Chapter 10
“What was that?” I licked my lips, intrigued.
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make me repeat it.”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed you waited until we were alone.”
Oliver shifted in his seat, leg knocking into mine. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
“The table is yours.”
He grunted. “I was thinking that there’s a way for us both to get something out of this.”
“Which is?” I kicked him, aiming for his right leg, just in case he was thinking about stopping there.
“I may have overheard someone saying that this project was going to lead to your dream position.”
What a gossip Jeff was; he wouldn’t be able to hide from me. “Jeff is such a big mouth.”
“Listen, I’ll stop fighting the restoration.” He let out a deep breath, shoulders falling as he clutched at his mug. “I might have been a bit hostile in the beginning because I assumed Grandfather sent you as some sort of spy.”
“So much to unpack there. ‘A bit hostile’ or that I was a spy?” If I was a spy, I was a terrible one. He’d caught me the sole time I’d tried to sneak around the mansion.
“No one’s purposefully come to the house in years; then with his demand, the timing seemed suspect.”
It made some sense until you met me. “I don’t think I’m even capable of being covert.”
“Trust me, I know. Your face gives everything away. Especially when you blush.” His voice almost made it sound like he was teasing me.
“It seems rude for you to say that.” I pressed my hands to my cheeks, hoping I wasn’t blushing right now.
“Why? Because it’s the truth?” Oliver leaned back, the bench creaking, his legs stretching out beneath the table, ankle pressed to mine.
“I thought this was a ceasefire.”
“It is. I like talking to you.”
Oh.Everything was too warm. I fiddled with my coffee cup. “You’re not so bad, I guess.”
“Careful—that compliment was overwhelming.” He was almost laughing at me … maybe with me.
Everything in me was concentrating on our single spot of contact. Ankles had never been a thing for me before, but after today, even with our clothing separating us, they were officially an erogenous zone. “Don’t think I will ever forget you admitted you like it when I talk.”
“Well, you do it so rarely.”
“You are so rude.” My words weren’t helped by the fact that I was giggling.
“Mmm,” he hummed.
Something was doing loop-de-loops in my stomach—it was a pleasure I had not experienced in a long time, and not something I should experience with the person I was sitting next to.
“But what do you get out of it?” I hadn’t missed his failure to explain his end of our truce.
Some of the grief that had been missing from his eyes returned as he dug through the messenger bag I had forgotten he’d brought along. A canvas notebook emerged. Oliver set it on the table, palm pressed tenderly to the surface.
“The estate was supposed to be restored years ago. Designs—everything was decided.”
I gave a quick nod, unsure if I should mention I was already aware of that.
“My mom was involved. She was consulted on all the plans and had some ideas.” His fingers curled around the notebook before opening to the first page, a reverence in his touch. “She wrote them in here.”
“Oliver—”
He barreled on. “It was canceled when they died. The house, me—all at a standstill until you came.”
Tears filled my eyes. I swiped furiously.
“This notebook has everything she wanted. You asked for my input on what I want to see. Well, I know it’s been almost ten years, but I was hoping you could use some of it.” His voice cracked, as he shoved the notebook the rest of the way toward me.
“Of course.”
“Thank you.” Our fingers brushed on the top page, neither of us letting go until the waitress returned with our food.
I offered him a soft smile, sliding a quarter toward him and nodding at the jukebox.
He picked out a song I had jumped on the bed to as a kid, in that log cabin I’d shared with Dad, screaming at the top of my lungs.
“I meant it when I said my money’s gone.”
I almost choked on my milkshake. “What do you mean?” Was this some sort of scam where I would not get paid for my work?
“My trust fund. My family still has money, but mine is pretty much gone.”
Another puzzle piece was falling into place. “It’s why you can’t buy the estate from your grandfather?”
Oliver nodded.
“What did you do with the money?”
“Donated it.” He bit into his burger, unaware he had rendered me speechless. “Mental health nonprofits, organizations that help with grief, LGBTQ groups, not-for-profit coding schools, that kind of stuff,” he mumbled.
