Chapter 15
99 Days Until the Deadline
What’s worse than someone avoiding you for weeks, even though you live together?
Them not avoiding you, like that bump and grind brought you closer together as friends and not a single thing more.
I was fine, things were fine, everything was fine. Fine. Fine. Fine.
It didn’t help matters that Cousin Carter had stopped by for another surprise check-in. But even he wasn’t enough of a distraction. Every time I ran into Oliver, my heart gave an extra beat, palms sweaty with expectation, as if this would be the moment he would want to discuss the way I could not stop staring at his thighs or noticing how he kept shoving his fists into his pants pockets. Which only tightened the fit of his pants, and I was not staring at his dick. I wasn’t.
It was nothing. Not a thing. Just walking around with the slightest breeze turning me on. The brush of my suspenders against my breasts made me … okay, there might be some residual tension.
During the day, I survived, mostly. When I was absorbed in the work, I was able to ignore him. Except for every time he walked into a room I was in, his gaze catching mine as he put all his effort on whatever task I had assigned him for that day—sanding the tables or removing the hardware from the walls—no matter how menial. Or all the times he checked in with me, making sure I ate.
But at night, I stood under my showerhead. The hot water beat on my back as I tried to relieve the tension that had built up. Tonight was like every other, me putting the pipes to the test. Fingers buried deep in my pussy, trying to make that ache that haunted me go away. My forehead pressed to the tile, thumb brushing my clit, having long given up the pretense I bore during the day that I wasn’t fantasizing about Oliver storming into my room, glaring, heated, searching for something to complain about, chest heaving. Which would only lead to me shoving him into a closet, my shorts ending up on the ground, his mouth, fingers—any of him—on me, in me, scratching that itch because my delving fingers were not doing it despite all my attempts.
Oliver would make that growling noise in the back of his throat as he—
The pipes clanged, and I screamed—not in pleasure. The water sputtered as it sprayed freezing cold. I hastened to twist the knob all the way, but the hot water didn’t return, as the banging sound continued, the icy deluge breaking up in spurts, smacking me in the face.
I switched the water off; the banging immediately ceased. The water heater was probably busted, a common thing in older homes. I’d call Jeff, get another here in a day or two. Nothing to be concerned about.
Then the thumping started up again, louder than before. My eyes pressed closed as I made a wish. With a final clang, a pipe burst through the wall directly outside of the shower, chunks of plaster dropping, water gushing on the floor, spraying wildly, soaking everything in its path.
Chaos erupted around me as I stood buck naked, water dripping down my body, trying not to shiver, my brain struggling to comprehend how I had gotten here.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I screamed as I ran to my bedroom. Bellamy disaster mode activated. My suitcase contained an emergency kit—a necessity after so many builds. I was no contractor, but I could handle basic things. The after-hours repair person always ended up being me, with Dad’s oversight.
“Turn off the water, turn off the water,” I chanted to myself. There was no room to worry about anything else, like the cause or the damage, as gallons of water poured out of the rusty pipe.
The door slammed open as I continued my search, but I didn’t have time for distractions.
“Bell, are you okay?” Oliver called out before sprinting into the bathroom, feet slogging through water.
“I have to find the water shut-off valve,” I yelled from under the sink, over the sound of damage happening in real time.
“Uh, I …”
“Success,” I muttered mostly to myself, using the wrench to twist the pipe. Most people figured I was pretty weak because of my weight. That I was out of shape, not capable. With a final yank, everything ceased, the water still dripping for a few moments. I plopped on the toilet hard, surveying the devastation, my stomach sinking to my toes.
The water was an inch deep by the time the chaos had—well, “calmed” wasn’t the right word, but the situation was less urgent. The carpet in the bedroom had soaked up a lot, to its sopping detriment. But it was the spraying that had caused the bigger mess. From where I was sitting, I could see the damage done to my clothes hanging in the open armoire, leaving them soggy and unwearable.
