Chapter 17 Olive
Chapter seventeen
Olive
We made it to his car unscathed.
Outside, there were flashes and chaos. In the cab of the car, it’s quiet.
I kept my hands to myself, resisting the urge to touch the new chain that sat comfortably on my collarbone.
I hate jewelry. I never wear it.
But this? This necklace is stunning. It feels too expensive to flash to the world, yet too beautiful to keep hidden in the box.
The chain is dainty and gold, but doesn’t feel fragile—not like it could snap at the slightest tug. The charm is simple: a gold plated, O and A fused together side by side, with tiny diamonds embedded in the letters, catching the light and sparkling against my skin.
I would bet it cost more money than I’ve ever had in my life.
The jewellery-hating part of me feels like it’s burning my skin. But there’s also a tiny part of me that feels like it was made for me, and has made it's way home.
That part is minuscule, but she still exists, nonetheless.
"So," I start to say, but he cuts me off when he leans across me, his lips less than an inch from my mouth, and my breath hitches in my throat.
He makes me nervous, and I don’t know why. Just hours ago, I’d been the one trying to rattle him, pushing to see if I could crack that stern facade.
But he didn’t flinch. He stayed perfectly still.
And now that it looks like he’s about to kiss me, I want to close the gap and take his lips against mine.
I never get nervous over something as simple as a kiss. Hell, I don’t really get nervous at all.
I involuntarily close my eyes as the scent of leather, wood, and musk washes over me. I lean into it, letting myself bask in him for a breath, but then the moment breaks.
His warmth disappears, replaced by the cold clunk of the glove compartment closing.
My eyes snap open.
He’s back in the driver’s seat, cool as ever, his back pressed against his seat with an arrogant smirk on that infuriatingly delicious face.
"You said ‘not even once,’ but that’s twice today that I could’ve kissed you, and you would’ve let me."
"No, I wouldn’t have." I cross my arms over my chest, scrunching up my nose, and he laughs.
"Here," he says, holding out a thick, yellow envelope for me to take, and I do.
"The contract?" I ask, and he nods just once. "Let me just check with Josie to see if there’s anything else to do."
"Her signature is already on it. So is mine and Orlando’s. Just waiting on yours right next to where it says Olivia Herring," he teases, waiting to see if he’s going to get a rise out of me, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
I do, however, calmly search the page, knowing full well Josie is the one who had lawyers put this together. But when I see my actual name and not the one he calls me, I let out a little sigh of relief.
Ignoring him, I send a text to my manager.
Josie
We all good for me to scribble my name on this thing?
Sign it, ASAP. Oh, and have fun.
I do what I’m told, and sign my soul away to the devil
Once my seatbelt is buckled in and we’re finally driving away from his apartment building, I turn to him. "We need a backstory."
Sharp, to the point, and no need for clarification. I need to have control of something in my life. And if it can’t be my health, why not this?
"A backstory?" he repeats, looking over his shoulder to check it’s clear for him to change lanes.
"We can’t just make it up as we go. I mean, I can if you like, but I don’t think you’d like where my mind goes when I need to create a story at the last minute." I flip down the sun visor to check and make sure my lipstick isn’t smudged or on my teeth. I’m thankfully in the clear.
The person staring back at me is somebody I barely recognize. A face full of makeup, not a freckle in sight. I don’t like it, but I know it’s practically mandatory for a night like this.
"And what would your ideal scenario be, Songbird?" He glances at me quickly, flashing me his straight, white teeth and delectable smile that makes him look downright delicious. "In your mind, how did we meet?"
Songbird. I don’t know if I prefer that or Olivia.
That’s a solid question, I’ll give him that. And by the way the traffic is moving, I would say we have about twenty minutes to think of something.
But instead of procrastinating, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.
"The snow. Everyone loves the snow." I wince, unsure of how my body would react to the extreme change in weather considering the heat is what set me off originally, and every time since, but I force myself to remain confident nonetheless.
It is my burden to carry.
"Fun fact about me: I hate the snow." His voice is almost entirely monotone as he turns right down a busy street I don’t recognize. He doesn’t even glance at the signs—just drives like he’s lived here forever.
"That doesn’t sound fun at all. You live in New York City. You literally cannot escape it in winter." I watch him closely, but his face remains stoic.
