12. Brett
Brett
The howling wind outside rattled the old hotel’s windows, shaking loose a dusting of snow from the eaves.
The power had cut out hours ago, plunging the place into an eerie silence.
I glanced at Olivia, who was kneeling in front of the fireplace, coaxing a flame to life.
The flickering glow danced over her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the determined set of her mouth. She was all business, as usual.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” I asked, watching her poke at the logs.
She shot me a glare. “Lighting a fire? Yes, Brett, I think I can manage. But by all means, if your expertise extends beyond buying overpriced real estate, feel free to jump in.”
I smirked, leaning against the mantel. “Touchy.”
“Trapped with you in a freezing, abandoned hotel? Yeah, I’m a little touchy.”
I didn’t blame her. The past between us simmered just under the surface, heating the room better than the fire ever could.
“You should sit. You’re too tall to loom,” Olivia said, brushing dust off her jeans.
“I don’t loom.”
“You do, actually.” She rose to her feet, brushing past me. I caught the faint scent of vanilla and something else—her. The same scent that used to cling to my sheets years ago.
I forced myself to focus. “You wanted to look around, right? See if there’s anything worth salvaging before we renovate this place into a soulless money pit?”
Her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. “Lead the way, oh fearless property mogul.”
We moved deeper into the hotel, our candlelight throwing long shadows against the peeling wallpaper. Olivia ran her fingers over the antique molding, her designer’s brain probably cataloging every detail.
“This could be stunning with the right restoration,” she whispered.
“Or we could tear it all down and start fresh.”
Her sharp inhale told me exactly how she felt about that. “You would bulldoze history, wouldn’t you?”
I shrugged. “History doesn’t pay the bills.”
She mumbled something under her breath, but I caught it. “Soulless.”
I grinned. “Careful, Olivia. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared what I did with this place.”
“I care about design. I don’t care about you.”
Ouch! A little direct, but I expected nothing less.
We kept moving, weaving through the dusty corridors. The air smelled of age—wood rot, forgotten time, and something faintly floral. Olivia stopped at an old ballroom, its chandelier draped in cobwebs and its wooden floor warped with time.
“This was beautiful once,” she said softly.
I watched her, the way her fingers brushed the ornate trim on the wall and how her eyes took in every detail. I knew that look. She was already designing it in her head.
“What would you do with it?” I asked, curiosity slipping through my usual defenses.
She turned to me, her expression softening. “Keep the bones. Refinish the floors, restore the chandelier, and make it a showpiece. This place has soul.”
I exhaled, shaking my head. “You always did see potential in things no one else noticed.”
Her gaze flicked to me, something unreadable in her expression. “Not always.”
The weight of our past pressed in. The way I’d left. The way she’d watched me go. The way I’d spent years regretting it.
“Olivia—”
A loud crack outside made us both jump. Wind? Something collapsing? I instinctively reached for her wrist, steadying her. She was tense beneath my touch, but she didn’t pull away.
“Storm’s getting worse,” I said, voice rough.
“Obviously.”
We stood there, my fingers wrapped around her wrist, and her breath shallow. Too much unspoken history lay between us. Too much still left unsaid.
She swallowed hard, her throat working. “We should head back before the roof caves in or something.”
“Right.”
But neither of us moved. My fingers skimmed down to her palm, tracing the curve of her wrist. She shivered, but not from the cold.
“Brett.” My name was a warning.
“Say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you don’t feel this. That this doesn’t still haunt you.”
She tore her hand from mine, stepping back like I’d burned her. “I feel a lot of things, Brett. But mostly, I feel trapped in a storm with an egotistical billionaire who bulldozes history.”
I chuckled, but it was hollow. “And yet, you want me to kiss you.”
She turned on her heel and marched back toward the fireplace. I followed because what else could I do? I followed because Olivia Shaw could say whatever she wanted, but I knew the truth.
She felt this.
She still burned for me the way I still burned for her.
