Chapter 19
I stepped back, turning away from him. “Well, I’m glad we got that out of our systems. Things can return to normal. No more tension. Banged. That. Out.” I clapped my hands in beat with my words, because if I could make something more awkward, I always would.
“What?” His eyes narrowed as he attempted to close the distance between us.
“I should go, lots to do, but, um, thanks.”
“Thanks?” Now he sounded pissed. But I wasn’t here to keep growing his ego.
“Yeah, for the uh …” I waved vaguely at the ground where I had sat on his face.
“Oh no, you’re not—” He reached for me, but I was gone, fleeing into the rain, trying to pretend it could wash away any desire I had to repeat what we’d just done.
I was screwed. In more ways than one.
But the moment I stepped into the house, Oliver was there behind me, chest heaving. His hand wrapped around my wrist, guiding me into a corner, away from prying eyes.
“Petal, please, talk to me,” he begged.
“What else is there to talk about?” I was about as good an actress as Nick. Why couldn’t he let me—I mean this—go?
“This isn’t a hookup, Bellamy. This is—”
“It’s madness. I’m thrilled for you—truly I am. Getting back out into the world, finding your passion. But you shouldn’t settle for the first person who falls into your house.” I refused to be his practice for his forever person.
Oliver jumped away as if I’d slapped him, mouth gaping open. “I’m not settling. That’s not—”
“Sir, I’m so happy I found you.” Ambrose raced around the corner, towels in his hand that he thrust at me before beginning to wipe off Oliver. “You have visitors, and I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“Visitors?” Oliver acted as if Ambrose was speaking a foreign language. He gently but firmly pushed the butler away. It must be something important for Ambrose to not lecture us about the mess we were creating.
“Your sisters, sir, are—”
“We decided it was time for a visit with our big brother. Hey, Ollie.”
I would have recognized them anywhere, both from the media saturation, their faces gracing tabloid covers weekly, and by their resemblance to Oliver. The same sharp nose and heavy eyebrows. Remy shared her brother’s coloring, while Grace’s hair was almost a shocking shade of red. Both women were curvy, and Grace’s engagement ring was almost blindingly obscene.
“I—” Oliver stood frozen, jaw halfway to the floor. Ambrose backed out of the room with a bow, but I was trapped next to Oliver.
“Thought it might make sense to have the family reunion before the shindig Granddad is throwing.” Grace crossed her arms. Apparently the ability to be inscrutable was another shared trait.
My muscles tightened. It felt a bit like a gotcha moment, but I also knew if they had given Oliver a heads-up, he probably would have begged off from seeing them. Not that I would have blamed him, what with tarps everywhere and the strong scent of paint permeating the air. I should leave them to their reunion, but with a backward glance at Oliver, the desperation in his eyes screaming “Help me,” I had to stop myself from reaching out to hold his hand.
Which left only one other option. “Hi, I’m Bellamy Price. I was hired for the restoration. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” I thrust out my palm, towel swung around my neck, wishing I looked a bit more presentable.
Grace didn’t even blink. “A pleasure. This place needed the refresh.”
They both had firm handshakes and blank expressions, lacking the emotion the small space was fraught with.
“Bellamy, maybe you could give us a tour rather than all of us staring at each other uncomfortably while we ignore the elephant in the room.” Remy was blunt, but I appreciated it. Oliver hadn’t been in the same room as his siblings since their parents’ funeral, and I wasn’t sure how best to ease that gap between them.
I shook out my arms as I led a winding tour through the atrium, the library, and front hall, walking them through the process. This was the stage of the renovation where it was difficult to visualize the end result—the entire house was a construction zone—but at least it had lost the stale smell and was brightened up with the fresh coats of paint and refreshed wallpaper. The bones of it were there, the potential, and I could see it, close my eyes and picture the placement of a lounge chair, a restored art piece hanging on the wall, a fire warming the space.
We ambled into the dining room. Before I could explain the vision, Oliver’s sisters stalked toward Finn’s mural, hands hovering above the surface of the flower petals caught in the snow. It was his best piece yet: warm, with hope somehow blooming in an impossible moment. I wanted to live in it.
“This looks like something our mom would draw.” Grace darted a glance at Oliver before returning to the piece.
