17
Olivia
My date was… fine.
And Christ, that’s the worst word in the English language.Fine.The polite coffin we bury dead chemistry in. Honestly, it’s the worst verdict you can hand someone who held the door, paid without making a show of it, and asked me questions like he actually wanted to know the answers.
Evan was nice. Too nice, maybe. He took us to The Loose Lasso, held the door for me, and we sat near the window that overlooks the car park and two tired gum trees.
He asked about my day like he actually cared, and I answered like I actually wanted to talk about it. He talked about his job at the council, and I tried to follow, I really did. But halfway through his story about an invoice dispute, my brain packed up and went to a certain infuriating man in uniform who can’t go three sentences without bossing me around.
Evan laughed in all the right places. I laughed too, mostly out of habit. His eyes drifted more than once to the TV showing footy highlights, and to the door every time it opened. Mine drifted too, to the clock above the bar. At eight-thirty, he offered meanother drink, but I’d politely declined and wrapped it up for the night.
He’s a good guy, truly. Just not my guy. I agreed to another date anyway, because it’s easier than admitting that lately, every man I meet gets held up next to someone I shouldn’t even be thinking about.
When I got home, I kicked off my boots, wiped away my cherry gloss, and stared at the ceiling. My room felt too quiet, my thoughts too loud. And maybe that’s the scariest part—realising I’d rather be in a kitchen with a brooding single dad who barely looks at me than sitting across from a perfectly decent man who actually wants to. So, yeah. The date was fine.
And I’m officially in trouble.
By morning, I’ve made up my mind. If Sebastian wants to stew in silence, fine. I’m not tiptoeing around him or his moods anymore. Let him glower; I’ll just shine brighter. I’ve been here an hour already. Early, yes, but he hasn’t said a single word. Not his usual formal greeting, not even a grunt. Just a nod. Typical.
Diesel sits like a statue by the back screen door, massive head tilted, those amber eyes locked right on me. I pause at the top step and lift my hands in mock surrender.
“Morning, handsome,” I murmur, voice sweet as honey.
He doesn’t growl, which honestly feels like a personal win. His tail gives one slow, suspicious thump before he rises, all muscle and judgement. Sebastian’s voice comes up from behind me. Deep, gravelly, still scratchy from sleep.
“I wouldn’t,” Sebastian warns from somewhere behind me, sending goosebumps across my skin. “He’s been temperamental lately.”
I glance over my shoulder, just enough to see the broad shape of him. His navy shirt hugs his arms like it was tailored to drive women insane.
“Like father, like son, then?” I deadpan.
Diesel sniffs me out, breath warm against my palm. I hold still, because I’m not an idiot, and when I scratch behind his ear, he lets out this low, contented huff and leans his entire weight into my leg. I look up at Sebastian, deadpan still in place. “I think the only one around here who’s actually temperamental… is you.” I tilt my head and mutter, “Grumpy.”
He makes a low sound that isn’t quite a laugh, but it rumbles in his chest, and it’s close enough to make my insides buzz with satisfaction. “Lunch is packed,” he says simply. “It’s library day today, and don’t forget his hat and sunscreen.”
“Yes, boss.” I grin at him just to be annoying, but I get nothing in return. The man’s immune system to flirting is some next-level nonsense. No one gets that tense for no reason. He was jealous last night. And now, I have proof. Which makes pushing his buttons the best part of my morning. So I start humming quietly, just to see what it’ll do, as I walk back inside to meet Teddy in the lounge.
He pretends not to look, but I catch him watching my hands as I reach for Teddy’s drink bottle, then my mouth, then straight back down like the surface of the fridge is suddenly fascinating. Every glance is a spark I probably shouldn’t enjoy. Too bad.
“You know,” I say, voice low and casual, “you should just take a picture.”
He blinks at me confusedly. “Pardon?”
“You’re staring.” I grin. “I should start charging.”
He lets out a long, dramatic sigh that’s pure exasperation. “Keep pushing, Mitchell.”
“Oh, I plan to.”
At that, he grabs his keys, mutters something I don’t catch, and walks out the door without another word, leaving just me and Teddy. I hand him his hat, and he slides it into his backpack with quiet precision—exactly three fingers to the left of hislunchbox. If I didn’t know him, I’d miss it. But I know him better now. I know what every movement means now.
We’re just about to head out when something catches my eye, taped to the fridge, slightly crooked.
Try not to cause any trouble today.
His handwriting, on a sticky note. Neat, all block letters. Of course. I huff a laugh, peel it off, and fold the note once before slipping it into my back pocket. I most definitely will be.