And tonight, in this dark, forgotten hotel, there was nowhere left to hide from it.
I had no idea how we ended up raiding the kitchen together, but there we were, shoulder to shoulder, digging through cabinets like desperate scavengers.
Olivia huffed, tossing a box of crackers onto the counter. “This is pathetic.”
I smirked, holding up a can of gourmet olives. “Fancy snacks for fancy people. You want to go full survival mode? I can whip up a mean?—”
“Oh, shut up.” She snatched the olives and pried the lid open, popping one into her mouth. “I swear, you always think you’re so charming.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “And yet, here I am, letting you eat my survival rations.”
She shot me a glare but kept chewing.
Five minutes later, we’d thrown together a ridiculous meal: crackers, cheese, olives, some kind of imported salami that neither of us could pronounce, and a suspicious-looking tub of hummus. It wasn’t gourmet, but hell, it would do.
“A masterpiece,” I announced, grabbing two wine glasses I found in the cabinet. “Drink? Or are we keeping things PG?”
Olivia arched a brow. “Since when have we ever been PG?”
Damn. That hit a little too close to home.
Instead of answering, I poured the wine and handed her a glass. Our fingers brushed, and she held my gaze for a beat too long. One very dangerous beat. The one that whispered, Bad idea. Don’t do this again.
I cleared my throat and turned away, heading for the sitting room. “Let’s eat before you murder me for my olives.”
She followed, shaking her head. “You’re still insufferable.”
“And you are still beautiful.” I was trying to kill her with kindness.
She ignored me completely and went over to the fireplace, which loomed large, a stack of logs beside it.
She went to the couch while I crouched down, arranging the wood.
Olivia draped herself with a blanket that was on the back of the couch, sipping her wine like she belonged in some old-money estate.
When I struck the match, the flames flared up instantly, and I started breathing again.
“Not bad,” she whispered, her voice softer now.
I glanced at her, stretched out under the flickering light, her long black hair spilling over the armrest. Her eyes—those damn eyes, that blue-green mix that saw right through me—studied me like she was deciding something.
I looked away first.
“Oh, look at this,” Olivia said, sitting up suddenly. She reached toward a small bookshelf, pulling out a stack of dusty board games. “Well, well, Brett Collins. Up for a challenge?”
I eyed the options. “Depends. If it’s Monopoly, I’m flipping the board.”
“Coward.” She held up Scrabble, grinning. “How about this? Unless you’re scared, I’ll destroy you with my superior vocabulary.”
I snorted. “Sweetheart, you wish.”
We settled on the floor, wrapped in blankets, a makeshift feast between us. Olivia went first, spelling Daring in a neat, calculated arrangement. I stared at it for a second too long, my mind catching on the irony.
“Fitting,” I said, placing Flame beside it.
Her lips twitched. “You’re not subtle.”
“Never claimed to be.”
The game turned cutthroat fast. Olivia played Victory like she’d already won, and I countered with Savage just to make a point. Every turn carried a loaded message, every glance another unspoken conversation.
Somewhere between Smolder and Tease, the inevitable happened.
She shifted closer, wine glass dangling from her fingers. “Admit it. You’re enjoying this.”
“What, losing? Never.”
“No.” Her voice dipped, low and smoky. “Being here with me.”
I swallowed hard. My fingers brushed her wrist just enough to feel her pulse spike. The fire crackled behind us, heat curling around the edges of something neither of us wanted to name.
“Maybe,” I confessed. “And maybe you are, too.”
She inhaled sharply, but instead of pulling away, she leaned in. My eyes dropped to her lips—big mistake. I could still taste the memory of her, the wild, reckless pull we never quite shook.
“We shouldn’t—” she started, but I cut her off.
“We never should, Olivia.”
But neither of us moved.
Silence stretched between us, thick with everything we weren’t saying. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she exhaled one word: “Screw it.”
And just like that, the game was forgotten.