“Helping people is admirable.” His emphasis on people experiencing grief did not pass by me. Few would consider doing that with their resources, but would instead buy boats or a house they would only stay at once a week. I knew because I had watched Dad restore a few.
“Yeah, but it’s not a job.”
It could be,I almost said. A few acts of kindness weren’t enough to make me like him. I knew that; my brain knew that. But another part of me, probably my appendix (definitely not my heart), that unnecessary organ that should have been removed years ago was misbehaving, seeing him in a new light.
And for a moment, I let my appendix take over.
139 Days Until the Deadline
Oliver’s mom’s notebook contained more than Dad’s files did. Swatches of cloth, idea boards, and new layouts for the rooms. It didn’t take much reorganizing to integrate some of her ideas. It felt like unlocking some missing piece, the true heart of the estate.
The excitement of what was to come was overshadowing all the nerves that had weighed on me since I’d walked out of Dad’s apartment.
But we still had to finish emptying the last few rooms, except for the two Oliver and I would be staying in. It was all part of my detailed, multipage, bulleted plan. We both would shift to restored rooms before the end of the project, and nothing would be missed. Every hour, every moment, down to every bed, was accounted for.
There was a knock on the door. “What are you doing in here?”
“Packing.” I didn’t even lift my head to acknowledge Oliver.
“It’s lunchtime.”
“Would you believe I already ate?”
“Not a chance.” He didn’t seem to pick up on the hint my back was giving him.
Though his presence reminded me of something. “Oh, I found something earlier I wanted to show you. Come with me.” I finished wrapping the clock, gently placing it in the box marked “Fragile.”
Our truce was in effect, and we were both honoring it—not picking fights, offering polite nods when we ran into each other. The problem was me, unable to stop thinking about the way he’d looked as he entrusted me with his mom’s notebook. How soft his fingers felt against my callous-covered palm.
“Food first.” He was too used to getting his way, and clearly unaffected. This was becoming a habit for him, ensuring I ate, which I had a tendency to forget when I was stressed.
I liked to think I’d made him realize he couldn’t always get what he wanted. “Why are you like this?”
“Because I enjoy riling you up.”
“Fine. Fine. Whatever sir says.”
That earned me a snort. And a small—minuscule, barely there—bit of joy that I’d made him laugh.
I allowed a quick detour to the kitchen. Rue passed me a sandwich, and I refilled my stainless-steel water bottle, eating as I walked.
“Is it a dead body?” Oliver asked, taking a bite of his own sandwich once he confirmed I was nourishing myself.
“Excuse me?”
“Trying to think of things you would want to show me in particular.”
Honestly, I was tempted to show him something horrifying now. “Listen, if you don’t want to see it …”
“Show me.”
“Really, I don’t have to.” Truce didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy riling him up too.
“Show me,” he growled out.
“Always so grumbly.”
“I may not have been, uh …” Oliver’s nose wrinkled as his shoulders climbed somehow even higher.
“Kind? Welcoming? Offering basic human decency?” I filled in the blanks, as I led him to our destination.
“Well, I’m—”
“An emotionally constipated man confused by the thing thumping in your chest?” I took another bite of my sandwich, hiding my smile.
“Rude.”
“True,” announced Bl8z3, and I snorted. If Bl8z3 agreed, it must be accurate.
Dust clung to every inch of Oliver—his beard, a smudge across his cheek, and those thighs. Every day since the crew had first arrived, Oliver had bolted immediately into helping with the furniture removal and emptying the house. When Ambrose wasn’t nearby to lecture him, of course.
Oliver’s eyes narrowed, but his shoulders had lowered.
I put my hands on the door handles to what had immediately become my favorite room in the estate once I had discovered it, and glanced over my shoulder. “You aren’t appropriately excited about this,” I said, unable to stop myself from bouncing on my toes. “Is this not killing you? The anticipation?”
“Nope.”
“I am withering away in front of you. Take pity on my soul. Fake it if you must.” My toes were wiggling, hidden in my shoes. I needed him to appreciate this.
