Chapter 3
Electronic music blaresthrough the living room as I smash the buttons on my controller and turn it slightly to the right. Beside me, Oliver mimics the action as we both fight to make it to the finish line first. We’re neck and neck as I fist the controller tighter.
His knee starts to bounce as we round the last corner on the map.
For a moment, I let him think he has a chance of winning.
He scoots to the edge of his seat, a hint of a smile grazing the corner of his mouth.
I let that faint smile distract me for a split second. Then I punch the button for my final booster and fly past his car on the screen.
“Seriously?” he bellows over the music as he tosses his controller in the direction of the table. It lands with a thwack.
Setting my controller aside, I swipe up my phone and turn down the music. “Not like you didn’t know I had it.” I shrug then point at the television.
He leans in my direction and shoves at my shoulder. “Dick.” The word comes out in a playful tone, but hearing it roll off his tongue sends a surge of heat through my veins.
I swallow down a retort and rise from my seat. The last thing I need to do is feed the beast that lives between us. The one that knows what we both want, but neither will move on. I know why I hold back. Why Oliver does is a mystery.
Since the day we met, there’s been this underlying current in the air whenever we exist in the same space. I was unsure how I felt about it in the beginning. But as time ticked by, as the buzz grew undeniable, I accepted it for what it was.
Oliver is my person. My best friend. The one person I trust above all others. The only person I can spill every secret to without fear—not that I’ve shared everything. For now, some secrets are still under lock and key. But even those secrets are inching closer to the surface.
Ambling toward the kitchen, I toss over my shoulder, “Hungry?”
His feet pad over the tile in my wake. “I could eat.”
I open the fridge and stare at the sparse contents—water, soda, milk, eggs, bread. But also leftover pizza. I pull out the two boxes from when we grabbed pizza after Oliver’s show two nights ago.
I’d had an appetizer at the pub to hold me over until the set ended. Most nights, I watched Oliver play—whether in his garage or on stage—we typically grabbed a bite after. When the server boxed up our leftovers the other night, Oliver told me to bring them to my place.
We don’t spend every nonworking hour together. But we spend enough time together that he knows his food will still be edible when he wants it.
“As is or heated up?” I turn the oven on and set it to the suggested temperature on the box.
“Heated enough to take the chill off.”
I cover a pan with foil, add the slices, shove them in the oven, and rip the lids off the boxes, tossing them in the recycling bin. Oliver sits on a stool at the kitchen island bar as I return to the fridge and grab us some drinks. I slide him a can of Cherry Coke before I crack open a Pepsi.
“Thanks.” A faint smile curves the corners of his mouth. His eyes lift and meet mine as he pops the top. “Saw Tymber at Poke the Yolk yesterday.” Oliver takes a swig of soda. “He seems… unsettled.” His brows twitch. “Everything okay at work?”
Considering we talk about almost everything, work isn’t off-limits when it comes up. I never mention the fine details or share names—confidentiality and all—but I never shy away from job details.
With the most recent job we took on, the company is being held to a higher level of discretion. Which means I need to be vague with Oliver. My skin crawls at the idea, but it’s not like I have a choice.
I lean forward and rest my forearms on the island across from Oliver. Eyes focused on my drink, I slowly spin the can on the counter.
“Yeah. Tymber’s just stressed.” I take a long pull of my drink. “More clients. Some slightly incompetent employees.”
With a subtle nod, Oliver hums. I expect him to say something—a joke, perhaps—but the room quiets. He simply stares at the can in his hands.
Silence with Oliver is never uncomfortable. But a muted Oliver is rare, as notable and rare as he is.
As the silence stretches on, I steal the occasional glance across the island. Trace the sharp angle of his jaw with my eyes. Visually dance over his olive skin until I reach his lips.
Fuck… I love his lips.
I continue my visual perusal of his features—the bow between his top lip and nose, the soft flare of his nostrils and dramatic slope of his nose. My gaze shifts to the side and I stop breathing when my eyes collide with his.
How long has he been watching me ogle him?
My cheeks heat under the delicious scrutiny of his bold, vivid green irises, but I don’t dare look away. If he wants to call me out, let him. I’d love to hear the words leave his lips. I’d love to hear him ask me if I was checking him out.
Will I confess if he asks? Doubtful. Not because I’m scared of Oliver knowing how I feel about him. More like it’d do neither of us any good for me to share my truth.