“Yes, we were lucky enough to find a sketch of your mother’s. An artist friend of mine was able to use it as an inspiration.” I rocked on my heels, unsure if this was a success or disaster.
“It’s perfect.” Remy breathed out, gaze glued to the various flowers that made up the piece.
“Oliver gave me the sketch.” There was no denying that the guy needed to win some points with his sisters, required a jumping-off point. They had made the effort to come and deserved to know how much he cared too.
The four of us stood in silence as I tucked myself into the corner to allow them some semblance of privacy, wishing I was closer to the door that led to the butler’s pantry.
“Eight years is a long time.” Remy turned toward her brother. “Barely a text, phone call, message by pigeon, or edible arrangement.”
I clenched my fingers, torn between wanting to defend him and the knowledge that this was between the siblings to solve.
“There’s no excuse,” Oliver said, his voice raw. “I thought about it, thought about you both more times than I can count. But the accident, the recovery for my leg, dealing with it all, it was—” Oliver’s hands gestured to the house that was still being repaired. The back of my palm brushed against his before I pulled away.
“The phone works both ways.” Grace bumped her fraternal twin’s shoulder. “But every time I thought to pick it up, I remembered the last thing you said.”
Oliver hung his head.
“You told us you killed our parents, Ollie. And then we never saw you again.”
I rubbed at my breastbone, my gaze drifting back to Oliver.
“Is that what you really think?” Remy scraped a hand through her hair.
Oliver’s silence spoke volumes, his shoulders slumped, as he scrubbed at the back of his neck, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. A lonely island cast in the middle of the ocean.
“We don’t blame you—we were just angry with you for taking our only brother, away too,” Grace confessed, voice wavering, fingers picking at the silver bracelet on her wrist.
Oliver’s head popped up, and I watched as more of the pain that had been so familiar when I had first arrived at the estate eased. It wasn’t magically better, but it was a start. As much as I was tempted to stay for Oliver, he deserved this moment to reconnect with his family.
Mending his relationship with his sisters was important. He wanted a connection with his family, whether he wanted to admit it out loud or not, which meant returning to being heir to the Killington fortune at the end of the summer. Hopefully, I would have my future in front of me too. This was reality smacking us in the face.
And it hurt.
41 Days Until the Deadline
It had been a week.
A week since Oliver’s sisters visited. They’d spent the rest of the day with him but had their driver bring them back to the city after they had shared dinner, promising to return for the banquet that was barely a month away.
A week since the barn, when every feeling I’d had about him had washed over me. It hadn’t made things easier or gotten him out of my system.
Now, Oliver curled inward and kept to himself. Even when he helped with renovations, he was silent. I’d known reuniting with his sisters would bring back the ghosts of his past, but I hadn’t accounted for how much I would miss him. I missed talking to him about whatever romance book I was reading, him offering to help me put on my suspenders, laughing whenever I stroked wallpaper. He’d become the person I went to for the little things, without me even realizing it—every victory, every misstep.
How lonely it was, even with him sleeping a few feet away; he was back to keeping every thought to himself, and I was too cowardly to bridge that gap, to find out what he had chased after me to say. It was pointless. With my deadline approaching, so was the date of my departure.
But as I left Ambrose’s updated and fully furnished tailoring room, one of the first rooms to be finished, and after Ambrose pinned me for the dress he had insisted on designing for me, I discovered Oliver leaning against the half-painted wall, waiting.
“Hi.” He clutched a few flattened boxes, bouncing them against his right leg.
“Hi.” I wished I had something to fiddle with as I snapped my suspenders.
His eyes widened, gaze drawn to the movement. “There’s, uh, this thing I realized I needed to do ever since I saw my sisters. I’ve been building up my courage, but I thought that maybe …” He gnawed on his lip.
“What?” I had to stop myself from reaching out and tugging on his mouth to stop his hurt.
He raised the boxes toward me. “The west wing.”
We’d been stalling the west wing for as long as possible—it hadn’t been the most practical system, and as Jeff liked to remind me constantly, it in no way helped our impossible deadline. But it had been the plan designed to cause Oliver the least amount of heartache. But there was no more delaying, not if we wanted to finish on time.
