Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Lucian
I Like My Coffee Black and My Olivia Flustered
The first thing I notice when I walk into Olivia’s clinic is that she’s completely unprepared for today.
Not only that, but this place needs more than just a coat of paint.
I should call the contractor and pay for the repairs myself—pretend I’m working overnight to get this place in shape.
The second thing I notice?
She’s trying way too hard to pretend last night’s conversation never happened.
It’s fucking adorable.
I bet she didn’t sleep at all, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I really wanted to tie her to her bed and spank her until she begged for my cock.
Not that I even know if I want that with her.
Don’t get me wrong—she’s hot as hell.
Beautiful in that effortless way that sneaks up on you.
But there’s a huge difference between casually fucking a stranger and taking responsibility for someone’s pleasure.
Really taking responsibility for it.
More so when she barely trusts me.
Sure, Sarah loves her and would probably commit a felony on her behalf, but Olivia and I?
That’s . . . different.
There would have to be a lot more involved before I followed through on anything I texted her last night.
Still, I was hoping she’d be a little flustered today.
Maybe even a little curious.
Instead?
She looks like she scrubbed my texts from existence, deleted my magic, and never gave them a second thought.
I glance at her, assessing.
Yeah. Nothing.
She clutches a clipboard as if it’s a weapon.
Her hair is styled in an indecisive half-up, half-down situation, like she either ran out of time or didn’t care enough to fully commit.
Paint smudges her cheek, and her white T-shirt appears to have lost a battle with a bucket of primer.
And yet, she still has the audacity to scowl at me like I’m the problem here.
“You’re late,” she announces.
No ‘hello,’ no ‘good morning,’ just straight to the judgment.
I glance at the ancient clock hanging above the reception desk.
“It’s ten-thirty.”
She lifts a brow like that means something.
I hold up the coffee and the bag in my hands.
“I brought supplies.” I shake the bag slightly.
“And a big muffin. The kind I know you like.” My lips curve into a smile.
“You like it big, Doc. And I enjoy delivering.”
Olivia emits a sound that straddles a scoff and a “ God, why do I know you?” sigh, snatching the coffee from my hand.
“Don’t start, Lucian Crawford.”
“Hey, I’m just being . . . honest. You like everything big . That’s why I brought you a big muffin. If you want everything big, I can deliver—big, thick, maybe even loaded, if that’s what you prefer.”
She ignores me, ripping off the lid and taking a long sip as if she needs caffeine to survive this conversation.
She glances around. “Where’s Sarah?”
“At puppy daycare.” I shrug.
“She likes to socialize once a week.”
She blinks.
“I—wait, puppy daycare?”
I nod, completely unfazed.
She stares. “Your dog goes to daycare?”
“Yes, Liv,” I reply dryly.
“My girl enjoys a thoughtfully curated day of play, socialization, and enrichment activities.”
She glares at me.
“That is the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.”
I take my coffee and sip from it, unmoved.
“She loves it.”
Liv shakes her head, reaching into the bag for her muffin.
“Alright, Lucian. Let’s get to work.”
“So, are we talking about last night?” I need to mention it because I prefer my coffee black and my Olivia flustered.
Her eyes snap up—fire in them.
“Do not?—”
“What?” I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to a near whisper.
“Are we not bringing up last night?”
Her entire body tenses like she’s bracing for impact.
I chuckle as I reach into the bag and take one of the pastries, making a show of tearing off a slow bite just to piss her off.
“How fun would it be if we don’t discuss hard limits—or needs? You never mentioned what’s your favorite.”
She groans, tossing her clipboard onto the counter before yanking open a can of paint with more force than necessary.
“If you’re going to be annoying, maybe leave because I can’t handle your dirty mouth.”
“Oh, but you would love it, baby. My mouth, your cunt—that’s a great combination.”
The muffin in her hand hovers mid-air.
It’s subtle, but I notice it.