“Bell, Petal, you are—”
“I’m fucked is what I am. This means there’s a problem with the pipes.” Now that the immediate issue had been addressed, I absorbed how royally screwed I was. This was not a simple fix. My deadline, three months away, beat against my brain. Between the damage the leaky roof had caused and now this, I’d be lucky if the estate was still standing by the time Mr. Killington’s party rolled around.
It would be countless hours of work, replacing all of the pipes, and if it had to be done for the entire house? The damage to the walls, leaks, searching for water damage, mold. My mind ran worst-case scenarios as I folded my legs underneath my body, my sock floating by Oliver, who stood with murky water to his ankles, feet bare.
“What? What did you want to tell me?” I buried my face in my hands, every inch of me damp too, still dripping from the shower. “How everything that could go wrong has? The roof, water damage—if there wasn’t mold before, there probably will be now. I just—”
It hit me then, and I gasped with the pressure of it. It wouldn’t be possible to make the deadline. This dream job I had been holding deep inside, that I tried to pretend I wasn’t thinking about constantly, it was floating away with my sock, drowned with the rest of my belongings.
I glanced up, catching sight of the framed photo of Dad and me, arm in arm, floating by. My favorite photo of us, the one I took everywhere with me, the first one I always set up to help me settle in. I didn’t know how to feel at home, but at least I had that. Sprinting, I snatched it up, but it was already too late. The water had seeped in, warping the memory.
And everything in me crumpled, my body turning into itself. I hugged myself, shivering, as I clutched the picture frame. Now my face was wet for a different reason. There was no coming back from this. All I could do was—
“Well, I was going to point out that you are, uh, naked.” Oliver’s voice broke through my panicked thoughts as I hiccupped.
“I’m what?” I glanced down, and yes, things could in fact get worse. I was absolutely boobs-swinging-in-the-wind naked. Perfect. This was absolutely perfect and exactly how I’d pictured Oliver seeing me nude for the first time. Dripping wet from the shower, standing in a puddle of stale water as we stared at each other.
I sniffled, trying to get my emotions under control and failing at that impossible endeavor. Here I was, rock bottom, with the last person who cared.
I reached for the towel I could never wrap around my full-figured body, wishing I had somehow had the forethought to grab it in all the chaos before he had come racing in, trying to be a water cowboy.
As I struggled to drape the too small fabric around my not-one-size-fits-all figure, I was tugged in the opposite direction. Oliver lifted me with ease, setting my body against his.
“I’m going to get you all wet. Put me down.” I sniffled, too pathetic for this moment, my hands trying to clutch the edges of the towel together and pretty much failing.
“Uh, Petal, look around.”
Everything was soaked. Nothing had escaped the rage of the pipes, not even Oliver. As he softly chuckled, another sob escaped from my chest. My normal glass-half-full philosophy broken, the glass had spilled everywhere.
Rather than be repulsed, he drew my body into his warmth, his chest softly meeting my skin. “Hey, it’s going to be all right.” He patted my arm, the angle making it awkward, but I still relaxed into it. “When I heard you scream, all I could think about was getting to you. I thought something bad had happened.”
“Something bad did happen,” I wailed before I pressed my face into his soft, if wet, T-shirt, hiding.
“You’re going to handle it like you’ve handled every other bump and mishap. All while dealing with the largest crew I’ve ever seen, and me.”
I snorted. “I don’t deal with you.” Crap, did I just admit that out loud?
“Right, I’m very easygoing.”
There was no holding back my cackle this time as my body shifted with his as he began to walk. “Where are we going?” I was exhausted, wrung out, needing another shower to clean myself off from this mess, and too tired to figure out solutions tonight.
“You need a place to sleep and something to sleep in.”
How was he not stressed about this? “And where exactly will I find this holy grail? There aren’t a lot of options.” Déjà vu again.
“My room.”
A very, very dangerous idea. My protest was halfhearted as Oliver’s thumb brushed against the skin of my inner arm. I glanced up, but his gaze was focused straight ahead. The room where it had happened, where it had gone down.
“I don’t think you have any other options.”
“It’s not that, I …” I trailed off. He was right. The bench had been ripped out of the kitchen. The only comfortable surfaces left that weren’t waterlogged were all in his room. I typically planned for every eventuality. Why hadn’t I planned for this one?
