Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Olivia
I wake up to the quiet.
Not silence, exactly. There’s the low hum of something mechanical in the walls, the faint clink of a pipe somewhere. Birds chirp somewhere close by.
But in here, it’s still. My body registers first. Sore.
Pleasantly wrecked in ways I understand and in ways I don’t have names for.
My neck feels tender in the best places.
My thighs complain when I shift. The inside of my mouth is dry.
My shoulders feel loose, like someone untied a knot that’s been sitting there for weeks.
Then the rest of it hits me.
Luxurious sheets that definitely aren’t mine. A mattress that’s firmer than mine. A faint scent of soap that isn’t mine.
I blink and try to focus. The room is dimmer than my apartment would be at this hour. I don’t know the layout yet. Bed against a wall, nightstand with a clock, still a bit blurry. A low dresser on the other side. A chair with a jacket folded over the back. My brain catches up in pieces.
Roberto’s room.
My stomach lifts, then drops, then settles uneasily. I shift again, and the sheet slips down enough to remind me I’m naked. I’m naked in Roberto’s bed. My heart does a small, hard flutter that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with awareness.
Images fire one after another, out of order.
Roberto coming to my office. Claiming me, marking me.
Owning me. Cleaning me up. Bringing me home.
The shower with his gentle hands. The way he wrapped me in a towel and carried me to bed as if my legs didn’t work.
The clumsy earnestness with which I climbed into his lap and then into his arms, like I didn’t want a single inch between us.
Which I didn’t. The heat. The ache. The sound of my own voice saying his name without shame.
Another flash: my forehead pressed to his shoulder after, breathing hard, boneless, too tired to cry and too wound up to sleep until he stroked my hair from crown to ends and told me to let go. I must have let go. I don’t remember falling asleep. I remember feeling safe and then nothing.
I pull the sheet a little higher in reflex. My face warms. I’m not ashamed of wanting him; I am embarrassed by how much I wanted last night. How completely I gave myself over.
The words I said. How I begged. I know what we were to each other in that office and in the elevator. This was more. My throat tightens, not with regret, but with a light, prickly fear of my own intensity.
A door hinges softly.
Footsteps. Measured, unhurried.
I freeze because somehow being still will make me invisible. The steps come closer, and then he’s fully in my view. He’s only in drawstring pants. Hair a little mussed. He’s carrying a tray loaded with dishes. The whole effect is absurdly civilized and makes my eyes sting for no good reason.
He looks up and sees I’m awake. The change in his face is small. Concern loosens into relief. Then something like happiness, warm and quiet.
“Good morning,” he says, voice low.
“Hi,” I say. My voice comes out hoarse, and I clear it.
He pauses like he’s checking for signs of distress. He doesn’t crowd the room with noise to fill whatever he thinks I might be feeling. He just crosses to the bed and eases the tray over my lap with care.
I curl up, pulling the sheet with me a bit, covering my breasts. He keeps his eyes on the dishes more than he keeps them on me, which helps. My embarrassment eases a notch.
“I didn’t know what you’d want,” he says. “So I guessed. There’s juice. Hot chocolate. Eggs and pancakes because I couldn’t decide which would be better.”
My mouth pulls into a smile I can’t help. “Both?” I croak.
“Both,” he says.
He shifts the tray closer. A small glass of some kind of juice, a pinkish-orange kind, sits beside a mug of hot chocolate, steam curling.
The pancakes are small and neat with a pat of butter just starting to melt.
The eggs are folded into themselves, soft and yellow, sprinkled with something green.
A tiny dish of berries sits to the side.
My stomach makes a quiet sound that betrays me.
He hears it and pretends he doesn’t. “Start with the juice,” he says. “Small, slow sips.”
“Doctor’s orders?” I ask, reaching for the glass. The cool soothes my sore throat, and my body thanks me.
“Self-preservation,” he says, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
I take a second sip. Then a third. The glass is cold in my hand. My shoulders drop a half-inch. I glance up at him. He’s watching, not hovering. Present in a way that feels like care, not pressure.
“Did you sleep?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Better than I expected to.”
“Me too,” I admit. “I thought I’d be… I don’t know.” I make a small, helpless gesture. “I thought I’d wake up like a drum, all nerves.”
“And?” he says gently.
“And I feel… okay,” I say, surprised to hear it out loud. “Better than okay.” I brush the edge of the sheet with my thumb. “Sore,” I add, because honesty is easier with him than I thought it would be.
His gaze warms and goes solemn all at once. “Where?”
