Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lucian
Bark If You Miss Me .
. . Or Just Kiss Me
Being in training camp for a week was .
. . different.
I don’t even know why.
Olivia should already be at the house.
Jacob made sure everything was arranged—her furniture into storage, her clothes into the guest room.
Did I want her moved into my room?
Yes.
Do I understand why?
Not even a little.
Maybe it’s because I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since the moment I left.
Perhaps it’s because I want to wake up and see her barefoot in my kitchen again, scowling like she owns the place.
Or maybe—I don’t know—maybe I’m just fucked in the head.
Because when you begin to fantasize about a woman in your bed while eating cereal in yesterday’s shirt, you’ve crossed a certain point of no return.
I scrub a hand across the back of my neck and pull into the driveway.
The second I step inside, I know something’s off.
No barking. No paws skidding across the hardwood.
No overly excited Sarah performing her parade-meets-protest routine as she usually does when I’ve been gone for more than ten minutes.
Just silence.
Which, with Sarah?
Is never good.
I drop my duffel by the door, frowning.
“Liv?”
Nothing.
Okay.
Either she packed up and left Sarah behind in protest—or worse, the two of them formed an alliance and staged a takeover while I was gone.
Maybe she’s moved me to the backyard and turned the house into a women-only commune.
I move toward the kitchen.
And that’s when I hear it—whimpering.
Not distressed. Not hurt.
More like . . . riddled with guilt.
I round the corner and stop cold.
There she is.
Olivia.
Her hair’s in a bun that’s barely holding on, her shirt has a peanut butter smudge right on the collar, and she’s barefoot, perched on the island with her legs crossed and a box of cereal in hand, as if she’s hosting an emotional intervention.
And Sarah?
Sarah is sprawled belly-up on the floor, one paw draped over her snout like she’s trying to disappear into the floorboards.
Not injured. Not even upset.
Just . . . guilty.
Like she knows something I don’t.
Perhaps this whole “mourning me” routine is just her cover story—and I’m about to discover what really happened.
“Listen, girly,” Olivia’s saying.
“It’s fine. You might be missing it, but it’s replaceable, you know? You are so much more than a pair of shoes or a fancy chair.” She pauses and glances toward the living room.
Or, more accurately, she stares at the crime scene where my expensive, custom-made leather armchair once stood.
Now?
Scraps. Scraps, shame, and stuffing.
“What. Happened. Here?” I ask, slowly.
Olivia looks up, entirely unbothered, as if she hasn’t been harboring a domestic criminal for a week.
“Oh,” she says. “You’re back early.”
I blink.
“You’re there all chill like you didn’t just let Sarah commit furniture homicide.”
She shrugs.
“Your chair started it.”
My eyes narrow.
“Started what? Battle Upholstery? Wars Against the Leather?”
“Sarah thought it looked at her wrong.”
“Olivia.”
“She was probably stressed.”
I glare at her.
Is she for real? “She gutted a chair.”
“She was working through her abandonment issues.”
I look down at Sarah, who rolls onto her side with a dramatic sigh, her belly on display as if she’s the victim here.
A soft whine escapes her like she’s auditioning for a role in Les Misérables: Canine Edition.
“Oh, now she feels bad?”
“She’s been mourning you for days.” Olivia looks up, entirely unbothered, as if she hasn’t been harboring a domestic criminal for a week.
“Don’t guilt her further. She waited by the door from six a.m. to noon every day like a rejected mail-order bride. It’s been almost twelve hours. I couldn’t even pee without her crying.”
I drag a hand over my face.
“So she ate my chair.”
“No,” Olivia says, like I’m the dramatic one.
“She didn’t eat it. I mean, it’s still there. She just . . . disassembled it while I went to check on the clinic. The new weight tables came in, and Mike needed to know how I wanted them installed. I couldn’t take her with me it’s too dangerous.”
I blink at the remains of the chair.
“It was custom-made, Liv.”
“She’s custom-made and a princess,” she fires back without hesitation.
“And she’s very sorry, aren’t you, girl?”
Sarah whines like her life is a tragic love story.
Olivia kneels beside her, strokes her ears, and mutters, “He’s being reactive because it was an unexpected loss. Don’t let it get to you. This is something replaceable. Your feelings . . . they’re not. This is something we’ll work on with Noah, okay?”
I stare.
She’s defending my dog.
Against me, which I won’t admit is cute.
“I leave for one week,” I say slowly, dragging my gaze across the wreckage, “and you two form a codependent girl gang that eats furniture and blames it on emotions?”
“She’s sensitive.” Olivia shrugs, as if emotional fragility justifies the stuffing currently decorating my floor like avant-garde confetti.
“Is she?” I gesture to the armchair that once cost more than my first car.
“Because this feels less ‘sensitive’ and more like a ‘feral raccoon with a vendetta.’”