“Petal.” He lowered his head, even as I did my level best to avoid his gaze. “It’s been another long day. You’re exhausted, working yourself ragged on this deadline. Let me take care of you?”
The “no” was bursting out of me on an initial impulse. I even formed the word. But the baritone of his voice, the soft rumble of it under my ear that only made me nuzzle in closer, the part of me that was beaten down and tired, that part won. Because I was exhausted. Exhausted from fighting so hard and being so impossibly strong every moment of every day to prove I didn’t need a single person.
I refused to overthink it as he carried me through the doorway of his bedroom. Normally closed shut, it was hanging open after what I could only imagine was his rush to get to me.
The room was just as I remembered it: the bed, the sheets that smelled like him, the uncomfortably flat pillows. The creak of the mattress as we moved together, the gentle way his fingers cupped my face, how he’d held me as we slept. It had been on a constant loop in my mind.
“I’ll take the couch.” The this time was implied as he sat me on the edge of the bed, legs dangling.
“It’s your room—I should have it.”
He grunted, ignoring my offer as he grabbed me something to wear from his dresser. I had given up on the towel, mostly using it as a blanket to cover my front bits, star fishing on the bed in the most dramatic fashion I could because I was a quivering wreck, shaking from nerves, attraction, and the cold that had seeped into my skin. He moved around the room, calm, collected, nothing ruffling him.
He stalked out of his bathroom with a towel and a T-shirt. I stood, barely keeping the edges of the towel from exposing what he’d already seen.
“Let me.”
I had forgotten I was clutching it, not letting the frame go, until he gave it another tug. Our fingers brushed, both of us frozen, caught in the electricity of each other’s gaze, until I shivered.
“It’s silly.” I murmured.
“That’s your dad?”
“Yeah.” We were in matching Mordor Fun Run shirts, the words too blurry from the water to read any longer.
“I—”
“It’s fine.” I snatched the proffered clothing, softly closing his bathroom door behind me.
When I emerged, his T-shirt stretched across my breasts and stomach, covering me in his scent, hanging to mid-thigh. Oliver had changed out of his sopping clothes too, dressed in gray sweats and another T-shirt that clung to him in a way I was tempted to. He had gifted me a pair of boxers which I slid up my legs, glad to not be so exposed.
I wrapped my hair up in a dry towel as he continued to shift around his space. Oliver grabbed one of the flat pillows and the knitted blanket that was folded at the end of his bed, laying them on the too small couch.
I flopped back onto the mattress, scrubbing the towel through my hair. I had no experience with this. My nomadic lifestyle ensured I never ran into exes or, more likely, the romantic partners who had rejected me after we’d slept together.
“Can I?” Oliver stood in front of me, hand reaching.
“I can do it. Leave me here to drown in my patheticness.”
His fingers cupped my chin, and I hated myself for the little sigh that escaped. “I know you can. The point is you don’t have to. Let me.” His voice broke as if I was the one doing him a favor.
“Oh, I’m the stubborn one?” I crossed my arms but set my feet on the floor, hedging my bets.
“You took care of me.”
My eyes widened. Well, it had been a mutual taking care of each other, if we were going to be honest.
“Not what I meant.” He read me too easily, and I didn’t know what to do with that.
I sucked on my bottom lip before nodding. The bed dipped further as he settled next to me. Our fingers brushed as he grasped the towel, and then he began to methodically dry my hair. I closed my eyes, holding myself back from leaning into him.
I was too aware I was naked under his shirt; could he see the way my nipples tightened, my stomach quivered? Without intending to, I relaxed against his chest, his fingers massaging my scalp, easing my concerns, as if he was taking it on himself. Helping me escape in the same way romance novels typically did. Except romance novels couldn’t actually reach out and touch you, their breath warm against your neck, fingertips brushing against your ears, making everything tingle.
Then, to my libido’s immense joy and disappointment, it was over. Torture by towel. I was no longer a drowned rat—now I was drowning in sexual tension.