Chapter 38
OLIVER
I wake suddenly in the dark to the sound of my hammering heart. Disconcerted and not yet fully in the land of the living, I stretch my arm across the bed, reaching for my anchor. My Eve. My ...
Something brushes my face. I’m certain it’s not Eve’s hair because it doesn’t remotely smell like flowers. “Jesus Christ, Bo! Get your arse out of my face.”
The dog’s head jerks up, his eyes shining in the darkness. He gives in to an unhurried, tremorous stretch before jumping up and shaking his head.
“Ergh!” Saliva hits my face. “Get the fuck down, dog!” He just stares at me. Swallowing my frustration, I modulate my tone to tactical negotiation levels. “Bo, get down off the bed. There’s a good dog.” I’m not sure that’s true. It’s more that he’s good at being a dog. But he makes a noise that I’m sure is triumph before he launches himself to the floor, his toenails tip-tapping all the way out of the room.
In the darkness, I strain to hear if Eve is near.
What a night. And what a pair of fuckwits Eve has for parents. From the moment they arrived, it was obvious their presence was to be a trial, not a comfort. Eve’s whole demeanor screamed anxious around them, and when she didn’t hold back, it was more like she couldn’t help herself.
I’d called down to the concierge to book the chef’s experience, thinking it would distract them and fill any taut conversational spaces. Only, the reservation had already been taken for that night, along with all the nights between now and the new year, I was pleased to hear.
Natalia at the concierge had explained that tonight’s booking had been made for an anniversary, that the party were staying the night in the hotel. So in a display of ... well, I don’t quite know what the fuck that was, or what madness possessed me, I took the guests’ room number, knocked on their door, and introduced myself. Then I offered to exchange their chef’s experience for an all-inclusive week’s stay in our sister hotel. In Saint Kitts.
It had even been worth the trade for a while, until her arse of a stepfather began to tear her down. I couldn’t stop myself from getting involved.
“Oh, fuck it,” I mutter, flinging back the duvet. I’m going to find my girl.
EVIE
“Are you gonna take that shot?”
I look up, dragged back to the present and out of my messy head.
“I went to sleep with my eyes open,” I say, smiling across at Bob, the night porter.
“I thought you were studying which was the best shot.” He turns back to the beer tap he’s tinkering with. “I’d pot the red in the middle pocket, myself.”
“Thanks.” I pick up my glass, the whisky warming my throat and my chest. It’s an acquired taste, whisky. It’s also a taste I’m not sure I’ve yet acquired, but it’s better than the warm milk I’d convinced myself might help me sleep.
I’d tossed and turned after Oliver dropped off to sleep, but given there was no milk in the suite’s kitchen, I thought I might sneak into the hotel kitchen instead. At least until I found Bob in the hotel residents’ bar, complete with a pool table. Although, according to Bob, the hotel’s owner prefers billiards . I didn’t mention I could shake the owner awake to check.
I set my glass on a nearby table, having already been frowned at for putting it on the edge of the pool— billiards —table. It’s gone two in the morning, and I pick up my cue and the square of blue chalk as I distract myself from the thoughts I don’t want. I take aim, and the balls go thwack as they fly across the baize, the red ball tipping into the middle pocket.
“Well done.” I slowly straighten at the compliment that’s not in Bob’s voice. “We have a pool shark in our midst.”
“I believe it’s called billiards .” My gaze slides Bob’s way as my mouth tips apologetically. The old man shakes his head, amused.
“ Billiards shark doesn’t quite have the same ring to it,” Oliver says.
I find myself chuckling, though I wince as the weighted end of the cue strikes the floor harder than I’d intended.
“What’s so funny,” he asks, strolling closer.
I scrunch my nose. “You have bed hair.”
He reaches up and slides his hand through his hair, a sudden warmth rising in my chest. For once, it’s not the tight flex of his physique. It’s the affection in his eyes and the way that he’s dressed. The eccentric billionaire, wandering his hotel, his hair askew, dressed in navy pajama pants. And a T-shirt too.
“I left you a note. I couldn’t sleep.”
“I didn’t see a note. It was probably victim to Bo’s rear end.”
“Oh, no.”
He comes to stand next to me, adopting a low, confidential tone. “I almost mistook his tail for your hair.”
“Yikes.” I pull another face, though it softens as his hand cups my cheek.
“You should’ve woken me.”
“So we can both lament my parentage?”
Oliver’s expression flickers into sympathy, and I tighten my grip on the cue as my heart tip-taps.
“Families are complicated.”
“Are they? Mine seems pretty simple. Toe the line, or get ridiculed. Why do they have to be so ...”
“Set in their ways?”
“Obsessed with money. So arrogant. Why do the wealthy think money makes them better than everyone else?”
His mouth cants, and he half turns, leaning back against the table. “Arrogance lives at all levels of financial status,” he says carefully. “Wealth is just an amplifier.”
“Oh, I’m aware,” I say, adjusting my grip on the cue. “Have you ever had to deal with a plumber in the depths of winter? The attitude? Immense. Huge! But my experience is, the wealthier the person, the bigger the asshole.”
“By that edict, I’m not quite sure where to adjust my monocle.”
