Chapter 23 Ollie
OLLIE
Phoebe is asleep on the couch when I finish changing for bed and join her in the living room. She’s so beautiful. I don’t care if her hair and makeup are done like earlier tonight or if she’s barefaced and slightly mussed like she is now. I love her.
I brush the backs of my fingers against her soft cheek, and they come away damp.
Has she been crying? Why? Does she not feel well?
Did I do something to hurt her? Is she sorry we’re engaged?
What happened couldn’t have been the way she dreamed of someone asking for her hand in marriage.
Even though it wasn’t a real proposal. While I would have preferred to ask her to marry me somewhere more romantic and private than a costume jewelry store counter in a casino with half my team watching, I don’t regret it.
The only regret I have is that I haven’t kissed her yet.
What I wouldn’t give to be able to press my lips to hers.
It’s all I can do to hold in my groan when her pink tongue slips out to moisten those berry-red lips I’m obsessed with.
I can’t do that though. First of all, she’s sound asleep, and I’m not a creep.
Secondly, she’s drunk, and I’m still not a creep.
I know she said she wants to kiss me, but did she mean it?
Maybe she was caught up in the moment. Maybe getting drunk wasn’t purely by accident and she subconsciously did it to avoid kissing me.
The deep breath she takes and releases as a sigh in her sleep makes her breasts rise.
The plush hotel robe she’s wearing can’t disguise their fullness.
Every time we hug and I feel them pressed against me, I force myself to start thinking about coding and other computer stuff to stop my body from reacting the way it instinctually wants to.
Okay, now I’m venturing into creeper territory, watching her while she sleeps.
There’s a knock on the door, and I rush over to get it before it disturbs Phoebe.
“Hi, Frederick,” I say, recognizing the waiter from my first night here. “How are you tonight?”
“Good evening, Mr. King. I’m well, thank you. How are you?”
I take the tray with the carafe of cocoa, mugs, and ramekin of marshmallows from him and set it on the side table next to the door, then turn back with a smile. “I’m wonderful. I got engaged to the woman of my dreams today. Life is looking good.”
Okay, I’m telling a small fib. I did get engaged to the woman of my dreams, but life is looking like it will be full of heartbreak in my future when our engagement ends.
I slip Frederick a tip and bid him goodnight. I turn around with the tray and almost fumble it when I find Phoebe blinking slowly. She’s awake and watching me.
“I’m sorry, I dozed off. Is that the cocoa?” she asks before a yawn overtakes her. Damn it, she yawns cute too. I’m never getting over her.
“It is,” I say, carrying it to the coffee table in front of the couch and setting it down. “Do you want some?”
Phoebe nods as she yawns again and tries to cover it with a hand over her mouth.
I pour us each a mug. “Marshmallows?”
“Ooh, yes, please.”
I drop a few into each mug and hand Phoebe hers. My first, cautious sip is delicious. Somehow the cocoa is the perfect temperature where it’s warm enough to enjoy but not so hot you burn your tongue.
“Do you want dessert too?” I ask.
Her eyes widen. “Did we get the chocolate sampler? I don’t remember much about dinner after the meatball and the second sip of my first lemonade.”
There’s no holding back my smile. “We did. We could have some now and some for breakfast?”
“Yes!” she says enthusiastically and then groans, putting a hand to her head. I pluck the package of Tylenol I ordered with the cocoa and hand it to her before grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting the lid off.
“Oh, Ollie, I love you,” Phoebe groans before taking a pill and washing it down with the water.
Who knew hearing the words I’ve longed to hear would hurt so much? I start pulling the assorted chocolate desserts from the carry-out bag so she can’t see the truth on my face.
“Looks like we have flourless chocolate cake, chocolate layer cake, chocolate mousse, and chocolate-covered strawberries.” I open each container and set it on the table. “Is there anything you want all for yourself, or do you want to share?”
By the longing look on her face, I think I know her answer.