“She’s grieving,” Olivia insists, even as Sarah dramatically flops onto her back and releases another high-pitched sigh, as if she’s the main character in a very tragic dog soap opera.
“She’s grounded.”
Olivia glares with her arms crossed, fully prepared to defend her four-legged partner in crime.
“She missed you.”
Another whimper escapes Sarah.
She shifts, belly up, eyes wide and glassy, her whole body radiating betrayal and guilt.
It’s theatrical. Cinematic.
Award-winning. If she had a SAG-AFTRA card, I’d report her for emotional manipulation.
Is that even a thing?
Maybe that card would provide her some insurance, insurance that would cover the vet bills after eating the stuffing.
“This isn’t how I imagined my return,” I mutter, my eyes still fixed on the stuffing explosion formerly known as my armchair.
“I should’ve brought a priest instead of my gym bag. Clearly, this house is possessed now.”
Olivia smirks, unapologetically smug, as she leans against the island with her arms crossed, as if she’s exactly where she belongs.
It’s as if this disaster is just .
. . a regular Wednesday—even when it’s Monday evening.
“Welcome home, Crawford.”
Yeah.
Welcome fucking home.
My pulse stutters.
Even though I want to pretend this is just banter—just another round in whatever the hell game we’re playing—there’s something about this moment that sinks its claws into me.
Maybe it’s the way her voice wraps around that word—home.
It sounds natural, as if she’s said it a hundred times before and genuinely means it.
Or perhaps it’s the way she looks at me, calm and slightly amused, the cereal box still on the counter, her hair in a bun that’s holding on for dear life.
It’s not polished. It’s not perfect.
But it’s real. And something about her standing here—comfortable in the chaos, unbothered by the destruction, defending my dog like it’s her own—feels dangerous.
Feels like something I could get addicted to.
Yeah. I’m so fucking screwed.
“I’m sorry about the chair,” she says softly, rising to her feet and brushing cereal crumbs off her shorts like it’s no big deal.
Like she didn’t just crack my rib cage open and start rearranging the pieces inside.
“I’ll pay for it.”
“No, you won’t.”
“It’s my fault?—”
“No,” I interrupt her, my tone firm but not cold.
“It’s her fault. And mine, for giving her abandonment issues in the first place.”
Olivia pauses, her eyes softening in a way that stirs something in my chest. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you actually believe it.”
I shrug, avoiding her gaze.
“She wouldn’t have gnawed through Italian leather if I hadn’t left. She hasn’t done this since she was a pup—not unless something’s really wrong.”
Olivia steps closer, her voice now quieter.
“She’s a dog, Lucian. She was upset. She acted out. That’s all. We need to retrain her and figure out why she’s upset. Once the clinic is up and running, I can take her with me. She’ll be my assistant.”
I huff out a breath, not wanting to think about this whole scenario where Olivia is part of our lives full-time because that’s not how my life works.
“Tell that to my chair.”
She bites her lip, and then—she laughs.
It’s loud, full-bodied laughter that is completely inappropriate and hits me straight in the gut.
And I let her. Because I’m not actually mad.
Not at her. Not even at Sarah.
The truth is, the chair was replaceable.
Expensive, sure, but replaceable.
This moment? Her here, barefoot and disheveled, in my kitchen.
Sarah is trying to melt into the floor with dramatics that rival Broadway’s finest. The weird, gut-twisting relief of walking into my house and realizing I missed them.
“I thought she’d throw a parade when I got home,” I admit, my voice rougher than I intended.
Not quite the gravelly, sexy kind—more like I’ve been chewing on regret for a week and finally remembered how to speak.
“Usually, she loses her shit. Spins in circles. Screams like I’ve returned from war.” I scrub a hand across my jaw, suddenly aware that there’s stubble she wouldn’t approve of.
“I kind of live for it.”
Olivia shifts, her feet curling against the tile as if they’re cold, despite the morning sun pouring through the windows.
“She tried,” she says softly.
“This day has been very tough for her.”
“But she’s my best girl,” I say with the baby voice Sarah loves.
Sarah finally rolls over as if she’s working through her existential dread, then pads toward me, slow and cautious, as though I might disappear again.
Her eyes meet mine—hopeful yet unsure, like we’re both trying to determine if this reunion is real or just a dream we’re hesitant to trust.
I drop to one knee.
Arms wide. “C’mere, baby.”
And that’s all it takes.
She launches at me like a furry missile, and chaos ensues.
Paws on my chest, snout against my neck, her tail thumping as if it has its own drumline.
And, God, I missed this.
I missed her.
Missed this house.
Missed . . . Olivia, which is very strange, because I don’t miss people—except my family, of course.
She’s watching us, her hand halfway in the cereal box, fingers curled around a handful like spoons are a scam she’s never bought into.
She’s barefoot, hair a little wild, eating dry cereal like it’s a personality trait.
When our eyes meet, something shifts—low and certain, like the beginning of a storm you don’t bother to run from.
