Preparing to retreat.
And I’m not about to let her.
Not now.
Not when I’ve just started breaking through.
15
OLIVIA
“Wow.” I’m engrossed with cataloguing the lines and space of the room. “This is beautiful.”
The afternoon light pours through the tall windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. I can already picture it—a restaurant filled with warmth and laughter, the clink of glasses, the hum of conversation.
Sam walks ahead of me, his broad shoulders and lean frame commanding every inch of my attention. I shouldn’t stare, but I do. How can I not?
The memory of his mouth on mine still burns beneath my skin. The way he kissed me last night—hungry, certain, like I was something he’d been craving for far too long—still has me unsteady. My knees had gone weak beneath the table, and if I hadn’t been sitting, I’d have ended up a puddle on the floor.
Things got…awkward after that. Or more like, I made it so. I wanted to talk, to clear the air, but the timing never lined up. The car ride conversation was light and I figured my place was best. But by the time we got back, Drew was home, and any hope of a conversation vanished.
“Olivia?” Sam’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “What do you think?”
“Sorry?” I slant my head to one side, caught somewhere between the past and the present.
He gestures toward the ceiling. “Patti was just saying the electrical and floors need work. We might be able to negotiate the price. What’s your take?”
Patti, his real estate agent, is hovering a polite distance away, giving us space.
I force my brain to catch up. “You’re right. But I’d still get an inspection, especially on the electrical. If that checks out, you’re golden. The area’s solid, steady weekday crowd, packed weekends, great visibility.”
His lips tip into that slow, approving smile. “You really know your stuff.”
And just like that, I’m melting again.
We’re only a stone’s throw from my house in the Annex. This is the final stop on today’s list and easily the best. This neighborhood has that rare mix of old-world charm and modern pulse, an affluent, diverse enclave nestled in the heart of Toronto. Perfect for a restaurant.
Patti leads us toward the kitchen, her heels clicking across the worn wooden planks. The place needs a complete overhaul, but that doesn’t deter me. If anything, it sparks something electric inside me.
Every exposed pipe, cracked wall, and scuffed floor tells methiscould be the one. Where others see decay, I see potential. As an interior designer, spaces like this are my playground. A blank canvas waiting for life, laughter, and light. I live for transformation, for creating beauty out of chaos.
I’m envisioning warm, romantic tones and soft lighting, when a melodic “Bonjour” slices through the air.
The sound hits me like a hammer to the skull. The sharp click of heels follows, and then, Yasmine Thibault appears in the doorway, every inch the polished princess.
My stomach drops. Of all people.
What the hell is she doing here?
Did Sam invite her?
“Yasmine.” Patti’s greeting carries a surprised lift to her tone.
Sam echoes her name, his smile courteous but thin, and they exchange the customarydeux bises. My hands curl into fists at my sides, the sound of those polite little kisses scraping like nails on glass.
Yasmine’s eyes find mine, and there it is, the glint. That calculated, gleeful spark that says she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing. She rests a manicured hand on Sam’s forearm, her faux sweetness dripping as she turns to me.
“Olive, lovely to see you.” Her voice could curdle milk.
