Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lucian
The First “Date” That Isn’t
I should be somewhere else right now.
Anywhere else, really.
Like at the gym. Or—God forbid—a golf course.
Okay, not there. I hate golf.
It’s offensively boring, and don’t even get me started on the environmental impact of those pristine, water-guzzling fairways.
The point is, I could be literally anywhere that doesn’t involve standing on Olivia’s porch, holding a six-pack of beer and a bag full of groceries, as if I’ve been invited.
Which, for the record, I have not.
In my defense, I’m doing this out of the goodness of my heart.
Well. Mostly.
Sarah seemed to need a friend to talk to—someone other than me.
She’s bored out of her mind, and I get it.
It’s summer. There’s no family around to pay attention to her, and she can’t go to training camp where the guys would spoil her like she’s a damn princess.
I don’t bring her to visit often, but when I do, she acts like she’s royalty, and my teammates are her knights.
My girl truly believes she’s the team mascot.
Not the weird felt knight, nope.
It’s Sarah Buttercup Crawford.
So, really, I’m here to fix her problem.
And since Olivia is a veterinarian, she has to understand the psyche of my pup, right?
That’s my logic.
I press the doorbell, rocking back on my heels, fully prepared for Olivia to be thrilled to see me.
The door swings open, and she is—dressed in a tank top and shorts, hair piled up in a messy nest atop her head, looking deeply unimpressed.
Her gaze flicks to the groceries, the beer, and my face.
She exhales. “Lucian.”
I flash her my best, I’m-charming-don’t-be-mad smile.
“Olivia.”
“What are you doing here?”
I lift the bag slightly.
“Cooking for you.”
She blinks at me, then at the beer.
“With that?”
I grin.
“Beer pairs with everything.”
Her jaw tightens.
“Lucian.”
“Olivia,” I mimic.
My voice isn’t as feminine as hers, but I want to think it’s close enough.
Her fingers twitch like she wants to strangle me but is still weighing the consequences.
I take the opportunity to step past her because technically, she hasn’t shut the door in my face yet.
That’s like a welcome home, Luc, right?
Sarah trots in after me like she owns the place.
Olivia pinches the bridge of her nose.
“This is not how normal people function.”
“Good thing I’m not normal.” I place the groceries on the counter.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For fixing your evening.” I shoot her a smug grin.
“You were going to have a sad, half-assed meal, weren’t you?”
She glares.
“You don’t know that.”
I glance toward the sink, where an instant ramen packet sits in all its lonely, sodium-filled glory.
I arch a brow.
Her nostrils flare.
“That is not sad. Ramen is one of my favorite foods.”
I open the fridge.
There’s a box of wine, some takeout that’s two or maybe three days old, and something that might have been lettuce in a past life.
Who at this age still has boxed wine?
That’s an entirely different conversation I’m not planning to have with her today.
I look back at her.
She crosses her arms. “I wasn’t in the mood to cook.”
“Good thing I am.” I grab a beer, pop it open, and slowly sip before gesturing at the counter.
“Now, step aside. I need space to work my magic.”
She watches me for a long moment, sighs as if my presence greatly inconveniences her, and then rubs her temples.
“Fine. But if you burn my kitchen down?—”
“Relax, Liv. I cook. I don’t combust . . . unless you ask nicely.” I toss her a beer, and she catches it reflexively, blinking down at it as if she’s debating whether to drink it or throw it at my head.
I grin and begin unpacking the groceries.
Nothing too elaborate—just a couple of steaks, some salad ingredients, and a loaf of bread that’s definitely getting slathered in butter.
Simple, effective, and quick because as much as I enjoy watching her scowl at me, I’m not waiting around all night to eat.
Next time, maybe I’ll go all out—five courses, candlelight, really lean into the romance just to see how fast she runs.
I glance over at her.
“Make yourself useful and handle the salad.”
She doesn’t even acknowledge me because she’s on the floor with Sarah.
I pause mid-movement, watching as Olivia scratches behind Sarah’s ears, murmuring something I can’t quite catch while my dog melts into her hands like she’s found nirvana.
“Wow,” I joke, but I’m actually glad my girl found someone who gets her.
“So, this is what betrayal feels like.”
Olivia looks up, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“She’s very communicative.”
“She’s a traitor, that’s what she is.” I give Sarah a disapproving look.