I make a small face at him. “Everywhere.”
“Specifics help,” he says mildly, like we’re discussing a project plan.
“My shoulders,” I say. “My thighs. My lower back. My… throat.” I flush deep, remembering exactly how it got that way.
He nods once, fully serious. “Drink the hot chocolate. It’ll help your throat. Then we’ll take care of the rest of it.”
“With what?” I ask, and I hate that my cheeks heat even more.
“With all of it,” he says.
I cut into a bite of pancakes because the smell is teasing me, and I don’t want to let good food get cold, but he’s still standing there, and it’s making me nervous.
I clear my throat again. “Are you going to just watch me eat?” I ask, my voice small.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything.
His shoulders relax a fraction, and he carefully slides back into bed, careful not to disrupt the tray.
When he’s settled, I take the first forkful of pancakes. They’re soft and vanilla-scented and exactly right with a hint of syrup. A sound escapes me that I didn’t authorize.
He smiles, brief and satisfied. “Good?”
“Ridiculous,” I say around a second bite. “Who made these?”
“A joint effort,” he says. At my furrowed brows, he clarifies. “I started, Clara finished.”
I pause. “Clara?”
He shifts, a faintly sheepish note crossing his face. “She comes in a few mornings a week. I forgot it was today. She arrived while you were still sleeping.”
“Oh.” My brain runs circles. “Did she… see me?”
“No,” he says at once, quick and firm. “Just helped with breakfast and left.”
I eye the tray. “You don’t pay her enough.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Funny you should say that.”
I take a bite of fluffy eggs, grateful that they’re not irritating my throat. “She didn’t have to leave, if it was on my behalf.”
“I didn’t want you to feel on display,” he says softly.
My fingers tighten around the fork and then let go. I trust him in small ways and big ones, but hearing him say it out loud shifts the ground under me a little.
It’s a relief that slants toward gratitude. I nod and take another bite of eggs. They’re as good as the pancakes, soft without going wet, seasoned in a way that tastes like somebody who cares cooked them.
“Aren’t you going to have any?” I ask.
“It’s for you,” he says.
“I couldn’t eat all this,” I say and push the fork at him. “Have some.”
He relents, and I pick up the little cup of tea. All of this might be a bit overkill, but the fact he thought of all this makes me go soft.
He hands the fork back to me, and we trade off until nearly all the food is gone.
Once it’s done, he stands and hefts the tray off me, then moves it to a bench at the foot of the bed.
I watch his movements, not knowing what’s going to happen now. Should I say something?
But before I can, he comes back to stand at the side of the bed. “I’d like to help with your soreness.”
My skin heats. Not just my cheeks this time, but throughout my whole body.
“Okay,” I say, breathless.
He nods toward the pillows. “Lie on your stomach?” His tone is calm, practical. Not clinical—there’s too much attention in it for that—but close.
I hesitate because I’m naked and the sheet will only cover so much. He sees the conflict form and doesn’t look away from my face.
“I can get a robe,” he offers.
“No,” I say, surprising myself with how quickly the word leaves. “It’s fine.”
I turn carefully and ease down. The sheet rides low across my hips. I tuck my arms under the pillow and rest my cheek there. Vulnerable. Also warm. I listen to him move around the room with quiet efficiency. A drawer slides open and shut. Then the bed dips.
“Tell me if anything hurts in a way you don’t like,” he says.
“I will.”
A cap twists, and I hear his hands rub together.
His hands touch my shoulders first. The oil he warms in his palms smells very faintly of almond. His thumbs find the muscles that sit tense at the base of my neck. He doesn’t push hard.
He presses down and moves slowly, patiently, like he’s listening through his hands. My body reacts fast, surprising me. I exhale in a long line I didn’t know I’d been holding.
He works an inch lower, then a little broader across the tops of my shoulders. He doesn’t linger anywhere that would embarrass me yet. He focuses on what hurts. My eyes burn—not from pain, from relief.
I let my head sink into the pillow and pay attention to what he’s doing. He uses his thumbs to circle a knot I’ve had for weeks. He feels it. He pauses. He starts small and gradually deepens the pressure.
“Here?” he asks.
“Mm,” I say, because words feel like too much work.
He stays with it until the knot eases under his hands.
He doesn’t rush to the next place. He waits for a second, making sure it’s truly gone before moving on.
Then he moves down along my scapula, thumbs bracketing bone, palms firm, and I can’t help the sound I make. It’s quiet and unguarded and grateful.
“Good?” he asks, checking in.