“That’s a great idea.” I couldn’t help the slow smile that erupted as he quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll tell everyone to stay away—take your time. There are plenty of other things.” I had a list a mile long, detailed down to the minute. Was I lying awake at night scared we wouldn’t finish? Of course, but while I was awake, I might as well make more lists.
“I was wondering …” Oliver’s gaze shifted to the space between our feet. “If you would help me?”
My answer was an immediate “Yes.” I relieved him of two boxes, fingers brushing with his. Warmth filled my chest. He’d taken another step toward healing, and he’d taken it on his own—well, with the help of the weekly therapy appointments he maintained.
We lumbered up the stairs and down the hallway, the new runners pristine, wall sconces lit. Oliver pushed the door open. The bleakness and chipping paint were a stark contrast to the finished rooms, and the smell was almost overwhelming.
“Where do you want to start?” I asked, placing my palm on his arm, a reminder he wasn’t alone.
“You should send someone in for my sisters’ rooms. It doesn’t seem right for me to dig through them.” His voice was quiet, cutting through the must, gaze roving down the hallway, each door leading to more memories.
“I can do that.”
We lived in the silence and stale air, his muscles flexing as if he were working up the nerve to begin. He picked the playroom to handle first. After I wiped clean the windows to let in some air, we packed up old VHS tapes and DVDs, childhood classics I recognized, and others I didn’t, along with home videos that he reverently placed in a box of their own.
The act of walking through the doors opened something up in him too. It came pouring out of him: the time his sisters were supposed to be playing pretend and instead cut each other’s hair two days before the first day of school. How the siblings would take turns waking up their parents by jumping on their beds. The song his mom sang them awake with, even when they were teenagers and slept until noon.
The stern set of his shoulders lightened; we weren’t storing these treasures away for them never to return. We were walking through the memories he had packed away to protect himself all those years ago. Allowing them to breathe, return to the spaces, just as we would hang the family pictures back up.
We made our way to his parents’ bedroom, the walls and surfaces covered in photos of Oliver and his twin sisters. Photos of the family laughing at a beach and playing football together. Their wedding photo sat on the bedside table.
“We were dysfunctional.” Oliver’s voice cracked as his eyes traveled over every inch of the dusty space. “But we loved each other.”
Maybe this had been too much to do in one day, too much to ask of him. “I can pack up this room when I do your sisters’.”
“No, it should be me. I owe that to them.” His voice cracked. “I failed them.”
Oh, darling.“You were in a terrible accident. You didn’t fail them. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“It’s my fault.”
When I tried to reach for him, he stepped away, plucking up their wedding photo. It was a candid—their infectious grins were the first thing anyone would notice.
“This isn’t some sort of misplaced guilt. I know what my sisters said, but they weren’t there. I killed them.” He was full of conviction; this was his truth.
He sat on the edge of the bed, palm scrubbing at his left thigh. “There were only a few weeks until graduation. My dream NFL career was within reach. All I wanted was their approval before the draft. But Dad was vehemently against it.
“We were arguing in the car, headed to the city, some sort of family dinner, the twins were waiting for us. Mom and Dad insisted they wanted to pick me up. Really, it was to talk about my future, convince me football wasn’t the right path.” He was rushing through the words. Maybe he thought the faster he rid himself of them, the less they would hurt. All I could do was close my eyes and go along on the ride with him.
“Dad swore I would be failing the family. Said it was time to buckle down and get serious.” His eyes were distant, fingers scrubbing his beard, his breathing harsh, reliving the worst moment of his life while I clutched his other hand. The photo lay on the moth-eaten bedspread.
“I wanted to be drafted, then decide. Football was easy, natural for me. All I had to think about was the game, the next play. Not investors, stocks, or the family’s reputation. It was separate, and mine.
“Mom sided with him too, which hurt more. She said it was because she didn’t want me to get injured. But it was more than that. She’d married into this family, accepting what it entailed. I was letting her down by not wanting it too.”
Oliver stared at our intertwined palms, thumb rhythmically running over the back of my hand, as if I were the one that needed comfort in this moment.
“Dad wasn’t watching the road. The driver in the other car was drunk and swerved. Mom screamed. Then I woke up in the hospital. Grandfather was in the chair next to my bed. They’d had to sedate me for two days.