“I thought you loved me. We’re friends, pals . . . I’ve been like a father to you.”
Sarah ignores me, flopping onto her back so Olivia can rub her belly.
“Okay, first of all,” Olivia says, “this is clearly an emotional support session, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt us with your own issues.”
The question is who really needs this emotional support.
I could ask, but instead, I say, “By the way, I’m going to need a key to your place.”
Her head snaps up.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“That’s a little dramatic,” I say, shaking my head.
“I just need it for emergencies.”
“What emergencies?”
“So, I can sneak in and leave you dinner when you inevitably start spiraling into workaholic despair.” I flash her a grin.
“I’m fucking considerate like that.”
She groans, dragging a hand through her hair.
“Somehow, I don’t trust you.”
Her eyes betray her for just half a second—a quick flash of interest before she schools her face back into maximum displeasure.
I smirk. “I’m literally cooking for you right now. I’m trustworthy—the best neighbor ever. Almost a saint.”
“One meal doesn’t make you a saint.”
“No, but it does make me smart.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Why do I feel that this is a trick?”
“Because you don’t trust anyone,” I say easily.
“Which, frankly, sounds exhausting.”
She stiffens, then stands, closing the small gap between us, every movement charged with the energy of someone seconds from kicking me out mid-steak-prep.
Which would be a shame, because I just basted them in butter, and they’re about to go in the oven for five minutes.
Keeping me here is in her best interest.
Her arms cross.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I lean in just enough to observe her fidgeting.
“It suggests that you should want to consider accepting help occasionally. You know, rather than battling the whole universe on your own like a feral raccoon.”
Her jaw tightens.
“I don’t fight the universe. And raccoons can be nice if they’re treated with respect.”
I raise an eyebrow, motioning toward the dried paint on her arms and the splatter on her tank top.
“You’re literally covered in paint from fixing this place by yourself instead of hiring someone. Or, I don’t know, waiting for me to help you as we agreed earlier.”
She scoffs.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She chews her lip like she’s actually considering it.
Which is . . . interesting because Olivia doesn’t just say things.
She doesn’t talk unless she absolutely has to.
She hoards information with the precision of someone trained in covert ops and guilt-tripping.
Finally, she exhales.
“I don’t like owing people,” she admits.
I blink. That was . .
. honest.
“Owing people?” I repeat, watching her carefully.
She shrugs, picking at a nonexistent spot on her shorts.
“Nothing in life comes free, Lucian. If people help you, they expect something in return. I don’t like that leverage.”
Huh?
No, really, who the fuck hurt this woman?
Because I don’t understand, sure, some people take advantage.
Some people disappoint you.
Some people make you realize that certain things aren’t worth it.
Relationships break, and even though you swear never to return, you don’t just shut out the whole world, right?
I mean, not letting anyone help at all?
That’s on another level.
“So, you think that if you let me help, I’ll hold it over you?”
She lifts a shoulder.
“Wouldn’t be the first time someone did.”
I watch her for a long moment, taking that in.
And honestly? It pisses me off.
I don’t like the idea of Olivia—fiery, infuriating Olivia—having people in her life who make her feel like she can’t rely on anyone.
Which is probably why I do what I do next.
I step closer—her body tenses—not because she’s afraid.
No, Olivia isn’t easily scared.
It’s because she’s aware of my presence.
She tilts her chin up, bracing for whatever nonsense I’m about to say next.
I grin.
“Want to know a secret?” I murmur.
She doesn’t blink. “No.”
I ignore that.
“I don’t expect anything from you, Doc.” My voice lowers just enough to make her pulse visible in her throat.
“No leverage. No hidden motives. I simply enjoy watching you lose your fucking mind when I’m around.”
She stares.
Her fingers twitch.
And I watch her process that—it seems to confuse her.
The idea of someone just being there, without any strings attached, is entirely foreign to her.
So, of course, I make it worse.
“You know,” I say casually, “you’re kinda fun when you’re flustered.”
Her jaw drops.
“I am not flustered.”
“Sure,” I say, grinning.
“And I’m not ridiculously attractive.”
She huffs.
“You’re not attractive and very, very infuriating,” she mutters.
I chuckle, sliding the steaks into the oven.
And if she is flustered?
She’s absolutely not ready to admit it.