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Your Charlee
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Alberta’s dying wildlife: The devastating impacts of the oil industry over the years and what we can do now to save it
Chapter Twenty-Three
FALLING IN LOVE
Charlee
Because we just got home from the hospital after a week in the wild, Oliver and I gave ourselves twenty minutes to shower and scrub the tiredness away before he goes to work on my aching muscles. Clean and feeling a bit more like myself, I join him in the living room, where he sits next to the fire, a book in his hands.
“Feeling better?” he asks when he sees me approaching. Or maybe hears me with all the noise these damn crutches make.
“Much, thank you. Sorry if I made you wait. It’s harder to shower while having to hop around like a freaking bunny and not slip and crack my skull open, you know?”
Oliver laughs, the sound so rich. “Don’t worry about it. I got some reading done.” He sets his book down next to him and pushes to his feet. “Where do you want to go?”
I scan his house, a thought forming in my mind. Should I?
“I’d say the couch, but with this”—I point to my ankle—“a bed might be easier.”
Oliver nods, his jaw tense. “My bed okay?” he rasps, and the sound has no business turning my insides molten like that.
“Yep, fine with me.”
“Good, good.” He eyes my crutches. “Can I?”
I frown until I remember. “Yes, uh . . . yes, of course.”
I set my crutches off to the side and hop to him. With the same gentleness as earlier, Oliver picks me up, then climbs the stairs leading up to his bedroom, which takes up the entire second floor.
When we get to the top, I blow out an impressed whistle. “Wow. Oliver, this is beautiful.”
The mezzanine looks larger than it does from downstairs. The vaulted ceiling is adorned with beams, giving the room an even more intimate quality. An inviting king-size bed sits right in the middle of the wood floor. Shelves brimming with books are built into the wall, and at the opposite end of the space, centered between the large windows overlooking the lake, sits a large bathtub. I almost salivate at the sight. I’d pay good money to have a bath in that, especially with this view.
Oliver sets me down on his bed. “Thanks. It’s my favorite part of this house.”
“I can see why. This is stunning.”
My gaze wanders to the bookshelves again. “You have a very impressive collection between here and downstairs. What kind of books do you read?”
“A bit of everything. Fiction, nonfiction. I love true crime and fantasy. Lola’s been trying to diversify my reading lately.” He walks to one of the bookshelves, rummages through it, and pulls out a book.
“Love and Other Words,” I say, reading the title. I flip it back, scanning the synopsis. “Romance?”
Oliver chuckles. “Yep. She told me the genre is right up my alley. Apparently, I’m a ‘cinnamon roll hero.’” He air-quotes the words, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Her words, not mine. I have no idea what that means, but she’s usually right about things, so I’m giving this one a shot.”
I laugh. “It means that you’re kind and supportive. As sweet as a cinnamon roll. I’d say it fits you well.”
“Oh.” He blushes hard and fast. “So, um, how do you want to . . .?”
“Ah, yes. Can I lie down?”
“Of course. Here.” He pushes a few pillows out of the way.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t back down now, the anticipation of what’s to come simmering beneath my skin.