The hesitation, the half-second when her brain short-circuits before she slaps a layer of ‘unbothered professional’ back over her face.
She points toward the wall.
“Focus. On. This.”
I glance around the room, noting the patchy wall job, the abandoned roller in the corner, and the general atmosphere of a woman slowly losing her grip on reality.
“Jesus, Doc.” I grab a roller.
“You sure you don’t need professional help?”
She pierces me with a deadly glare.
“Professional help costs money, and as we both know, I can’t afford them.”
I grin.
“Lucky for you, my labor is free.”
“Woohoo, lucky me,” she mutters, setting the muffin next to the cup of coffee and her clipboard.
She carefully grabs a brush and stabs it into the paint tray like she’s visualizing my face at the bottom.
I step back, eyeing the wall critically.
At first glance, it simply looks like a questionable paint job—one of those rushed, middle-of-the-night efforts fueled by frustration and poor decisions.
But as I squint, the details sharpen.
Damp spots creep along the edges of the trim, and the drywall is slightly warped in places, as if it has been holding its breath for too long.
I move closer, pressing my fingers against the surface.
Soft. A little too soft.
Liv is still painting aggressively when I scrape my nail against one of the suspicious patches and discover black mold.
Oh, fuck, this is not good.
Not good at all.
I frown.
“Doc, you should not be breathing this in.”
She barely spares me a glance.
“I’ve inhaled worse things.”
“Not an argument in your favor.” I brush my hands off on my jeans.
“You studied a bit of medicine, right? Shouldn’t you know that black mold is—oh, I don’t know—bad?”
She waves a dismissive hand.
“It’s not that bad.”
I lift my phone.
“Okay, let’s ask Google.”
“Do not.” She jabs her paintbrush at me like she’s about to hex me into oblivion.
I scroll dramatically through my phone.
“Oh, look at this: it can cause respiratory issues, neurological symptoms, and immune system damage. Shall I go on?”
She crosses her arms, tilting her chin up in that stubborn, defiant manner that makes me want to do very inappropriate things to her just to see how quickly I can make her lose that composure.
“I don’t have money to fix this right now, Lucian.”
“That’s where I come in.” I tuck my phone away and step closer, lowering my voice just enough to unsettle her.
“I always get good prices. People like me.”
She snorts.
“People like you?”
“Yeah, you’re just . . . an anomaly. But back to people liking me. It’s more like they like who I am. I’m the running back for their team,” I remind her, flexing for dramatic effect.
“I’m their only hope for a Super Bowl. If only they hired a decent quarterback instead of digging up guys who are one bad tackle away from cashing their pension.”
She groans, rubbing her temples.
“I don’t need you swooping in and fixing things for me.”
“Too bad. Because I’m going to anyway.” I nod toward the mold-infested wall, watching her out of the corner of my eye.
“You can either fight me on this, or you can accept that I’m right and leave before you start hallucinating from mold exposure.”
She groans even louder, adding a dramatic eye roll.
Yet, I can already see the battle lost in her face, the way her shoulders slump just a little.
Which is exactly when I go for the kill.
“Perhaps that’s why last night’s texts didn’t have the desired effect on you,” I ponder, tilting my head like I’m actually concerned.
“You’re not in the right frame of mind to grasp what I’m offering you.”
Her mouth drops open.
“Oh God, you’re so cocky.”
I grin.
“And yet, you’re not denying it.”
She emits a sound of pure frustration and turns back to her ridiculous paint project—an excellent stalling technique, but ineffective against me.
Because while she pretends to be unaffected, I’m already dialing.
Within minutes, I’ve got a contractor on speakerphone.
“Lucian, buddy. What can I do for you?”
“Hey, turns out I’ve got a mold situation that needs handling ASAP.”
That’s all it takes.
By the time I hang up, I already have two contractors arriving at the clinic, bidding for the job like I’m an auctioneer at a cattle sale.
One of them—Mike, who is built like a guy moonlighting as a bouncer—gestures wildly toward the ceiling.