“Or what?” He met my gaze. He was no longer glaring, but I couldn’t call what was going on with his face a smile either. Neutrality. I could work with it that.
“Or Bl8z3 will ensure you hear my voice everywhere. I’ll haunt you.”
“I am capable of that, Ms. Price, if you would like me to set that up for you,” Bl8z3 offered.
“What happened to loyalty?” Oliver groaned.
The smartest being in the estate, Bl8z3, remained quiet.
“You want to guess?”
“No. I need you to step aside and let me in.” When I didn’t move, he kept going. “Oh, the anticipation is killing me.” He pressed his palm to his forehead as if he were overwhelmed, rolling his eyes at the same time. This mansion was home to the worst theater troupe I had ever seen.
“I will pretend you said that with actual enthusiasm.” I spun on my heel toward the doors.
“I’ll do whatever you want.” Oliver’s breath was warm against my ear.
A shiver built up my spine, picturing Oliver leaning in the rest of the way, pressing my body against the door. The anticipation getting to me. “Now I’m scared I’m going to disappoint you.”
“You could never disappoint me.”
Everything in me clenched for a minute, my knuckles squeezing. I pushed open the double doors in a sweeping gesture, because how could I not? I loved the effect.
Despite not owning a single physical book, I was a sucker for a library—and this estate had the most glorious home for tomes I’d ever seen. And this was before I’d gotten my hands on it.
More than wall-to-wall books, it was floor-to-ceiling, with bookcases wrapped around the curved walls. A spiral staircase led up to the second floor, where there were—ready for it?—more books.
Boxes covered the hardwood. It was taking a while to pack them all up—I was taking great care with each book, using tissue paper and housing them in a controlled climate. Construction had begun in other areas of the house, but I refused to allow the most beautiful collection of first editions I’d ever seen to be tossed into boxes. They deserved special care.
Even the shelves had me weak in the knees. Handcrafted built-ins with intricate detailing. Large, overstuffed chairs had been placed in small reading pockets and were the first to be carried out to the trucks. The Tiffany lamps, for when the overhead chandelier was too much, went after that.
It was a room built for knowledge, thought, quiet contemplation, and a care for the preservation of all these ideas.
“This is a book paradise. Do you smell that?” I took a big whiff.
“Dust?” He took a huff of his own, face screwing up as he let out a hacking cough.
“Yes, but also the pages, history, stories, escape, a world of adventure. And an epic romance section.” It was a joy to see so many of the books I only owned digitally. The crisp pages, the stepbacks—the touch of a physical book was a unique sensation an e-reader could never recreate.
I was giddy and couldn’t hide it.
“To be clear, you wanted to show me my library. You don’t think I’ve seen it before?”
“You are impossible.” I lightly punched his arm before yanking on it, ensuring he followed me; his short-sleeved T-shirt meant I was touching his skin. “No, I came across something when I was packing.”
I had discovered books on the history of the estate throughout the years—they were going to be endlessly informative on how to restore it accurately. Even with the black and white photos, I could figure out the colors somewhat, based on the shading. There was info on the art, the placement of various pieces. But that wasn’t what I wanted to show him.
I sat on the floor by the box I hadn’t yet finished loading, grabbing the book that was on top. Leather bound. They didn’t make notebooks like this anymore.
I waited another breath before handing it to him.
His brows knit together as I buried my face in my hands.
He slowly opened the book, staring at each page, fingers caressing, tracing the letters.
The longer it took for him to say something, the more I struggled to sit still. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe this wouldn’t be a happy memento for him, but another piece of his broken heart I was reminding him of. Just because books were something that brought me comfort, that didn’t mean the memories associated with this book were good for him.
Every moment of silence became excruciatingly worse, my palms sweating, fingers wiggling. Until I couldn’t take it any longer.
I threw myself at him, grabbing for the book. “Well, I should get back to it. Thanks for the lunch break.”
His focus had been on the softcover, not me, and down we went, me falling on top of him, flat on the wooden floors. The notebook landed somewhere next to us, and Oliver’s hands clasped my hips as he huffed out a breath. We were much closer than I had calculated.