My fingers threaded through her hair as her lips crashed against mine, urgent and furious, a decade of tension unraveling in seconds. She tasted like wine and defiance, her hands gripping my shoulders like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to push me away or pull me closer.
I made the decision for her.
We toppled back onto the rug, the fire casting wild shadows across the walls. My hands slid down her back, her breath catching as I kissed along her jaw and down her neck, the way I used to?—
A loud thud interrupted us.
We froze.
Olivia blinked, disoriented. “What was?—”
The Scrabble board had tipped over, tiles scattered across the floor.
I burst out laughing. She groaned, dropping her head against my shoulder. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t,” I nudged her chin up, smirking. “Admit it. I was winning.”
She shoved me, but her eyes gleamed with something dangerous.
Game on.
Several hours later, snow and ice pounded against the hotel’s windows, the wind howling like some vengeful ghost. Olivia and I sat by the fire, a bottle of bourbon between us, our makeshift mattress fort looming a great shadow on the wall.
“So,” Olivia smirked, taking a slow sip. “What’s the scariest thing that’s ever happened to you?”
“Besides being stuck in a snowbound death trap with you?” I shot back, grinning. “I’d say the time I had to fire an assistant who responded by hexing my phone. Every text auto-corrected to ‘I’m a donkey.’”
Olivia snorted, nearly spilling her drink. “That’s your horror story?”
“Terrifying. Business negotiations became impossible.” I shrugged, leaning back against the mattress. “Alright, your turn, Olivia. Impress me.”
She leaned in, her blue-green eyes glinting in the firelight. “Fine. There was this one time at a design consult— the client swore their house was haunted. I thought they were exaggerating, but when I walked upstairs, every single chair had been flipped upside down. No one else was home.”
I raised a brow. “And your solution?”
“Bold color choices and a sage cleanse.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”
We fell into a comfortable silence, the warmth of the fire adding to the heat that was already between us.
I watched her as she traced patterns into the fabric of the mattress, her fingers delicate but sure.
God, she was beautiful. Even here, in the middle of nowhere, with snow trapping us like some twisted romance novel premise, she looked effortless.
“Stop staring,” she sighed without looking up.
“Not my fault you’re hard to ignore.”
She smiled, and I saw the way her throat moved when she swallowed. Her fingers fidgeted slightly against the glass, and I knew she was trying hard to fight it. We both were.
The upstairs rooms had been cold and uninviting, but down here, by the fire, surrounded by nothing but silence and unsaid things, it felt different. I shifted closer, barely an inch, but it was enough to make her lift her head, her gaze meeting mine in the flickering light.
Neither of us spoke.
I leaned in, slow, deliberate, brushing the line between curiosity and something deeper. My breath mingled with hers, and for a moment, I swore she wasn’t going to stop me. But then?—
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, her voice uneven.
I didn’t pull away. “Why?”
Silence.
That said more than any excuse she could have given. I could practically hear the internal war raging inside her. Logic versus want. History versus now.
Undeterred, I closed the space again, this time not leaving room for hesitation. My lips caught hers—soft at first, a question, not a demand. She inhaled sharply but didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled into the fabric of my sweater like she was trying to ground herself.
When I deepened the kiss, she melted. I felt her just give in.
What a rush! A soft sound escaped her throat, and my entire body tightened in response.
Her hands moved—up my arms, into my hair, nails skimming the nape of my neck.
My own hands found her waist, gripping just enough to feel the heat beneath layers of wool and cotton.
The fire sizzled beside us, but the real burn was happening right between us.
Then, just as suddenly, she pulled back, breathless, eyes wide. “This is a bad idea.”
I smirked. “You keep saying that, but that’s what makes it fun.”
She groaned, pressing her forehead to mine like she was gathering the strength to either kiss me again or throw me into the fire, or maybe both.
I let my fingers trace lazy circles on her hip. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
She didn’t.
Instead, she kissed me again—harder this time, and all the hesitation burned away.