Chapter 8 #2
him? Sure, he invited me here but not like as his date or anything. This is a casual hang between assistants.
He double cheek kisses a woman before making his way over to me. I study him, and I know I’m not the only person in the bar
doing so. He’s the kind of handsome that makes you look twice, once for evaluation and once for indulgence. The slope of his
nose pulling focus toward his warm hazel eyes, framed by the depth of his brow, his full lips encasing a wide infectious smile—it’s
all mesmerizing. I’ve seen lots of pretty men, but the way he holds himself in complete comfort without managing to look like
a cocky bastard is rare. My skin tingles as he strides over to our group, and instead of taking the empty seat on the opposite
side, he drags an empty chair from another table and places it next to me. The gesture makes me blush like a teenager.
As I’m listening to a group debate the difference between Aperol and Campari, I overhear David ask Oliver, “You’re coming with later?”
Oliver glances briefly at me, but I pretend not to notice, remaining hyper-focused on my drink.
He shrugs, a slight tug at the side of his lip. “Maybe, I’ll see how I feel.”
“Sure, brother. Have a good night.” I give David a tight smile as he nods goodbye to us both.
Oliver turns back to me.
“He seems nice.”
“He’s a good guy. Works too hard, though.”
“Do all the Americans form an alliance at these things?”
Oliver laughs into his glass as it balances on his bottom lip. “Yes, and if it gets too British, we naturally have to throw
you all in the river. Where in the UK are you from?”
“London. Well, born and raised just outside of London, but it’s a place nobody’s ever heard of.”
“Try me,” he dares.
“Welwyn Garden?”
“Never heard of it.” He smiles, leaning back against the wooden back of his chair, his elbow resting against it. “Sounds nice,
though. Maybe I’ll go when I get back.”
The bitter liquid catches like a hook in my throat. “You live in London?”
He laughs. “Yeah, couldn’t you tell? My accent is fucked now. I say ‘quite’ and ‘a bit’ more than any American ever has; my
siblings take the mick all the time.” He goes to sip but stops. “There’s another one.”
“How do you like living in London?” I ask, feeling more sheepish now for some reason. Like the conversational stakes have risen knowing we share smog.
“It’s great. I love the walkability, the restaurant culture, and it’s nice to experience the seasons. But it drives me crazy
whenever all you Brits have a single pint and say my name. Olly Olly Olly, Oi Oi Oi!”
I snort a laugh. “Oh, I’m about to break out into song any second now.”
He holds in a smile. “I knew there was a reason I threw coffee on you.”
I take a long breath before bringing the subject back to him. “So what else does your job in London entail, besides coffee
orders?”
He opens his mouth, closes it, licks his lips, and says, “I don’t want to be rude, but as interesting as filing, printing,
and Microsoft Excelling is, I’d love to not talk about work right now. It’s been a long day of talking to so many assholes.”
He emphasizes the last three words.
“Assholes are chatty?” I furrow my brow.
“Believe it or not, even more than mouths. But please, I’m even happy to sit here in silence”—Oliver hangs his head dramatically—“just
anything but work.”
I purse my lips, my shoulders sagging with relief that I don’t have to lie. I drag my straw around the edges of the glass
in silence for a few seconds. Finally, I ask, “What’s your stance on Aperol Spritz during the winter months?”
He considers, his thick brows furrowing. “Far right.” He twists his chair toward mine. “What do you do for fun, Violet?”
I consider, staring at the bottom of my glass. “I think . . . nothing?”
“You don’t do anything for fun?” His hazel eyes pick up flickers of the candlelight.
I jut my chin out towards the beer pong table. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a while. I think I only do things for money
or glory,” I half joke.
He tilts his head in question, eyes glittering. “Want to carry on the fun?”
I scrunch my eyebrows, scanning him up and down.
“Not in a creepy way—there’s, like, twenty of us sneaking into the executive hotel pool when they throw us out of here.”
I pause, swishing the final lick of liquid in the glass before knocking it back.
My finger taps against the glass. “Buy me one more drink, and I’ll consider it.”
Forty-five minutes later, the alcohol blanket keeps me warm as we walk back to the hotel. Oliver and I hang back from the
gang of Americans, British, Italians, and three Dutch people we’ve collected along the way as they sing down the road.
“Olly Olly Olly!” one of the British guys shouts over his shoulder as he approaches the automatic doors at the front of the
hotel.
“Oi oi oi!” I shout in unison with the rest of the group.
He cuts a side glance at me. “Told you.”
I nod solemnly. “It’s a disease.”