"It’s nice to look at, but I would rather not freeze my ass off the minute I step outside. I prefer to watch it fall from my apartment windows in front of my fireplace."
Alright, Mr. Boring.
"Okay. Let’s start smaller. What’s your favorite color?"
He groans like I’ve just asked him the most basic question, because I have. But we need to start somewhere, and he’s giving me about as much as I give everybody else.
"Fine. Favorite country you’ve traveled to?"
"That one is easy—Portugal. The custard tarts are the best thing I’ve ever eaten." He groans again, but this time it’s different. There’s a softness to his tone, a lightness about him, and it sets fire to something inside of me that I do my best to shove down.
"Well, there you go. Fun fact about me: my mom claims to be Portuguese."
"How can someone claim to be anything?" he questions, taking another turn, and now it feels like we’re driving around in circles. I’m not at all used to this. Back home, we have one set of traffic lights that barely ever turn red, but here? It feels like there's one on every corner.
"My Grandpa was born in Portugal. We don’t refer to my Aunts or Uncles as Tia or Tio, and she doesn’t really know how to cook the food.
She always promised to take us there on a family holiday, but I’ve never left the country.
Therefore, she claims to be, but not a very good one.
Her maiden name, though, is Oliveira." Which is how I got my name.
My mom didn’t want it because she isn’t all that close with her family, but my dad managed to convince her that it was a beautiful name.
When she found out she was pregnant with twin girls, they decided they would each pick a name.
Elizabeth for my mom, and Olive for my dad.
I stare out the window, watching the hustle and bustle of a thousand strangers as they rush by us, every single one in a hurry, while our car is at a complete standstill.
All I can do is focus on home and wonder what everybody is up to, but before I allow myself to think about it to the point of sadness, I change the subject.
"Can I pick the music?" I ask, collecting his phone from the center console without permission, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He shakes his head at my assertiveness but doesn’t comment on it.
"Oliveira. I take it that’s where you get your name, then?"
"Oh, so you know my name is actually Olive and not Olivia?" I arch a brow, trying to find his Spotify app.
"If I called you by your actual name, I would have nothing left that would annoy you."
I whip my head up—and sure enough, there’s a smile fighting like hell to break free. He bites the inside of his cheek, doing his best to smother it.
Ignoring him, I find the app, scrolling through his recently played album, skimming past a lot of rap, the occasional punk rock, and…"You listened to my songs?" Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I bring my hand to my face to disguise the fact that I’m blushing.
Blushing.
Like a schoolgirl.
"Noelle did." He clenches his jaw, and I watch as it ticks, his knuckles tightening around the leather steering wheel.
"You never told me your favorite color," I remind him, pulling my eyes away from him, turning my head to look straight forward.
Of course, he wasn’t listening to my music. He’s a tough guy, an athlete. The chances of him listening to anything slow and acoustic are slim.
I try not to let it get to me.
"Brown." His voice is flat, no enthusiasm able to be detected, and at this point, I’m convinced he only has one octave to work with.
"I feel like that’s a lie, but okay."
"How many sisters do you have? You’ve mentioned them a few times, but nothing else," he asks, steering the conversation away from him and onto me. I can’t say that I mind. Not really, anyway.
Usually, I would, but this is about my career—one I cannot afford to lose. And I love my family—they’re all I really have.
"Biological or?"
He shoots me a look. Brows lifted. Like I just spoke fluent French.
"Right. I forgot not everybody knows the dynamic between the Herring girls." I snicker to myself. "I have two sisters. Cassandra is my oldest sister, married to Harley, mother to Willow. Lizzie is my twin sister—born fifty seconds before me–married, and mother to nobody. And then there’s Jenna. She’s Cassandra’s best friend, but we’ve practically adopted her as our honorary Herring sister.
She’s dating Cole Green. He’s an actor. Have you heard of him?
" I see him nod in my peripheral. "We’re all really close. "
I almost tell him that they’re my only friends, but that could paint me in one of two ways.
Either, he’ll see me as a loser who prefers to hang out with her family only. Or he’ll see me as someone that people struggle to get along with and get to know.
Both of those assumptions would be a thousand per cent correct.
"Hmm," is all he says in response. And that’s the extent of our conversation for the rest of the drive to the Gala.