“My leg.” Tears streamed down his face as I pulled his hands against my chest, crying with him. “My femur had been shattered. It’s all rods and pins now. A giant scar.” He waved at his thigh.
“It is not your fault.”
“But it is. If I hadn’t been fighting with him, if he had been paying attention … if I had agreed … I let them down. Abandoned my sisters. Abandoned it all.” He spat in disgust. “After my accident, I let myself get stuck, as if the world weren’t still moving around me if I stayed here.
“I’m cursed. I ruined my family by being selfish. There is no choice. I need to accept my grandfather’s terms. Make it right.”
“That doesn’t make you cursed,” I whispered, my heart breaking for him, realizing this was what he had been stewing with for the past week, alone. His sisters might have resolved something, but Oliver was dealing with old wounds only he could heal.
“The press mentions me and the stock in the company drops five points. The team that was going to recruit me—my friend got the spot. His first game he wrecked his knee, never got to play again. My sisters? Constantly berated by the media. The accident blew up every single aspect of my life and the lives of the people around me.”
I wanted to suck all his pain into my body. “You went through something incredibly traumatic. No one can fault you. Grief is a personal and painful thing.”
“Oh, but they do. I do.” He tried to pull away, but I refused to let him.
“And what’s so great about them?”
“What?”
I reached up, swiping the tears that streaked his face. “What’s so remarkable about them? Cousin Carter? Not exactly a competent individual. What about that time your uncle decided to fumigate his house from snakes and ended up burning it down? Or your white and rhythmically challenged cousin struggling to start his rapping career by recording a Tupac tribute album?”
Oliver blinked slowly. “Yeah, that was …”
“Racist?”
I pressed my forehead to his, thumb brushing against the apple of his cheek, the roughness of his beard contrasting with his smooth skin. “I’m not trying to make fun of your family. Well, maybe a little. But only because they’re the ones who let you down.”
“You may have to keep reminding me of that.” The lift in his voice caught in my chest as I rubbed his shoulders.
Every day.“It’s your life. Do you want to live in a boardroom for another thirty years, or is there something else you’re passionate about? Something that makes you eager to face the day?”
His nose brushed mine, our breaths mingling. “You enjoy your job that much?”
“It may take a cup of coffee or two in the morning, but yeah, I love it.” This project might have wanted to break me, but it had also reminded me of all the things I loved and reaffirmed that I was capable of doing this on my own, without Dad as my safety net.
“I can vouch you are not a morning person.”
“Smart-ass.” I scratched my fingers along his beard, leaning back, examining his features, making sure he was truly all right, brushing away the tears.
The tips of his lips quirked, contrasting with the sadness that remained in his eyes.
I couldn’t relieve his grief, but he didn’t have to be alone in it. “My mom left when I was a baby,” I confessed.
“I’m so sorry, Petal.” His palm ran down the length of my forearm. It was unnerving how comforting that single gesture from him was.
“Thank you. I realize it’s not the same thing, but I know what it’s like, to have no control over them being gone.”
Oliver nodded. “But you miss her?”
“Sometimes. Mostly, I’m just angry she couldn’t handle Dad’s job and left me behind too.” I offered him a soft smile.
He pressed his face against my breastbone, murmuring words I couldn’t understand as I held him.
“We don’t have to finish today,” I mumbled.
“No interest in seeing my childhood bedroom?” he teased, finally a bit of levity in his voice, and I squeezed him tighter.
Of course I was interested. “We could check out what naughty things you have stashed under your bed.”
“Okay, we can stop.” He snuggled in closer, nose nudging the fabric of my suspender.
“Oh, come on, tell me. Blondes, artistic types—I’m so curious. What did teenage Oliver fantasize about?”
“I will take it to my grave.” He mimed sealing his lips.
“Bl8z3 will tell me.”
“Sir is a fan of—”
Oliver cut in. “Don’t complete that sentence. I will reset you to factory settings so fast.” He scowled at the ceiling before burrowing into my breasts as I chuckled.
“Petal, this week, I’m sorry, I—”
I shook my head, not that he could see. “You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about. I’m honored I’m the one you talked to when you were ready.”
I swayed us back and forth, running my fingers through his hair, content to stay as long as he desired.