“I want some of all of it. I need to know how the competition is,” she says.
Chuckling, I take my place on the sofa next to her and hand over a fork and a napkin. “Phoebe, as delicious as all these surely are, I’m betting none of them compare to what you can create.” I gesture with my fork. “Lady’s choice.”
Apparently, forks are divining rods, at least in Phoebe’s hand.
She holds it over each dessert, waits a moment like she’s getting a mystical vibration, and then moves one.
She decides to start with the flourless chocolate cake, so I go for the layer cake.
While I maintain that Phoebe can bake a better chocolate layer cake, this is damn good.
Like I- want- this- for- our- wedding- cake good.
Phoebe takes a bite of the layer cake next, and I scoop up some mousse. It’s so rich and silky, I can’t help the happy little whimper that passes my lips.
“That good?” she asks.
I nod. “I think if the layer cake had this mousse between the layers and the frosting it has now on top, it would be the perfect cake.”
Her brown eyes now make me think of chocolate mousse as they light up. “Yes! I need to convince someone to do a chocolate wedding cake so I can make it.”
“Do it for our wedding cake.” The words fly out of my mouth before I have a chance to filter them.
Even if I could take them back, I don’t think I would.
I focus on the flourless chocolate cake next.
Phoebe is watching me, her gaze a weight settling on me like a blanket.
My focus remains on the cake. My face will broadcast every thought and feeling I have, and I’m not brave enough to be that defenseless.
Not that I think Phoebe would ever hurt me intentionally.
I know she loves me in her way, but that way isn’t what I need.
“Oh, wow, this mousse is sinful,” she says.
“Using mousse like this for a wedding cake could be tricky because it should be refrigerated. If we had a traditional wedding with a reception, the cake would need to be brought out. That’s not ideal.
But maybe I could find a similar filling that’s more stable. ”
“Or we don’t have a traditional wedding and reception,” I say.
Like there’s any reason to discuss a wedding at all.
She probably won’t remember it come morning anyway, with how drunk she is.
She seems sober, but I don’t believe anything she says.
They say in vino veritas, but Phoebe wasn’t drinking wine.
I say in lemonade lies. Not that I think she’d lie to me on purpose, but I don’t believe the things she says and does while drunk or woozy from pain killers.
That’s how we ended up engaged, because she said something she didn’t mean to when she wasn’t thinking straight.
“Want a strawberry?” She holds one up to my mouth.
She may not remember tonight, but I will.
I take a bite and hum. It’s so juicy and the chocolate’s so rich.
I leave over half the berry, and Phoebe takes a bite, closing her eyes in pleasure as she chews.
Her lips are damp with strawberry juice, and I wish I had the right to kiss it off her.
My cock stiffens, and I try to distract myself by thinking about hockey plays and the teams we’re going to face on our road trip.
“You have icing on your face,” Phoebe says, calling my attention back to her. Not that it ever really leaves her when she’s anywhere near me. Or on the planet. In the universe. Yeah. I got it bad.
I go to wipe it with my napkin, but she holds up her napkin and motions me closer.
I lean forward, and to my shock—and delight—Phoebe does too and presses her lips against mine.
I freeze. My brain doesn’t. It is shouting, Oh my god, I’m kissing Phoebe!
But I’m not. I’m sitting there like a statue.
A statue with a pounding heart and a cock turning to marble.
I may never get this chance again, so I start kissing her back.
I may be inexperienced, but I’m not stupid.
I’ve seen people kiss, understand the basics.
But none of that prepared me for the strawberry sweetness of Phoebe’s lips.
For the way her chocolate-colored hair is silky-smooth against my fingers when I cup her face.
Her tongue flicks against my lips. Maybe to get the icing, I don’t really care why.
I part them, and her tongue slips inside and glides against mine.
I groan at all the sensations rushing through me.
