21. Oliver
CHAPTER 21
OLIVER
T he first sliver of morning light spills into the bedroom, and I blink the sleep from my eyes. Beside me, Nora stirs, her hair a wild cascade over the pillow. It’s an intimacy I’ve come to cherish in the short time since we’ve reconnected.
“Morning,” I murmur, my voice rough with sleep as I prop myself up on one elbow to look at her.
“Hey.” Her voice is soft, drenched in the remnants of dreams and the quiet comfort of our shared warmth.
She turns to face me, and even in the dim light, I can see the sleepy smile tugging at her lips.
“Welcome back to Chicago,” I say, though it feels like we never left — not really. Pennsylvania was a necessary detour, a step back into my past, but this — her apartment, her presence — it’s home.
“Back to the grind today?” She stretches languidly, the movement causing the sheets to slip just a bit, and I catch a glimpse of the curve of her shoulder. I have to quell the urge to trace its arc with my fingertips.
“Eventually,” I reply, the word hanging between us like a promise yet to be fulfilled. “But for now, this is perfect.”
We share a moment, a suspended second where the world outside her bedroom doesn’t exist. It’s just Nora and me, two people who’ve found each other again after years and against odds that would’ve had Vegas bookies sweating.
“Oliver?” Her voice breaks through my reverie.
“Yeah?” I lean closer, drawn by the magnetic pull of her ocean-deep eyes.
“Shut up and kiss me.”
“I wasn’t even talking.”
“I know.” She grins.
I laugh — a real, throaty sound that seems to echo around the room — and oblige. Our lips meet, a gentle collision that grows more insistent with every passing second. The kiss is a conversation without words, a dialogue of give-and-take that says everything about how we feel without uttering a single syllable.
“Your laugh,” she breathes against my lips, pulling away just enough to speak. “I missed it all these years.”
“Missed yours more,” I counter, unable to help the grin splitting my face.
“Impossible.”
“Is not.”
“Is too.”
Our laughter intertwines, a melodious duet that fills the room. It’s easy, this banter, this teasing that’s as natural as breathing. I hadn’t realized how much I craved this lightness, this joy that seems to bubble up effortlessly when I’m with her.
“Okay, maybe it’s a tie,” I concede, my voice barely above a whisper as I brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
“Better.” She pulls me down for another kiss, sealing the truce in the sweetest way possible.
We’re two adults with responsibilities and ambitions, but right now, none of that matters. Right now, it’s just the simple pleasure of being together, of waking up next to someone who makes every morning feel like the first page of a promising new chapter.
“I need to get going soon,” I say, both wanting to get to work and hating that I need to.
“Not without breakfast, you’re not.” She hops out of bed and pulls on some clothes. “Go take a shower and I’ll get it started.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer with a grin.
Ten minutes later, freshly showered, I walk into her kitchen. The sizzle of eggs in the skillet is a symphony to my still-drowsy senses. Nora moves around the small space with an ease that speaks volumes about her connection to this place; it’s part of her, every pot and pan an extension of her capable hands. She’s in a loose-fitting shirt, and it makes her look irresistibly domestic and yet so very much herself.
“Pass me the salt?” she asks without turning, and I slide the shaker across the counter towards her.
The intimacy of the moment seizes me; here we are, sharing the simple act of preparing breakfast as if it’s something we’ve done a thousand times before.
I lean against the counter, watching her shake the salt over the eggs. My heart swells at the sight. “Nora, you know being back in Pennsylvania with you… it meant everything.”
She meets my eyes, her smile gentle. “I’m glad I was there with you. It’s where I wanted to be.”
There’s a weight on my chest, a pressure building up behind the words “I love you.” They’re ready to spill out, desperate to make themselves known, but I hold them back. Not yet. Not until we have a moment that’s as perfect as this one but that doesn’t need to be interrupted by rushing off to work.
Breakfast finds its way to our plates, and we sit at her small kitchen table, knees touching. We eat in companionable silence, interrupted by brief exchanges and shared smiles. The coffee is strong and helps clear the last remnants of sleep from my mind. I drink in the details of her apartment — the way the morning light spills through the window, the fresh flowers on the windowsill, the printed photos of her family on the fridge. This is Nora — thoughtful, deliberate, beautiful in her attention to detail.
Eventually, dishes clatter as we clean up together, movements synchronized, a dance we’re both learning the steps to. It’s time for the world outside to reclaim us, but for now, this bubble of serenity cocoons us from the demands of the day ahead.
We head down to the car, and I feel a sense of pride as Nora slides into the passenger seat next to me. The drive to work is filled with the hum of the city waking up, but inside our little bubble, it’s just us. I glance at Nora, catching her watching the buildings pass by, a softness in her gaze.
“Thinking about the day ahead?” I probe, knowing how her mind works, always ticking through the next challenge, the next argument.
“Actually.” She turns to me, her eyes alight with something like mischief. “I was thinking about how everyone at your office will react. You know, when we come in together. Are you sure that’s what you want to do? We can walk in separately.”
