Chapter 23 Olivia
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Olivia
So…
I just had sex with Leo Griffin.
Like… actual, mind-melting, body-shaking, holy mother of Christmas sex with Leo Griffin.
And now? I’m lying here in his bed, my hair sticking out in seventeen different directions, my legs still trembling, and I can feel the exact moment the heat starts to fade and the reality creeps in.
What. Did. I. Just. Do?
Leo’s arm is draped heavily across my stomach, his chest rising and falling against me like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Meanwhile, my brain is lighting up with neon warning signs: Karl! The cousin thing! You are an absolute disaster of a human being!
I try to breathe. To relax. To not think about how I’m currently naked in the sheets of the man I swore I hated two weeks ago.
And then Leo makes it worse.
“Well… shit,” he says roughly.
I choke on a laugh. Not a normal laugh. No, this is a nervous, what is life laugh that sounds like it belongs in the blooper reel of a rom-com gone wrong.
“Yeah. That’s… accurate.”
We both laugh then, but it’s not the kind of laughter that makes you feel better. It’s the kind that makes you think you’re one misstep away from falling off a cliff.
“Bad idea,” he mutters, scrubbing his hand over his face.
“The worst,” I agree, staring at the ceiling. Maybe it will open and swallow me whole. “Catastrophic.”
Silence.
And then, because apparently Leo has no sense of self-preservation, he adds, “But worth it.”
My heart does this stupid thing where it flutters like I’m in some sappy holiday commercial instead of a train wreck of a situationship. I don’t respond. I can’t. Because if I do, I might admit he’s right.
And then, because the universe loves to kick me when I’m down, my phone lights up on the nightstand.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
I reach for it like it’s an unexploded grenade. Leo groans and drags a pillow over his face.
“Urgh, really?”
I ignore him and stare at the screen, my blood running cold.
Richard Stokes.
My ex-boss. The man I haven’t spoken to since that phone call.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter, holding the phone away from me.
Leo shifts beside me, dragging the pillow off his face. “Problem?”
Understatement of the year.
The texts are coming in so fast, it looks like my phone’s about to overheat.
Richard: Olivia! How’s the “sabbatical”? Bet you’re already bored out of your mind without real work to do.
Richard: Listen. I need you back. The team is drowning without you.
Richard: Your replacement? Total disaster. Won’t last a week.
Richard: Come back, Liv. You were always my star.
Richard: And honestly, leaving the way you did? Kind of unprofessional. You owe me two weeks’ notice.
I groan and flop back against the mattress, dragging the sheet over my face. “Of course. Of course, the company is imploding without me.”
Leo makes a low noise. “Didn’t you quit?”
“Yes,” I snap, then add, “Well, technically, yes. I left. I am done. I rode off into the burnout sunset.”
Ping.
Richard: I’ll throw in a raise. Title bump. Whatever you want. Just get back here.
Richard: Do you even realize how much the clients respected you?
Richard: Don’t make me beg, Olivia.
Another ping.
Richard: Come on. You do owe me.
“Wow.” I let out a sharp laugh that sounds a little too much like hysteria. “Amazing. He can’t go two texts without swinging from fake praise to full-on guilt trip. Truly, a master of emotional whiplash.”
Leo watches me, brow furrowed, way too calm about all of this. “Block him.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Block. Him.” He says it as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like cutting off the constant drip feed of validation and shame is… a button you press.
Ping.
Richard: We both know you’re not built for sitting still. You’ll come crawling back.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand because it’s toxic waste. “Nope. Not dealing with it. Not today. Not when I already have… all of this.”
I wave a vague hand at the bed, the sheets, the six-foot-something complication lying next to me.
Leo smirks, amused. “All of this, huh? You say that like it’s a good thing.”
“It is.”
“Ooh, well, that I like to hear.”
“Don’t make me regret admitting that out loud,” I grumble, pulling the blanket higher.
But even as I hide, I can still hear the phantom buzz of incoming texts in my head. Richard’s words crawl under my skin, familiar and poisonous.
Come back, Olivia. You’ll crawl back. You can’t live without this.
And the scary part? A tiny, traitorous piece of me almost believes him.
I worked extremely hard at that job. It’s hard to walk away, even with my coffee truck waiting for me. My own business will never be as secure as a full-time job.
By the time I peel myself out of Leo’s bed and start hunting for my clothes, the spiral has already taken over.
One second, I’m replaying what just happened, his hands, his mouth, the way my body betrayed me by liking it way too much, and the next, Richard’s texts are crawling under my skin as parasites.
What if I made a mistake walking away? What if everything I worked for, everything I sacrificed, late nights, missed birthdays, weekends spent chained to my laptop, was for nothing? Who am I if I’m not the woman who fixes everything?
The thoughts come fast, relentless—a blizzard I can’t see through.