My father would rather me fall off the face of the earth than be seen with a “commoner”—his word choice. Add in the fact that the person I am attracted to is a guy and my father is a semi-closeted homophobe… we can all picture how that conversation would go down.
The timer on the oven buzzes and garners my attention. I blink out of my thoughts and grab the pan from the oven. Transferring the pizza to the bottom half of the boxes, I slide Oliver’s food across the counter and then move to take the stool next to him.
We eat in relative silence for the first two slices. Every now and then, I feel his gaze on my profile. His addictive basil-green eyes studying the lines of my face.
I fight off a smile as a subtle buzz floats through the air. There is no way he doesn’t feel the hum. That potent and vital electricity I only feel with him. He must feel it too.
Finishing the last of my pizza, I shove the box away. I sit taller on my stool and twist a little toward Oliver. As he drops a piece of crust in the box, I open my mouth to apologize.
“Ollie, I?—”
A knock on the pool house door cuts me off. “Levi?” Another knock, this one softer. “It’s Mom,” she says, as if I don’t recognize her voice.
I swallow down my apology and save it for another day. Chin over my shoulder, I holler, “It’s open, Mom.”
On my next inhale, the gentle clap of her heels echoes throughout the open pool house. She crosses the room, the epitome of elegance and grace. A kind, warm smile highlights her face as she reaches my side.
Wrapping me in a side hug, she kisses my temple. “Hi, darling.” After a squeeze of my shoulder, she releases me. “Hello, Oliver. How are you?”
Oliver reaches for the towel on the other side of the counter and wipes his hands off. “Hey, Mrs. West. Good, thanks. And you?”
Her smile doesn’t falter once. Unlike my father, Mom has a heart and unabashedly wears it on her sleeve. She is the only reason I haven’t packed my shit and moved out.
“Wonderful. Thank you for asking.” She averts her attention back to me, her fingers brushing my hair off of my forehead. “You need a haircut,” she says with no strength behind the words, knowing full well I won’t cut it unless I want to. “Just came by to remind you of dinner tonight.”
Fuck.
I keep my gaze on Mom but see Oliver staring at me in my periphery.
In the last decade, my parents have tried to mold me into something I’m not. Mostly, it’s my father. First, it was politics. When he realized that was a battle he would never win, he focused his energy on something else. Meddling in my love life—not that I really have one.
The minute I turned eighteen, my father started inviting the Calhouns or Kemps over for dinner more often. Growing up, we’d shared meals with the Calhouns and Kemps as regularly as we did some of the founding families. I assumed the uptick was more business than personal. Then, I started putting the pieces together.
Initially, I played along, somewhat oblivious to the arranged relationship my father was trying to orchestrate. It only took dining with them once a week for less than a month for it all to click into place. The questions my father asked the daughters of two other financially secure families in Stone Bay made my stomach sour. It’s one thing to ask your own child how they picture their future—career, marriage, children. But the tone my father used as he asked Abigail Calhoun, Sara Kemp, and Jasmine Kemp was borderline creepy.
Though I missed Oliver like a limb, the four years I was gone for college were a reprieve from my father’s constant need to find me a bride I didn’t want.
Sick of the spectacle, I sigh. “Is it necessary I attend?”
“Of course not, darling.”
My entire body relaxes. And I don’t miss how Oliver’s does as well.
“But your father and I would like you there. Abigail is joining us with her parents. It’s been a while since we’ve all shared a meal together.”
“Not long enough,” I mutter.
Mom lightly swats my arm. “Be nice. She’s a wonderful young lady and a good match.”
Oliver stiffens and balls his fingers into fists in his lap. A painful knot forms beneath my diaphragm and renders me speechless.
I hate this. God, I fucking hate this so much.
At twenty-five, my parents still try to rule so much of my life. Mom doesn’t dangle the West name and our millions over my head. But put her in a room with my father for five seconds and she goes along with whatever he suggests. And for some absurd reason, he has played matchmaker with me for the past seven years.
Inhaling deeply, I remain even-keeled as I speak. “Yes, she is a wonderful friend.” I wrap an arm around her shoulders. “And one day, she’ll find the right person for her.”
