, Seraphine mentioned blocking the week out for you, so you’re all set to go back on Tuesday. Myla Rose lives next door, so between the two of us, we will get you where you need to be. Okay?”

  “Okay. Simon, why’re you being so nice to me?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Because you deserve it.”

  §

  Having Magnolia here the past week has been…strangely wonderful. Having her in my space feels as natural as breathing. Now, as Tuesday morning dawns, I can’t help but wonder if both of us returning to work will change things.

  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to keep her locked away like some princess in a tower; I’ve just grown used to spending our days together, bingeing on Netflix and whatnot, but I can see she’s antsy to resume her day-to-day activities. Something tells me she’s not used to having the freedom of coming and going as she pleases, which is exactly why I plan on taking her car shopping this weekend—which means I need to text Seraphine to make sure she blocks out Magnolia’s schedule at the salon so she can leave a little early.

  Simon: Hey, any way you can make sure Magnolia gets off around 4 on Friday?

  I wait impatiently for the little bubbles to pop up, indicating that she’s replying to my message.

  Seraphine: You’re lucky I’m an early riser, Simon. Don’t you know it’s rude to text people this early?

  Simon: Loud and clear, won’t happen again. But, about Friday…

  Seraphine: You know I can make it happen, but why?

  I swear, these women are so damn nosy.

  Simon: Want to surprise her and take her car shopping.

  Seraphine: Doesn’t she need driving lessons first?

  Simon: Figured I’d teach her in the car she’ll actually be driving.

  Seraphine: Makes sense. I’ll mark off her time.

  I’ve just placed my phone back on the wireless charging dock when it pings again with another incoming text.

  Seraphine: Oh, and, Simon…you’re a good man.

  I smile at her message but don’t reply. I’ve got to get ready if I’m going to make it to work on time, and strangely enough, I’ve missed the little punk-ass freshmen I teach.

  Twenty minutes later, I step out of my bedroom and into the hallway, the scent of bacon instantly filling my nostrils. Following it, I find Magnolia in the kitchen, clad in an oversized sleep shirt and tall, fuzzy socks.

  “What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” I ask, the words slipping past my lips before I can think them through.

  Magnolia turns from the stove to face me, a pretty blush coloring her cheeks. “Just some bacon and eggs. Thought you’d need a good breakfast to start your day.”

  “Well, thank you very much, Goldilocks. A good breakfast sounds some kind of nice.” I plant myself in my chair at the table as she dishes up two plates of eggs and bacon before setting them on the table and sliding into the seat across from me.

  Wordlessly, I dig in, savoring the taste of the fluffy, buttery scrambled eggs. “This is amazing,” I say between bites, and she preens at my words.

  “Thank you. The trick is adding a pat of butter to the eggs just before they finish cooking.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, rising to take my plate to the sink. A second or two later, Magnolia follows suit, standing so close to me that I can feel the warmth of her skin. I load my plate into the dishwasher and make room for her at the sink. “You know you don’t have to cook for me, right?”

  “Oh…oh, yeah, sorry.” Magnolia drops her gaze from mine and tries to busy herself with rinsing her plate, but no amount of scrubbing can hide her crestfallen look.

  “Hey,” I whisper, tipping her chin up so she’s looking at me. “Hey, you misunderstood. I don’t mean that your cooking isn’t good, or that I don’t appreciate you doing it, or even that I want you to stop. All I meant was, don’t feel like you have to do it.” Reaching past her, I shut off the faucet and take her wet, soapy hands in mine. “You hear me, Goldilocks?”

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  “Good. Now, you have a good first day back at the salon, and I’ll see you this evenin’.” Instinctually, I lean down and press my lips to her forehead, eliciting a small gasp from Magnolia as if we’re both struck by the feeling of her skin under my own.

  “Y-you too,” she replies breathlessly, causing me to smile so wide my cheeks ache.

  §

  Pulling into my designated spot in the faculty parking lot, I head toward the school with a spring in my step. There’s just something about Magnolia that has me flying high.

  I head straight to my classroom, bypassing the teacher’s lounge since I spent a little extra time at home enjoying breakfast, as well as enjoying my time with the chef. It feels like an eternity since I stepped foot in my classroom, but I’m pleased to see that the sub has left it in the same condition it was in when she started last Monday.

  I situate myself in my desk chair and flip through the notes the substitute left for me before pulling out my lesson plan and grade book. Thankfully, my students were all on their best behavior—well, at least the majority of them.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out, in case it’s Magnolia. My chest deflates a bit when it’s not her name I see on the screen. Instead it’s my mechanic, Mateo, and he’s texting to let me know my truck is ready to be picked up this evening. I shoot him a message back, letting him know I’ll be there after school. Toggling over to my thread with Magnolia, I begin tapping out a text to her, but my students begin filtering in before I can hit send.

  Being a big believer in teaching through actions, I toss my phone into
my desk drawer and greet my first class of the day.

  “Good morning, world historians. Y’all miss me?” I ask as I stand from my chair and walk around to the front of my desk, where I perch myself on the edge.

  “Good morning, Mr. McAllister,” they all echo back.

  “For real, y’all miss me?” I ask again, goading them.

  “Sure thing, Mr. M!” Desi Reyes sasses at me from her spot in the front row. She’s a smart girl, if a little rebellious.

  “Keep it up, Reyes,” I scold her. “I’m stopping by your dad’s shop tonight, and I’d hate to have to tell him you were being a smart aleck in class.”

  My words don’t have their intended effect though, because Desi just laughs and tells me, “Wouldn’t be anything new to him!”

  “All right, enough of that. Crack open your textbooks to chapter twenty-three—it’s time to learn about a short little Frenchman named Napoléon Bonaparte.”

  §

  After my last class of the day, I gather the papers I need to take home for grading and retrieve my cell phone from my desk drawer. Without considering why, I find myself dialing the number for the salon.

  “It’s a splendiferous afternoon here at Southern Roots. This is Seraphine, how may I help you?”

  “By calling your cousin to the phone,” I drawl out, knowing it will get her gears turning.

  “Got something you need to say to her?” Seraphine asks, sounding mildly suspicious.

  “Sure do.”

  She sighs into the phone. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’ll go get her.”

  I hear shuffling and muffled voices before Magnolia’s sweet voice filters through my phone. “Hey, Simon.”

  “Magnolia.” I croon her name as a greeting, and I smile like the Cheshire cat when I hear her breathing pick up a little.

  “H-hey,” she says, repeating herself.

  “Wanted to let you know I’m leaving work and heading to meet Cash so I can pick up my truck. Is Myla Rose still bringing you home?”

  “Yeah, she is.” Her tone is so soft, and I can practically close my eyes and see her standing at the front desk of the salon, twirling the phone cord in her fingers while she talks to me, mesmerizing me with that voice of hers.