I huff out a laugh, tipping forward to rest my forehead against his shoulder.
“What about Nora? She’s quite arrogant.”
“Nora’s a special case.” I stand straight again and reach over for my glass. Taking a tentative sip, I offer it over. “Besides, I’m not sure she’s arrogant as much as she is a grump.”
“Eve,” he begins over the rim of the glass, “you know she looks down on everyone.”
“Unless you’re wearing a fur coat and have four legs. She’s had a hard life. Of course she’s going to be prickly around people. She gets a pass from me for all that she does.”
“What about me?” He sets the glass on the table, tsk, tsk , and turns to me. “Do I get a pass?”
“No matter what I’ve accused you of,” I say, my tone turning soft, “there’s no deficit in your empathy. What you said earlier ...” My words trail away. I feel like if I speak, my heart might overflow, and my tears might never stop flowing. And I hate crying. It makes me feel weak—makes me look like a frog!
“I only spoke the truth.”
“I’ve never had someone stand up for me like that.”
“That is not what I wanted to hear.”
“It is what it is.” The words. I can barely force them past the ball in my throat. “Can’t help the way I was made.”
“Bob.” His gaze holds mine as he pitches his voice just loud enough for Bob to hear. “Would you leave us, please?”
“No worries, boss.” A clink of metal against wood, the shuffle of shoe leather, and the doors to the bar close with a quiet thunk .
“It must be nice when people do as you say,” I whisper, even though we’re the only ones here.
“I used to think so. Recently, I’ve revised my opinion.”
“Liar,” I say, biting back a smile.
“It’s true.” Warmth licks at my stomach as his own lips tip.
I inhale deeply. I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to say. Never said the words out loud, at least. I mean, who’d want to hear the poor little privileged girl lament her upbringing? But I feel full, like there’s no more space for this bottling up. “When I was growing up, we had a Labrador. Dilly. She was amazing. I was an only child with a four-legged sibling, and she was my best friend. We would run and play together, and she’d let me fall asleep on her like she was my pillow. I told you my dad died, but my parents divorced before that. I was seven, and the night they decided they’d had enough, I just hid in my room with Dilly, burying my tears in her fur as they shouted and screamed, their unhappiness reaching its climax. Losing her a few years later was almost unbearable. I’ve never cried like I did that night, and I still miss her every day.”
“Dilly is why you became a vet?”
I shrug. “Animals were easier. It’s the people around me that I found difficult. There was a time Mom used to be proud of me. For what I was studying, for what I’d planned.”
“I’m sure she’s proud of you still.”
I shake my head. “No, she isn’t. I mean, she’s always been critical about my appearance, frustrated that I don’t make the best of myself. But it was never about the best for me and more about getting myself a man. If I’d taken her lead, I would’ve snagged a husband at college and not worried about my GPA.”
Oliver surprised me earlier with the strength of his defense, and he surprises me again when he doesn’t speak, just takes my hand, offering me a silent comfort, allowing me to purge.
“Marry a rich man—that’s always been her focus. Like it did her any good. They divorced before dad came into his inheritance, so there was little of their wealth that came her way. Her next husband was a skinflint, and the reason I lost my dog. She didn’t die of natural causes. They had her euthanized while I was away at camp.” His eyes turn soft, but I rush on. “She was old, I get that, but Martin, Mom’s ex, said the vet bills were too much. But they didn’t even give me a chance to say goodbye.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Then Todd came along. By then, I was old enough to see that the issue was and always will be money. Money makes Mom compliant. She twists and bends to a mold because of it. It’s been hard,” I say, swiping at silent tears. “But it’s also been a good lesson. Wealthy men have the power to ruin you.”
“But not you,” he says quietly, staring down at our linked fingers. “You have an iron rod running through your spine. You’re strong, and you’re brave, and when you bend, you do so only out of love.”
“I’m sorry I lumped you in with them,” I say, tears falling freely, my words partially choked. “I didn’t give you a chance.”
“Hush now.” Everything seems tangled by my thoughts as he lifts my hand, my body comprehending his actions before my brain does. His lips are soft as he kisses each of my fingertips in turn. “Do you know, I adore you.” By his tone, he might be discussing the weather. “I suppose I’m just a little slow on the uptake when it comes to love.”
“Oliver?” Loves. Loves me?
His answer is a hum that’s not quite a confirmation as he presses a kiss to my palm. “Your eyes look so soft. Is it tears, or is it wonder?”
“Try shock ?”
“Eve.” My name is a chastisement that feathers across my lips as he lifts my hand to the back of his neck.
“Wait.” My hand slips to his warm chest, the scent of him, of soap, spice, and man, calling to me on some level I don’t understand. “Wait just a minute. Are we talking strong levels of affection here? That you love having me around?”
He smirks, yes, smirks, with intent, and my heart begins to dance like a highly strung Chihuahua. On crystal meth.
“Well, I love having you, yes. But this is much bigger than that. Perhaps I should tell you how I admire you ... ardently.”
A smile catches in the corner of my mouth. I can’t stop it from spreading. “Have you struggled in vain? Your feelings can’t be repressed?”
