Hiking with MishaandOliver would be so much fun.
“You really should. You’re fit, I mean, you look fit. You’re always working out and have those muscled calves in shorts,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
Oliver looks at me, surprise etching his features. “You think I have muscled calves?”
Did I just admit to ogling him in the gym?
I’m such a nutter.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I just… I mean, my calves hurt because I don’t have a lot of muscles, but you have many muscles, and you’re working out, and—” My words tumble out in a nervous stream until Oliver reaches across the table to squeeze my hand, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Thank you. I guess my calves should withstand a hike with Misha, although I’m not sure my ears can handle his singing. Did he sing on your hike? He’s always humming and yelling random lyrics when we’re outside,” he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
I chuckle, recalling the morning and Misha’s version of “Midnight City.” “Well, he did some yelling when the sun came up.”
“Next time, tell him to shut up. It works when Grey does it,” he advises with a grin.
I laugh out loud, covering my mouth with my hand. “God, no. That’s so mean. I like him being happy and singing.”
“Why do you keep doing that?” Oliver asks, his tone light but curious.
“Doing what?” I’m genuinely puzzled for a moment, glancing around as if the answer might be strewn somewhere on the tabletop.
“You muffle your laugh with your hand.” His eyes narrow, not accusingly, but as if he’s peering into a small, curious detail of my character.
“Oh,” I say, a blush creeping up my cheeks as I let my hand sink into my lap. It’s a silly yet deeply ingrained habit. “Because my laugh sounds like a rubber duck.”
“Who told you that?” He frowns, the concern in his voice sounding as if I’d announced a minor injury.
“My mother,” I admit, her voice echoes in my head, her tone icy.
“The Lord help us,Amelia Charlotte. You sound like a dying rubber duck with that laugh. We smile gracefully. We don’t laugh like clowns in a circus.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
“At least cover your mouth. I don’t want to hear it.”
“Well, that’s awkward then,”Oliver says after a moment, his expression unreadable.
“What is?” I whisper, half-dreading his answer.
“That my favorite sound is a rubber duck.”
My heart skips a beat or maybe two.
Is he flirting with me?
The thought sends a flutter through my chest, mixing with a swirl of old shame. It’s a strange cocktail of emotions, making me both want to hide and lean closer.
His gaze lingers on my face as if he’s trying to read my reaction, to gauge whether he’s stepped over a line or perhaps encouraged one to be crossed, and I nervously tuck a stray hair behind my ear.
“Sounds like your family is lovely,” he comments dryly, letting me off the hook when I don’t say anything to his comment.
I should have told him that his laugh is my favorite too.
“They never claimed to be lovely,” I say, the words heavier than I intend, laden with more truth than I usually allow. “But maybe I just wasn’t a good enough kid.”
“Well, that sounds even worse and wrong,” he replies, his voice softening.