Mom steps out of my hold and nods. “That’s what your father and I are hoping.” Without another word, she spins on her heel and heads for the door. Hand on the doorknob, she peeks over her shoulder and meets my gaze. “Dinner is at six.” Her eyes flit to Oliver and I suck in a sharp breath, but then relax when she smiles. “Was nice to see you, Oliver.”
Anguish-filled silence smothers me the moment my mother exits the pool house. Inches from where I sit, Oliver won’t lift his gaze from the counter. His hands fidget in his lap as both of us figure out what to say or do.
His despair is a hot blade in my chest.
I detest my father for his insistence. Every cell in my body screams to get off the stool, step outside, and yell to the heavens. To storm through the gardens, rush into the main house, and tell my parents I can’t fucking do this anymore.
But I don’t move. I don’t mutter a single word. Now isn’t the time, but oh, how I wish it was.
Another apology sits on the tip of my tongue, this one different than the one left unsaid earlier.
“Ollie, I?—”
Wood grates tile as he abruptly shoves back on the stool. “Just remembered I have band practice,” he says, eyes downcast as he shuffles toward the living room.
Lies.
Unless Hailey or Trip scheduled an impromptu practice, they never meet on Sundays. The weekday practice days may vary, but Sunday is always certain. It’s the one day they all get a break. On Sundays, Oliver spends most of the day with his parents.
But I won’t call him out. He’s upset. I would be too, were I in his shoes.
“Sorry I distracted you from the time.” Still on my stool, I swivel in his direction.
On his gaming chair, he laces up his Converse. Lost in the way his nimble fingers tie the laces, I fail to notice his gaze shift. I don’t register the fact that he’s watching me stare at him. Again.
Still for too long, I glance up and read everything his eyes and expression are saying that his words will not.
Pain. Oliver is in pain. Inexplicable, excruciating pain. All because I fear the repercussions of speaking my truth.
One foot in front of the other, he slowly crosses the room and stands a foot away.
Every breath, every heartbeat, every nerve ending in my body reacts to his proximity. My mind screams for me to be brave. It points a proverbial finger at the man in front of me and implores me to reach out and haul him closer. Breathe in his leather and musk scent mixed with something distinctly him. Nuzzle the crook of his neck and confess my truth in soft whispers on his skin.
Then my father’s dreadful voice enters my mind and steals every ounce of joy. Not an occasion passes that I don’t hear my father mutter something homophobic when he’s aware Oliver is here. The way he says it so casually—guests present or not—tells everyone in the room the type of person he is.
My father doesn’t have the standing to outright threaten my future as a West. Though he takes his role in the family quite seriously, only a biological West is capable of making certain changes in our family. According to the prenuptial agreement he signed before he and Mom exchanged vows, he has no control over West family financials.
Since I won’t conform to his rules or way of life, his speaking cruelly about someone I care for is his form of punishment. Forcing me to have dinner dates with the daughters of wealthy families in Stone Bay is another form of punishment.
But it hurts more than me, and I despise my father more for his insensitivity.
“Don’t worry about it.” Oliver shrugs. His eyes drop to my lips for one heartbeat. “No one will be mad if I’m late.”
Because there is no band practice.
I slip off my stool and he inches back, but not by much. The heat of him blankets my chest and steals my breath. My pulse whooshes in my ears as I swallow, his gaze dropping to my throat.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Sorry for my asshole father.
Sorry my family continues to parade me around available women in the hopes I’ll choose one to marry.
Sorry I am too much of a coward to tell you how much you mean to me.
Sorry I continue to torture us both, but mostly you.
Sorry, sorry, sorry.
With a nod, he licks his lips and takes a step back. “Nothing to apologize for.” He pivots on his heel and moves toward the door. “Text me later?”
My chest spasms as the distance grows between us.
“Yeah,” I choke out.
No sooner than the word leaves my lips, Oliver steps out the door. And like every other time we go separate ways, the fissure in my heart deepens.
Dinner dishes are cleared from the table as coffee and dessert are set in front of us, neither of which I plan to consume.
For the past hour, my father has glanced in my direction from his end of the table with an insistent look in his eye. As I’ve done every time he insists on hosting these asinine dinners, I remain stoic. It pisses him off and, in turn, makes me happy.
Muted conversations happen over the final course. On my left, Abigail is silent. If I had to guess, she is as equally displeased about this bullshit as I am.