“Let them react,” I say, more confidently than I feel.
But really, what does it matter? My company, my rules — or lack thereof. I’ve always believed corporate policies shouldn’t dictate people’s private lives, and I don’t forbid my employees from dating each other. Why should I hide when I’ve got no reason to?
“Oliver, you’re grinning like the Cheshire Cat,” she teases.
She’s right. I am. It’s liberating, not having to conceal the truth about us, especially when that truth feels as essential as breathing.
“Can you blame me?” I ask, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “I’m with the woman who’s making every day seem like the best one ever.”
She squeezes back, and in that small gesture, I find all the reassurance I need. Yes, today is good. And tomorrow? Well, it might just be better.
Downtown, the revolving doors of my building whisk Nora and me from the crisp Chicago morning into the bustling lobby, alive with the hum of industry. The air is thick with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and ambition, and I drink it in.
“Morning, Mr. Wolfe.” The security guard nods with a knowing smile as we pass.
I return the gesture, the grin on my face irrepressible. “Morning, Jerry.”
I squeeze Nora’s hand briefly before letting go. Professionalism still has its place, but I’m looking forward to the moment when we can touch again and not be boxed in by the four walls of work.
As we make our way to the elevators, I sense the shift around us. It’s subtle — a pause in conversation here, a quick double-take there — but unmistakable. They’re watching us and have probably been anticipating our arrival since word got out about us leaving town at the same time. But rather than the unease I might have expected, there’s a buoyancy in my step. Let them look. Let them see.
“Seems like you’ve caused quite the stir,” Nora murmurs, her voice laced with amusement.
“Us,” I correct gently, pressing the call button. “We’ve caused quite the stir.”
The elevator dings its arrival, and we step inside, joining a couple of colleagues who are doing their best not to stare. I lean back against the wall, content to simply exist in this shared space with her. When the doors slide shut, it’s as though we’re sealed off from the world, if only for the duration of the ride.
Nora smiles at me when the others in the elevator aren’t looking, and it’s like the sun breaking through clouds after a stormy day. We reach our floor, and as the doors open, I hold her back for a moment, the others filtering out ahead of us.
“Tonight,” I whisper against her lips, the words barely audible even to my own ears. “I’ll be counting the minutes.”
“Me too,” she whispers back, and there’s a hint of reluctance as she pulls away, stepping back into the role of Nora the lawyer.
With a final, lingering look, she turns to leave, heading toward her own battles of the day. And I watch her go, feeling like the luckiest man on earth to have her in my corner, in my life, in my heart. And tonight, she’ll be in my home once again, where I’ll have the chance to tell her everything — how she’s become my dream, my balance, my everything. Just not yet. Not until the time is right.
Turning to my own domain, the quiet hum of the office greets me like an old friend. My footsteps are soft on the plush carpet as I head towards the sprawling desk that has become my command center. There’s something different about it today — maybe it’s the light diffused through the floor-to-ceiling windows, or perhaps it’s just the residual glow from Nora’s presence.
I’ve barely settled into my leather chair when the phone rings, shattering the calm of the morning. It’s a New York number, one I don’t recognize, but intuition nudges me to answer. I swipe at the screen, pressing the phone to my ear.
“Oliver Wolfe.”
“Mr. Wolfe, it’s Greg Dalton from Dalton Realty,” comes the crisp reply, and my pulse quickens. “I believe you’ll be interested to know that the Riverfront property is finally on the market.”
My breath catches. That piece of land has been the white whale of my portfolio, the elusive prize I’ve circled around for years. Situated along New York’s Hudson River, it’s the perfect canvas for luxury living spaces — spaces I’ve envisioned down to the last brick and granite countertop.
“Greg, you have my full attention,” I say, my voice steady despite the excitement thrumming beneath my skin. “What’s the asking price?”
There’s a brief pause as he relays the numbers — a hefty sum, but nothing unexpected for prime New York real estate with a river view. I lean back, fingers tapping against the surface of my desk. It’s a gamble, undoubtedly. Everyone is champing at the bit, trying to get this building. Securing this property would mean long hours, late nights, probably a good deal of wining and dining the current owner, and less time for… everything else.
But isn’t that what I thrive on? The challenge, the chase, the conquest?
“Put in a bid at the asking price,” I decide, my decision swift. “And Greg, add a little extra on top. I want this land, and I’m not in the mood for a bidding war.”
“Understood. I’ll get the paperwork started.”
“Thanks.” I hang up.
My heart is racing now, but it’s not just the thrill of the deal. It’s also the realization that this new project could tip the scales of my carefully balanced life. With this property, I’ll have an even bigger hand in the real estate game on the East Coast. I’ll be unstoppable.
This could be the crown jewel of my career, a testament to ambition and architecture. It could be the reason that finally, after all these years, I might feel like I’ve made it.
I might finally be done with running.