“Your coat looks good by the way; did dry cleaning get all the stains out?”
“Yeah, thanks for sorting that. How did the front desk know it was for me?”
He leans into my side. “I told them it belonged to the pretty brunette who got decimated by several cups of coffee in the lobby yesterday.”
“Oh god.” I cup my face in my hands, partially to hide the embarrassment of the scene but also to cover my blushing cheeks
at being referred to as pretty. It’s not that I think it’s a lie. I like the way I look. I just don’t usually like the way
I’m being perceived. But something about the casualness of his compliment, like to him it’s just a scientific fact, makes
my skin tingle.
Sneaking through the hotel, I glance at my phone. Still no messages or calls from Spencer; that little wuss is too scared
to come face me after what he did.
We pile into the fancy elevator, a thrill tingling around my body as I’m briefly packed against him at the front of the crowd.
“You’re, like, King of the Assistants,” I assess as we exit on the pool and spa floor.
He leans down toward my ear, his voice lowering as he deadpans, “A responsibility I take very seriously.”
When we exit on the spa floor, he unlocks a door with a key card that looks a lot more like Spencer’s than my third-floor
one.
As the final person goes through, I raise an eyebrow, “King of Thieves too?”
He shrugs, hazel eyes twinkling. “Whichever the Queen of Beer Pong wants me to be.” His lips curl as he uses his broad shoulder
to hold open the door.
My stomach does a flip, but I roll my eyes, sliding through the door and brushing past his large frame. This close to him,
his peppery scent mixes with a wash of chlorine air emanating from the pool.
This pool isn’t just a pool; it’s a full-on spa. One you could imagine diplomats and First Ladies frequenting. The steps down to the water open like a grande maison staircase. Greek columns line the edges, circling around a Jacuzzi at the very end of the pool. The walk down can only be
described as a promenade. I glance into the water to see a Medusa-esque face in the mosaic floor shimmering under the surface.
The two Italians pull out their backpacks, handing out miniature bottles of liquor, presumably from their boss’s minibar,
as well as beer and wine from the local co-op. Everyone throws off their clothes, removing silk shirts and trousers until
they’re laid bare in matching underwear sets and Calvin Klein boxer shorts. I flinch, my body rapidly coating in sweat.
“Come on!” a man shouts to the crowd as they slide into the water.
My arms slink around my body, pinching the fabric on my forearms to check it’s still there as my chest begins to heave.
What if someone takes a photo of me?
“Coming in, Oliver?” A pretty redhead blinks, perky breasts in a white lace bralette bobbing just above the water like two
little ice caps. My eyes fix on her. Does she know everyone has their phones out? Strangers? She notices me watching her and
gives me a suspicious look. My chest collapses inward.
Oliver glances to me, then at the striped forest-green and cream pool loungers. “I’m good. Think I’ll chill here for a while.”
Bringing his eyes back to mine, he gestures to the loungers while clasping two small bottles of red wine in his hand. “Wanna
join me for some luxury living?”
I scan him suspiciously. Does he sense my hesitancy? His face doesn’t give it away, but my stress begins to thaw regardless.
I force a word out of my mouth—“Sure”—urging my tense body to move.
We sink into the loungers, flicking back and forth between chatting and flirting as we watch everyone else frolic in the pool.
A man ducks under the water, launching a woman into the air on his shoulders.
“Thanks,” I breathe out, as he unscrews one of the bottles before passing it to me.
“You know, I think TechRumble is going to be the end of your bad year,” Oliver surmises as he takes a long swig.
I take it, our fingers lightly grazing as I grasp the bottle. “What makes you think that?”
“You’ve got it.”
I glug the wine before mimicking him. “It?” The booze goes immediately to my legs.
“Ya know, you’ve got, like, fire in your eyes. Not everyone has that in places like this; they just want to make as much money
as possible and then sell at the highest price before moving on to the next thing.”
I make a “hmmm” sound, not meeting his eye. My shoes clatter to the ground as I kick them off.
He leans forward, eyes scrunching ever so slightly. “You don’t agree?”
I throw an arm behind my head and close my eyes for a second, considering while squealing and splashing echoes around us.
Oliver doesn’t say anything, just watches as I open and close my mouth, stopping and starting what I feel like getting off
my chest.
I open one eye. “This doesn’t leave the pool?”
He puts up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“I had an idea, a good idea, I think. Anyway, I’m not getting the recognition for it, and it’s pissing me off.” I let out
a breath, feeling the weight of relief washing off me and sliding down the pool grates.