“This will not do,” he murmurs, pressing his hand over my mouth. “Sweet, lovely, frustrating Eve, I love you.”
His declaration brings emotions I never could’ve anticipated—feelings I’ve never experienced before. My hand clasps the back of his neck as my vision blurs, my heart overflowing with joy, with tenderness, with desire, and with every related emotion possible.
“You.” He breathes the word, gathering me close. “Do you remember telling me what you thought love would look like?”
“Yeah,” I answer, recalling the conversation and my harsh words.
“Love is choosing that person always, you said. That made sense to me somehow. I’ve never believed people just fall spontaneously in love. It has to be a choice. A choice to love or not. And I stand by that, because I didn’t fall in love with you, Eve. It didn’t happen by chance, and it wasn’t a mistake. My heart chose you, my darling.” He sweeps the hair from my face and presses his lips to my head. “And when you’re driving me up the wall, when we argue and snipe and can’t seem to agree on anything, my heart still chooses you. Again and again, over and over, without doubt and without fear, because even at those moments, I would still rather be with you than anyone else in the world.”
I begin to laugh softly and give my head a slow shake.
“Was that not romantic enough?” Oliver asks, lifting my watery gaze to meet his bemused one.
“That’s not it.” This man loves me. He loves me . And I am tired of fighting my feelings. The good, the bad, the ugly—the ugly pretty—I want every part of him as desperately as I want his kisses. “It just occurs to me that, by that explanation, I must love you too.”
“Eve.” His voice breaks over my name as he pulls my body flush with his. The pool cue falls from my nerveless fingers, clattering discordant and ignored to the floor. His lips are so tender, and I taste whisky from his tongue as we kiss and we kiss, as we share love and joy and relief. Until that unseen corner is inevitably turned, and our kisses change in strength and depth, becoming deeper and desperate. My moan vibrates through us both, his hands beginning to roam—the base of my throat, my ribs, my waist—when he pulls back, his face made of shadows and determination. He takes my breast full in his hand, plumping lushly, rolling the pebble of my nipple between his fingertips.
“You have become everything to me.” Our mouths meet again, our touches turning frantic, our tongues tangling and our teeth clashing. We kiss as we live, wild for each other.
His T-shirt comes off, mine next, his hands framing my breasts, my nipples aching peaks that he sucks into his mouth.
“Oh, God!” My body bows and twists, his fingers echoing the sucking pull of his lips, liquid hot pleasure bursting through me.
“Darling, I need you.”
“Yes.” With my whispered assent, his hands slip under my thigh, lifting me onto the pool table. Lifting my knee, he drives himself between the clasp of my thighs. We both groan as hard meets soft. “Take these off.” I tug at the waist of his pajama pants, sliding my foot against his thigh.
“You drive me insane.” His words are all ache and gravel, the rasp of his stubble making me pulse and shiver. “You make me the happiest I’ve ever been.”
“Same,” I pant out, my thoughts fragmenting at the threat of his teeth.
“Kissing you makes me feel I could explode with happiness.” His arm at my back is a brace, balls clicking and rolling as he lays me against the green baize. “Fucking you feels like a religious experience.”
“Hallelujah. But less talking, more worshipping.”
“Shut up,” he rasps, playfully biting my shoulder. “You know you love what this mouth can do.”
He’s so right. I think it will always be like this between us. Give and take, push and pull, driving each other crazy all day long. And just when I think it can’t get any better than this, Oliver pulls back, and for a moment, he just stares down at me. I swallow hard, overcome by the love in his eyes. Love and maybe a little surprise, like he’s not sure how he found himself here.
I close my eyes, screwing them tight, imprinting the moment behind my lids. I love him.
“I knew it wouldn’t take long.” He smirks.
“For what?”
“Before you’d look at me again. I know you can’t help yourself,” he taunts. “It’s a curse being this handsome.”
“Pretty, you mean.” Reaching up, I pull his mouth to mine, our kiss urgent and brief, as though we’re frightened we might miss something. My fingers coast through his thick hair, glide over his broad shoulders, his muscles flexing and bunching beneath his heated skin.
“Yes.” I arch into his hand as it glides down between us.
“You smell fucking edible.” His compliment is hot and rough as he makes short work of my pajama bottoms. My body jolts as he brushes the pad of his thumb across my clit. I can feel how wet I am through the mixture of cool air and the heat of his breath. “You’re so pretty. And all mine.” My breathing turns ragged at the press of his tongue, pleasure pulsing through me.
“Oh, yes!” I anchor my hands in his hair as his mouth lays claim to my pussy, the brush of his stubble and the pull of his lips making my whole body tremble. I cry out in surrender. I cry out in love. I give in to this most delicious of torments as I come undone.
A minute or a lifetime later, Oliver is standing above me. His eyes are dark, and his mouth and chin shine obscenely with my pleasure.
“Tell me you want me,” he demands.
“More every day.” I swallow, overcome by the moment. Overcome with the notion that this is our love. Our call and response.
“Tell me again. Tell me—”
“I do.” My hips tilt in a silent plea. “I love you, Oliver.”
“Yes, thank God.”
He lines himself up, and we’re both done for.