I’m exhausted by the time my workday is over. My shoulders ache and my muscles are tense from a long shift and two nights spent sleeping slumped on Caiden’s sofa. What I could do with is my own bed. My big, comfy king bed with satin sheets and bamboo pillows.
I should feed Ford and go home. Take a shower and sleep. But as I make my way to Kingston, stopping at the grocery store along the way, I already know that won’t happen. Oliver left sometime in the night while I was asleep – not before covering me with a blanket and slipping a pillow beneath my head – and though he never said he’d be back, I know with a deep-seated certainty that he will.
There’s a part of me that feels guilty about this fledgling friendship between us. The part that wonders if Caiden will be okay with it, given Oliver is his sort-of ex and he holds some rather negative thoughts about the guy. But even knowing that, even with the potential of upsetting my best friend, I can’t bring myself to ignore how much I want to get to know Oliver.
I saw a glimpse of the guy Caiden told me about. The brash, arrogant one. But there’s more to him than that, and I can’t help wonder why Oliver never let Caiden see that side of him. I’m already pretty sure he was on his way to falling in love with my friend and yet, I’m not sure he ever let Caiden actuallyseehim.
There is, of course, a huge chance I’m projecting and my reading of Oliver is completely off. I barely know him. We spend more time in silence than we do talking. And yet…sometimes silence is louder than words.
My heart knew when I met Caiden that he was made to be my best friend. With Oliver, the feeling is subtle, quieter. A little flare that sparks in my belly when I think about him. It’s not a roaring flame. I wouldn’t even call it attraction. But it’ssomething. Something I can’t turn away from.
Oliver knocks on the door thirty minutes after I arrive at Caiden’s place. He’s carrying a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of gin in the other. He’s not in gym wear this evening, instead he has on a pair of green cargo shorts and a rumpled blue polo shirt. The top two buttons are undone and I catch a glimpse of a thin scattering of hair on his chest.
“Liquid dinner?” he asks, following me into the kitchen, the glass bottles clanking on the countertop when he puts the drinks down. “Or we can order pizza?”
I gesture to the stove where I have a pot of pasta boiling, steam billowing into the air.
“I thought I’d cook tonight.”
Oliver pauses, his hand hovering over the top of the gin bottle.
“You cook?”
“Yeah? It’s nothing gourmet. Pasta with a lemon dressing and grilled chicken.” I open the fridge and take out a pre-made salad I bought on the way home. “And a little veg.”
“Holy shit,” he remarks. “And here I thought you survived on takeout.” Oliver removes the lid of the gin, then gestures to me for the glasses.
“Ha!” I exclaim, putting two tumblers in front of him, before leaning my elbows on the counter. “You make assumptions about everyone you hardly know?” I wave a hand between us. “It’s still early days in this friendship. Don’t go painting a picture of me too soon.”
Oliver tenses. It’s fleeting, but I notice before he relaxes again, his lips pursed. “Please. As if you haven’t made a thousand assumptions about me already,” he states, raising that scarred eyebrow. “I bet you painted a picture before we even met.” He’s not wrong, but any ideas I had about him before definitely were.
He goes to pour gin into two glasses, but I stop him, wrinkling my nose and pointing to the vodka instead. I hate the taste of gin, even in cocktails. Opening the vodka, he pours a hefty helping, neat, into two tumblers and pushes one towards me, then mirrors my position, arms resting on the countertop, face so close I can see a hint of gold in his dark brown eyes. “Be honest. I know Caiden’s told you some things.”
I bite my lip, and his eyes dip, following the action before he meets me head on again.
“He did. But I think you only showed Caiden what you wanted him to see.” I take a sip of my drink, wincing at the burn as it goes down. I don’t drink liquor neat very often, much preferring something sweeter. “So the picture I had of you and the person I see in front of me? They don’t match.”
Oliver straightens, gaze still locked, hand wrapped around his glass. “Is that so? You’re so sure, after knowing me for only three days?” I can’t read his expression, but his eyes are dark, his jaw clenched.
“Yep. I’d bet my penthouse on it.” I’d bet a lot on the fact that the asshole my friend fucked around with is only a part of who this man standing in front of me is. He’s shown me glimpses of the real him in the short time we’ve known each other. Or at least, who I think the real Oliver is.
The timer on my phone buzzes and I abandon my drink and drain the pasta before returning it to the pot. I open the oven and take out the grilled chicken, then slide it onto a chopping board.
Oliver rounds the corner, coming to stand next to me. He angles himself so that his chest is facing me, and his hand is resting on the countertop. He’s so close, I get a whiff of his cologne – he smells fresh, like soap, citrus, and a hint of spice.
“That’s a hefty bet. What makes you so sure? You can’t possibly know that much about me.”
Oliver’s breath catches when I take his hand and turn it palm up, leaving my fingers to rest over his racing pulse. He’s still as I use my free hand to take a knife from the drawer next to me, then carefully place it in his palm.
“Chop the chicken, Ollie,” I command, taking a step back.
Oliver hesitates, tracking me as I move to the far counter to make the lemon dressing. “You didn’t answer me.”
“I know.”
With a huff, he turns towards the task I’ve left him with. He slices into the chicken breast with a force that betrays the softway his next words leave his mouth – delivered like a plea. “You don’t know me, Darius.”
Humming under my breath, I drizzle the lemon dressing over the pasta and add a handful of rocket, crumbed feta, salt and pepper.