I’m so incredibly glad I didn’t kiss the bachelorette on that stupid TV show, that I waited for Phoebe.
Phoebe is the only person I want to do this with. Forever.
I don’t know if we kiss for minutes or hours. Time loses all meaning. Eventually we pull apart because breathing is necessary. I’d be willing to give up drawing another breath to keep on kissing her for the rest of my life, but I want it to be a long life. So I must breathe.
She giggles, and it’s adorable. “You taste like that yummy lemonade.”
It’s like I got dunked into an ice bath after a particularly rough game.
The lemonade. She’s drunk. Phoebe is kissing me because she’s drunk and doesn’t know what she’s doing.
I shouldn’t have kissed her back like I did.
I feel sick at the thought of accidentally taking advantage of Phoebe in her condition.
I drop my hands from Phoebe’s face and pull back.
“I…I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that,” I stammer.
She looks at me, stunned.
“You’re sorry?” she asks. “For what?”
“Kissing you.”
Now she’s pulling back, her stunned expression replaced with hurt. Shit. I’m fucking this all up.
“You’re sorry you kissed me?”
“Yes. No. Shit. I don’t know.” I rise and start pacing. I pick up my mug of cocoa and take a sip. It’s like chocolate milk now, but it moistens my dry throat at least and keeps my hands occupied so I don’t reach for Phoebe and start kissing her again.
“For your information, Ollie, I kissed you. I started it. You merely kissed me back.”
Merely. Merely? A kiss that tilted the axis of my world and fulfilled so many of my dreams only rates a merely from her?
“You’re drunk, Phoebe. You don’t know what you’re doing. I took advantage of you. I’m so sorry.” Shame washes over me because while I am sorry I kissed her back when she drunkenly kissed me, I don’t regret it.
“I’m not that drunk!” she shouts indignantly. “I knew I was kissing you. I wanted to kiss you. And you wanted to kiss me too.”
Well, that’s nice to hear.
“Be that as it may, how are you going to feel in the morning when you’re sober? Would you have kissed me if you weren’t three sheets to the wind? You never have before.” I’m not yelling, but my voice is louder than normal.
Tears rush to her eyes, and I curse under my breath. I didn’t mean to say that. “Phoebe, I’m sorr—”
I don’t get to finish my apology because she’s grabbing the chocolate mousse and storming into the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
Damn it. I look at what’s left of dessert and decide to pack it back up and put it in the fridge.
It’s too delicious to waste, and it will be handy for breakfast. Or if I need to eat my feelings.
I drain my cocoa mug and rinse it in the sink, then put Phoebe’s mostly full one in the refrigerator.
It could be nuked in the morning, maybe.
With the living area tidied and our food put away, I rap softly on the bedroom door.
“Phoebe?”
No answer. Is she asleep or not answering because she’s pissed at me? I guess there’s only one way to find out.
Cautiously, I crack open the door. The room is dark except for moonlight streaming in through the window.
I see the hotel bathrobe and a swath of blue satin on the chair and almost pass out from the blood rushing from my brain to my cock at the thought of Phoebe being in bed naked.
I glance at the bed and see her lying on her side of the bed, facing the window so the moonlight kisses her features the way I wish I still was.
She’s sleeping. Or pretending to be asleep.
Her hands are tucked under her cheek, and I can see she’s wearing a long-sleeve shirt.
One bare foot is sticking out from beneath the blanket, and the hem of a pair of leggings sits at her ankle.
She may as well be wearing a suit of armor.
I use the bathroom, brush my teeth, and return to the bedroom. Do I sleep in here? I won’t fit on the sofa, and I need to try to get at least some sleep tonight. We have a game tomorrow, and I need to be well-rested.
I slide between the sheets and lie on my back, watching shadows dance upon the ceiling. I asked the woman I’m in love with to marry me today, and she said yes. I had my first kiss with her, and it was better than I had ever imagined. Those are dreams come true. Why do they now feel like nightmares?