Every move I made to escape just made things worse, as I was unable to get my feet firmly on the ground. I was starfishing the man. My face heated in embarrassment.
“Just”—Oliver grunted as I elbowed him in the gut—“stay still for a minute. What are you doing?”
“Examining the floors,” I leveled. “You got in my way.”
Then he—wow—he chuckled, and it might have been my new favorite sound. I mean, it was pleasant and fine, a thing people did. But his laugh reverberated from his body to mine, and I wanted it to happen again. To be the one to make it happen again.
Oliver’s lips were at my ear, voice low, as if sharing a secret meant solely for me. “My mom loved that thing, insisted we fill it out every time we grabbed a book off the shelves.”
The moment he mentioned his mother, I stopped squirming, my face buried in his neck, realizing the rapid beat of his pulse was for a different reason. The notebook was a ledger keeping track of all the books loaned out of the library. Over a hundred years of entries. I’d flipped through the pages until I landed on Oliver’s childish handwriting tracking books for him and his sisters.
“If you couldn’t find her, she was here, lost in a book. My dad used to joke she married him for his library.”
I couldn’t blame her. This place was magnificent—if the ceiling didn’t cave in on you while you were reading. But the risk was worth it.
“Thank you, Petal. That was something I never wanted to lose.”
His hands glided from my hips to my lower back until I realized what he was doing. Hugging me.
He started to pull away, but I pushed my arms through his, tugging on his biceps, giving a form of a hug in our position, holding on. “You’re welcome.” Don’t let go. His arms wrapped around me, strong, comforting, holding me in a way I knew meant he wouldn’t let anything hurt me.
We lay there for a moment. My eyes closed, pressed to the space where his neck met the beginnings of his messy beard, and it made me smile, the hair brushing my forehead. I didn’t even mind the sweaty scent we both had from another long day of work, as the days had begun to grow warmer.
“You want to go ride on those ladders, don’t you?” he asked, releasing me slowly. I was reluctant to let him go but wouldn’t push whatever this strange moment was.
With his help, we made it off the ground, neither of us able to meet the other’s gaze. I left him to his book because I did, in fact, want to take a ride on the ladders. Every dream I’d ever had of a home always involved a library that required ladders to access all the books. It was easy to dream of impossible things when you wouldn’t ever have them.
Pulling myself up, I shoved off with my foot, trying to read the spines as I slid by, enjoying the atmosphere more than anything. This was better than a bookstore; I could make my home in this very room.
I savored the ride, the way my hair lifted off my neck, not even attempting to hold the giggle in. It was a rush. I could sense his eyes on me, but I waited until the ladder stopped, before I glanced back at Oliver.
Because of the beard, the book, and his normal stoicism, I couldn’t judge his mood. But I was learning. “So, what’s the verdict?”
His gaze drifted down to the book in his hands. “I hadn’t let myself think of the positive memories for a long time. Mostly it was work not to think of the bad ones. I couldn’t let anything else in. But this—” He hugged the ledger to his chest, over his heart. “This is an excellent memory. Thank you.” His eyes glowed with emotion.
It was overwhelming to have his focus on me like this. The weight of it, the intensity, was too much. I stared at my feet. “You’re welcome.”
Every time I thought about the preceding eight years, him alone in this house, it hurt my soul. A man haunted by the past, stuck in it. And maybe furious with the world for moving on without him.
“This is my favorite room in the house,” I said.
His focus was still on me. “Mine too.”
“I’m glad.”
“Why?” Suspicion and interest mixed on his face.
“Because no matter how angry you pretend I make you, it’s more proof that we like and value the same things.”
He growled at the back of his throat as he sprung, the weight of his body propelling us until my spine pressed against the closest bookcase, his hands on either side of my shoulders, holding onto the wooden shelf.
“I am angry—you’re right.”
His chest was heaving as he ducked, bringing us almost to the same height. It was thrilling being this close to him, feeling the heat from his body, the temptation to touch him.