Leo sits up, frowning as he watches me pull on my sweater. “Liv. Where are you going?”
“To my apartment.” My voice comes out too sharp, too brittle. I smooth it over with a laugh that sounds broken as glass. “I should… I need to check on some things. Clear my head.”
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, like he’s going to get up and stop me. “You don’t have to run off. Talk to me. Whatever’s going on—”
“Nothing’s going on,” I cut in, a little too fast. A little too obvious. “I just need…”
Leo doesn’t buy it. His eyes narrow, that steady, grounded way he looks at me like he knows I’m lying. He can see the hurricane inside me, no matter how much I try to mask it.
And that’s the problem.
Because right now, he feels less like a lifeline and more like another complication I can’t afford. Another bad decision stacked on top of a pile that’s already about to topple.
“I just… I need space,” I mumble, slipping out of his room and hurrying to mine to pull the rest of my clothes on.
“Olivia—” He sounds like he actually cares, and the worst part? That almost makes me stop.
Almost.
But I can’t. Not when my chest is collapsing, not when Richard’s words are still echoing in my head, not when the line between what I want and what will ruin me is already blurring.
So, I do the only thing I can manage.
I leave.
The cold evening hits me. A slap the second I step outside. Sharp, clean air that smells faintly of woodsmoke and pine, the kind of winter day that should feel magical if you weren’t currently spiraling into an existential crisis.
Instead of magic, all I feel is… static.
Loud, relentless, crackling through every nerve.
I tug my coat tighter and shove my hands into the pockets, walking fast as if I can outpace the chaos in my head. Past the porch, down the path dusted in frost, onto Main Street, where the whole town is wrapped in garlands and fairy lights.
It might as well be something out of a Hallmark fever dream.
I want to love it, I really do.
But right now? Everything is in soft focus. Too bright, too loud, too cheerful for the storm chewing through my brain.
You can’t live without this.
Richard’s words curl like smoke in my head. And maybe he’s right. Maybe this whole new life thing was a fantasy. Maybe I’m not cut out for quiet mornings, latte art, and pretending I don’t want to throttle people who ask for half-caf oat milk with extra foam.
I pass a chalkboard sign outside the bakery:
Fresh gingerbread men! Santa’s favorite!
The letters are looping and cheerful, dusted with fake snow.
My throat tightens. I wanted this so badly.
A life where my most significant stress was running out of whipped cream on a Saturday morning. A life that wasn’t twelve-hour workdays and Sunday night dread, and a boss who thought family emergency was code for lazy.
But now? One string of desperate texts from Richard, and I feel like I’m right back where I started—tangled in the old version of me. The one who fixed everything. Who was indispensable. Who bled herself dry for the company, because what was the alternative?
Failing.
And then there’s Leo.
What the hell am I going to do about Leo? And Karl? And Jesse too…
I actually stumble on a patch of ice. Smooth, Olivia. Real graceful.
I grab a lamppost and suck in a breath, my pulse hammering way too hard for someone just… walking. But it’s not the ice. It’s the thought that what just happened wasn’t some casual lapse in judgment.
It meant something. To me. Maybe to him. And that's even scarier than the texts.
Because if I let myself truly want him, then what?
What happens when it blows up? When Karl finds out? When I inevitably ruin the one thing in this town that feels steady?
“Olivia?”
The voice cuts through the fog in my head, warm and achingly familiar.
I whip around, and there he is. Karl. Standing a few feet away on the sidewalk, bundled in that worn Carhartt jacket, snow caught in his beard as if he stepped straight out of a Christmas card.
He looks… concerned. Brows drawn, eyes soft. He can already see the panic bleeding through my smile.
“Oh. Hey.”
Smooth. Real smooth.
“You okay?” He takes a slow step closer, boots crunching in the snow. He’s holding a bag of rock salt in one hand.
I open my mouth to say fine, the automatic, easy lie, but nothing comes out. My throat closes up, hot tears burning behind my eyes, and before I can stop it, they spill over.
“Olivia…”
That’s all he gets out before the dam breaks.
A sob tears loose, raw and humiliating, and then I’m crying. Full on, gasping, snotty crying right there on Main Street like some tragic holiday movie heroine who lost the sledding competition.
Karl drops the salt and is at my side in two strides. He hesitates for half a second, just long enough for me to realize how insane I must look, then his arms are around me. Big, warm, solid.
And that’s it. I fold into him, burying my face in his jacket. My fingers clutch at the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.
“I’m fine,” I hiccup against his chest, which would be funny if it weren’t the most obvious lie I’ve ever told.
Karl doesn’t call me on it. He rubs a broad hand up and down my back, slow and soothing, while the snow swirls around us like the universe decided to stage a scene.
“C’mon,” he murmurs finally, low enough that I feel it more than hear it. “Let’s get you out of the cold.”