“Listen, man, we can knock this out quick. I’ll even throw in a discount if you let me do a promo post on your social media. Your endorsement alone could blow up my business to new heights.”
The other guy—Pete, a wiry dude in paint-stained cargo pants—snorts.
“Please. That’s a desperate move. You want real quality? I’ll get it done in half the time and include an upgraded ventilation system.”
Mike glares.
“Half the time? No way you can finish this in?—”
“Gentlemen,” I interject, smirking.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but how about we start with what needs to be accomplished before we get to the point where you battle over who gets to use my beautiful face for marketing?”
Olivia, to her credit, hasn’t spoken yet.
But when I glance over, she’s radiating suspicion.
Arms crossed, and lips pressed tight, she’s definitely regretting letting me handle this.
Mike clears his throat.
“Alright, so, the first issue—is that the mold is really bad. Really bad. Like, none of us should be breathing this air.”
Olivia’s nose scrunches.
“That’s . . . concerning.”
Pete nods.
“Yeah. We’re talking full remediation. You’d need to shut the clinic down during the process.”
Her shoulders go rigid.
“The clinic is already closed, but how long do you need?”
Mike pulls out his phone, scrolling through what I hope are real reference photos and not some horror show intended to scare us into more work.
“Three, maybe four weeks minimum. Two months tops”
Olivia makes a sound.
A strangled, frustrated, this is my nightmare sound.
But Pete adds more to completely ruin her day.
“And that’s if the plumbing holds up, which I gotta be honest, isn’t looking great.” He gestures toward the exposed pipes under the sink.
“You’ve got some corrosion happening here. Could be minor, or it could require a full re-piping situation.”
She exhales slowly like she’s counting to ten in her head.
“Anything else?”
Mike flips through his notes.
“Electrical could use some updates. Some of this wiring is ancient—I mean, did the old guy even have this place inspected before selling it?”
I glance at Olivia, and I swear I see her eye twitch.
Oh, yeah. She’s thrilled.
I clap my hands together.
“Alright, so we’re looking at major mold remediation, along with plumbing and electrical updates.” I turn to Olivia.
“Thoughts?”
She’s silent for a long moment.
“You can’t run a business like this, Doc.”
“I’ll do it,” she says.
“But only because I legally cannot run a vet clinic in these conditions.”
I grin because this is a win.
“Great. I’ll?—”
“But,” she cuts in, turning to me with narrowed eyes, “you just did me a favor, meaning you’re about to ask for something in return.”
Her voice is flat.
Matter-of-fact.
Like she knows it’s coming.
Like she’s already bracing herself.
I lean against the counter, sipping my coffee, watching her as if she’s the most fascinating puzzle I’ve ever encountered.
“And what, exactly, do you think I’m going to ask for, Doc?”
Her jaw tightens.
“I don’t know. But people always want something.”
The words are clipped.
Not sarcastic, not playful—just true.
She waits for the catch, bracing herself like this is a game she’s lost before, as though she already knows how it ends.
And that does something to me.
Because this isn’t just about me.
It’s about every other asshole who made her think that generosity always came with strings attached.
So instead of answering, I just smile.
Because whatever she thinks I’m about to ask for?
She’s wrong.
Yeah, maybe I’m doing this for selfish reasons—Sarah’s one of them.
If there’s a good vet in town, I won’t have to drive to the city for her checkups.
And, let’s be honest, my girl adores Olivia.
If she has a reason to come here, that just means I have a reason to show up, too.
Not that I need an excuse.
“Alright,” I say, clapping my hands together.
“Let’s see who’s got the better deal and timeframe.”
Mike and Pete exchange a look—like they’re about to go to war for this contract.
Olivia sighs, as if she can already feel the migraine forming.
Her glare could scorch a hole in my soul.
Good thing I enjoy the burn, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll let her sear me raw .
. . provided she allows me to drag her down into the flames with me.