“My grandfather and his strong-arming us makes me angry.”
I couldn’t say a word, fascinated by this burst of emotion as he gazed at my lips. Conflicted, frustrated, and burning with something that my body felt too, I rubbed my thighs together in an effort to relieve whatever was building low in my stomach.
“But that’s not what’s driving me to distraction. I’m angry that you wear these stupid suspenders. I’m angry that you’re in every room, invading this house. And I’m furious at how much I think about kissing you.”
I was a bone-melting, knee-wobbling jumble of He said what now? with so much relief that it wasn’t only me experiencing these feelings. “Would it help if I told you your beard makes me angry?”
I scratched against the edge of his jaw. Despite its wild appearance, the hair itself was soft, as if to encourage my fingers to make their new home there.
“No.” His voice was strained. “I don’t think that helps at all.”
“Then maybe you should, uh”—I licked my lips, my gaze stuck on his—“kiss me.” A shiver broke out across my skin, and I couldn’t pretend it was from a breeze. Everything I was experiencing was due to my proximity to this man.
“That will make it better?”
This was a dangerous game. The project was in its early days, and he could return to being an ass tomorrow. Maybe his grandfather would even fire me if he found out? Kissing Oliver could ruin everything I had been working for. I never wanted anyone to say that I had gotten this job and succeeded at it because I was screwing the owner’s grandson. But it was getting harder and harder to remember the reasons not to as every deep rumble of his voice struck something in my chest, my breasts heaving as if I had run a mile instead of being frozen in his gaze. “Can’t make it worse, can it?” I asked. Just one kiss wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?
He leaned close enough that we were breathing each other in, the scruff of his beard brushing against my face. “Fucking suspenders,” he muttered before closing the distance.
If this was him angry, I’d encourage it with everything I had. Because he didn’t just kiss me, he owned me.
Sucking on my lower lip, he bit down for a moment, and I moaned. When he released, my tongue smoothed across my tender skin. But he took that as an opportunity to suck on my tongue, drawing it into his mouth. Kissing him felt like an illicit activity.
His hands remained on the wood, which groaned under the pressure of his fists. I had no such control. I scratched my fingernails against his chest, moving down to his stomach to grab his belt and draw his hips closer to mine, our fronts almost touching. If this was my one chance, I was going to take advantage. Let every single inhibition go. He had dug himself under my skin; his attempts to keep the world at more than arm’s length only made me desire to get closer. No one had ever been consistently worried if I was eating enough, getting enough rest, staying hydrated while working on a project.
He brushed his lips against my jaw, down my neck, licking along the V of my shirt. Only his mouth touched me, but it was more than enough to light me on fire, my hips seeking his. It all made me dizzy with something that I could finally admit to myself was desire.
He allowed the single point of contact, as we learned each other, until his lips slowed, the creaking sound by my ears getting worse.
He breathed against me for a moment before pulling back, his gaze raking over me. I didn’t need a mirror to know I had been wrecked by his mouth, teeth, and that tongue.
Not that he had fared any better, hair tie long gone, hair down to his shoulders, lips puffy. What were he and this house doing to me?
“We have to stop.” Jaw clenched, his focus lowered to where my fingers were buried in his T-shirt. “I’m not a good man.” Slowly I released my grip, palm pressed to my lips, as if to preserve what had just happened. “You should run in the opposite direction.”
I was desperate to touch him again, for our bodies to be pressed together. “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“Trust me.” His voice was a rasp. “You deserve so much better.”
My eyes closed as he brushed a last kiss against my forehead. A goodbye before we’d barely even started.
The moment had woken me up, offered me a bite of the apple, and then it had been plucked away. I had never felt more like Charlie Brown in my life, and I wanted that football.
Before I could respond, he snatched up the notebook and left the room, leaving me a quivering mess against the bookshelf. Kissing Oliver had not been on today’s to-do list and would never be on the agenda in the future—not with how easily he was able to walk away.
For the first time I was left wondering if it was really worth it to restore this crumbling wreck or if it wouldn’t be better to tear it all down.