Page 32

I nod and step forward, dropping my bag next to a row of shoes and shedding my coat. I hang it next to his flannel jacket before I move out of the way.

The cabin is made of wood, with large windows taking up an entire wall. Two brown leather sofas on a cream-colored rug sit in the middle of the large space, a wooden coffee table in front. I look up, but the ceiling blocks my view of the pointed roof I saw from outside. Some part of me wants to explore his entire house, look through those bookshelves that line the living room walls and see what he’s been reading lately. See what kind of man he turned out to be.

“Do you want something to drink?” Oliver asks from behind the kitchen bar, startling me out of my thoughts.

“No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

I hear him whisper, “Okay.”

I study him, the blush on his cheeks, his sharp nose, his wild hair falling on his forehead, the defined lines of his jaw under his stubble.

It hurts to look at him, so I avert my gaze. Anywhere that doesn’t remind me of the pain I feel when I think of him. But here in his house, I can’t escape him. He’s everywhere I look.

Oliver clears his throat. “Do you want me to show you to your room?”

I nod. “Please.”

“This way.”

I follow him down the hallway on the right until he stops in front of a door and opens it. Inside, the bedroom is simple: a queen bed and two nightstands.

“I’ll bring you towels in a moment,” Oliver says. “The bathroom is at the end of the hallway. If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen cooking dinner. Help yourself to anything you want downstairs. Upstairs is just my room.”

“Thank you.” I try to mean every word of it. I’m grateful he’s offering me a place to stay, but my mind can’t wrap itself around where it is I’m staying—and with whom.

I should call Riley. She’ll know what to do.

“Char, if I can just . . .” Oliver starts, but he stops short when he realizes what he just called me.

His eyes meet mine.

I cross my arms. “Well, don’t let me stop you, Oli. Say what you want to say.”

It comes out way harsher than I wanted, but maybe I’m more pissed than I thought I was. Although when our gazes meet again and I see the pain in his, something in me caves a little. I was in love with this man for a while. Of course some small part of me is going to feel something if I see him hurting. Him more than anyone else. Now that he’s standing in front of me, in all his beautiful and tangible ways, I’m realizing that my body and mind can’t stay impartial when it comes to him.

His hand on the door handle, Oliver shrugs. “I’m sorry. That’s all I wanted to say.”

I narrow my eyes. He wanted to say so much more. I can tell. He was probably about to address the one thing I have no interest in talking about: why we haven’t been in touch in the last five years. But old wounds are better left alone. Reopening them would only make me remember how alone he made me feel.

So I stay perfectly quiet as he walks out of the room and closes the door behind him, and I’m left feeling like the biggest jerk on earth.

I wake up to the smell of cheese tickling my nose, the sheets sticking to my cheek.

Shit, I must have dozed off while I was emptying my suitcase.

My stomach growls.

I pat the bed and find my cell on the edge of the mattress. No reply to the quick message I sent Riley after landing. No text from Ben. It’s just me and my lonely self and . . .

Oliver.

And that smell . . .

My stomach twists, not from hunger this time. If I were a betting woman, I’d put all my money on what Oliver is cooking right now. I can’t believe this. What is he trying to do? Does he really think that cooking me my favorite childhood meal will suddenly make everything right again?

I jerk up, grab my burgundy hoodie, and slip it on before I tie my hair into a short ponytail. When I open the door, the smell intensifies, making me more upset with each step that takes me closer to the kitchen.

“I need some air,” I blurt when I get to the open space where Oliver is cooking, an apron wrapped around his body.