Immobile in my seat, I stare at the crème br?lée with pity. What a waste.
“Levi.”
I inhale slowly and shift my gaze to the end of the table. There is no point in responding. Whatever I say will be ignored.
“Since you and Abigail are done eating, why don’t the two of you walk through the gardens and catch up.”
My molars grind as I narrow my eyes at my father. The hint of a smirk curves one corner of his mouth. It pisses me off. I shove back from the table and huff as the wood legs of the chair glide easily across the marble floor.
“Sure.” Then I give everyone my back and walk away.
Goose bumps dance over my skin as I step outside. I pass a tall hedge, tip my head back, close my eyes, and mentally scream at the heavens.
The soft click of the door closing meets my ears and I straighten. Quiet on her feet, Abigail comes to stand beside me. For a moment, we both stand there, unspeaking, staring out at the ornately groomed shrubs and flower bushes.
In my periphery, she crosses her arms over her chest and shivers. Were I trying to court her, I’d offer to get her something to keep her warm. I’d pull her into my side or rub the length of her bare arms.
I offer her nothing. Not even my voice.
“This sucks,” she mutters.
Uncertain what it is she’s referring to, I don’t respond.
“I don’t want this. Do you?”
Now, this catches my attention.
I pivot slightly and glance down at her. Fists clenched under her arms and jaw muscles tight, Abigail Calhoun appears just as irritated by this whole charade as I am.
“Not at all.” I shrug. “No offense.”
She waves off my comment. “None taken.” Peeking over her shoulder toward the house, she gives a curt nod. “My parents don’t know, but I’ve been seeing someone.”
My brows shoot up in surprise.
“Please don’t say anything.”
I relax my expression and give what I hope is a sympathetic smile. “I won’t.”
“Thank you.” Her whole frame sighs. “I’m in love with him.”
“Why don’t they know you’re with him?”
Abigail rolls her eyes. “Anyone in this town with our kind of wealth is trying to find suitable matches for their children.” She looks me dead on. “We may not be a founding family, but we’re as close as they come. Daddy may be laid back at times, but he and Mom still want us to marry good people.”
“Fucking bullshit,” I mutter. “I’m twenty-five, and you’re, what?”
“Thirty.”
“We’re grown-ass people. Why do they keep shoving us together like cattle?”
“Sometimes I wonder if they actually care about me.” Her emphasis on the last word comes out so softly.
I wish I could assure her things will be fine. But I have a feeling this horse and pony show will go on until our families get what they want.
I hate this for me, for her, for the people we care about and who care about us. Sure, I could walk away and move into my own place. Hell, Oliver or Tymber would happily offer me a place to stay. But running away won’t solve the problem; only exacerbate it.
I stay because it is the only way to consistently express myself, not that my father hears a word I say. I stay because no one should be bullied into something they don’t want or need in their life. I stay because, dammit, I have a say in how my life goes.
And Jefferson Thornhill-West does not own me.
He wants to shove Abigail Calhoun down my throat? Fine. I’ll give him what he wants but on my terms.
My eyes meet hers.
On our terms.
“Want to get our parents off our backs?”
Her whole face brightens. “Yes.”
I glance over to the door to make sure we are alone. “What if we make our parents believe we’re dating, but we’re not?”
“You want to… fake date?” Her forehead wrinkles with confusion.
“I don’t want to, but it’ll shut them up.” How blissful the silence will be. “We carry on as we have been. Live our own lives. Go out for the occasional dinner to keep up appearances. But other than that, we do whatever the hell we want. You go out with whoever you’re dating. I’ll do my thing. We can coordinate in texts when our parents think we’re together, but we’re not.”
Abigail bounces in place. “This is brilliant.”
I shrug. “Beats being forced to have awkward dinners with our families.”
“We’re fake dating?”
“Yep.”
She squeals. “I can’t wait to tell Desmond.”
“As long as he won’t tell anyone else…”
“He won’t.”
I take my phone out of my pocket, unlock it, open a new contact, and hand her my phone. “Add your info and I’ll shoot you a text.”
After she keys in her name and number, she returns my phone. We move farther into the garden and talk logistics for a bit. Once we are both on the same page with the major details, we head back to the house.
We tell our parents we decided to give this a shot, and both families are overjoyed.
A half hour later, I drop to my knees in front of the toilet and lose my dinner.