It settles behind my ribs and lingers there, unapologetic.
This? This isn’t just a homecoming.
It’s a fucking reckoning.
Because Sarah’s tail is wagging furiously as if she hasn’t chewed through the leg of a five-thousand-dollar designer chair.
Because Olivia stands barefoot in my house, wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that should be illegal—so thin that it’s almost see-through in the light, just long enough to make me wonder if she’s wearing anything underneath.
She smells like flowers and home, which is quite unusual because people shouldn’t smell like home.
Perhaps it’s all those fucking texts we exchanged— the ones I somehow became addicted to.
“Are you gonna give me a hug?” I ask, my voice casual, almost lazy.
“Or are you just gonna keep pretending I’m not the best thing to happen to this kitchen since your cinnamon cereal?”
She blinks.
“Are you flirting with me, Crawford?”
I stand, while Sarah continues dancing at my feet as if she’s providing backup vocals for this moment.
“That depends. Are you going to pretend you didn’t text me that you missed me . . . three nights in a row?”
“Oh, there you are, taking texts out of context again. Only you would do that.” She rolls her eyes and then points at Sarah.
“She missed you. Me . . . I was grateful that I didn’t have to deal with your personality . . . well, in person.”
I scoff.
“Is that so?”
“Yeah,” she squeaks, and I think it’s kind of adorable.
“Try again, Liv. Just admit that you missed me and give me my welcome home hug.” I wink at her.
“You know you want it, baby.”
A flush creeps up her neck, and I swear I feel it too—like heat rising in the space between us.
“I’m still not hugging you,” she mutters, her arms crossing in a way that only draws attention to how there is absolutely nothing supportive under that shirt.
My eyes linger. Just a second too long.
Just long enough for her to notice.
“Lucian.”
“Yeah?” My voice dips—not on purpose.
It just happens. Like gravity’s involved now and I’m suddenly not in control of anything.
“Your dog missed you.” She won’t meet my eyes.
Instead, she picks a piece of lint off Sarah’s collar like that’s more important than what she just said.
“Focus on her, not me.”
“She’s not the only one,” I say, because at this point, hiding it feels like bullshit.
“At least she admits it.”
Her breath catches.
That’s all the warning I get.
The air between us shifts—tilts, warps, narrows into something tighter.
Something inevitable.
I rise from where I’d been kneeling, hugging Sarah, and glance across the room.
Olivia is a good three, maybe four feet away.
Close enough to touch but far enough that I have to work for it.
Her arms are still crossed, as if she doesn’t trust herself not to reach for me.
Her fingers tighten around the cereal box like it’s the last thing tethering her to the earth.
And then—slowly, carefully—she sets it down on the coffee table.
She looks up.
“Olivia.”
“Yes?”
“If you don’t hug me in the next five seconds, I’m gonna do something wildly irresponsible.”
Her brow lifts.
“Like what?”
“Like kiss you so hard you forget what happened the last five years of your life.”
She doesn’t back away.
She doesn’t move at all.
She just stares at me—unflinching, breath held, a challenge brewing in her eyes as if I dared her to break me.
“I’m counting,” I say, taking a step.
“Five?—”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she whispers.
And, fuck. Of course she would challenge me.
So I do.
I close the distance between us in two quick strides and reach for her as if I’ve been starving for this—for her—for something real—since the second she moved in.
Because I have.
One hand finds her waist. The other slides up her back, under the edge of that too-soft cotton shirt that smells like vanilla, her shampoo, and maybe a little like my detergent.
My fingers curve against her spine like they’ve been waiting for this permission.
Her body molds to mine instantly, like she’s been waiting, too.
She tilts her chin up, lips parted, eyes wide—vulnerable and fierce all at once.
“Stop me,” I warn her as I slowly lean, waiting for her to say something but all she does is part her lips lightly and close her eyes.
And then we crash.
The kiss is a fucking disaster in the best way.
It’s cereal and cinnamon and a week’s worth of almosts.
It’s her fingers tangling in my hair, tugging like she’s mad about wanting me, like she’s fighting the exact thing she’s giving into.
It’s me pushing her back gently until she hits the counter because I need something—anything—to keep from falling through the floor.
It’s heat and hunger and this underlying thread of finally, and I don’t even know when it happened, but she’s not just someone I flirt with anymore.
She’s not just banter, tension, and snark.
She’s the person I wanted to talk to when the guys were annoying when my body ached after camp, and when I realized I was eating alone again and didn’t want to.
She’s the person who somehow made this house feel less empty in the past few days.
She tastes like late-night texts and all the things I didn’t let myself hope for.
I kiss her as if I’ve earned it, as if she’s mine, and I’ve always known it—even before I had the nerve to admit it.
Sarah barks once. Loud.
We split apart like two teenagers caught necking in a church parking lot—breathing like idiots, eyes wide, reality smacking us right in the face.
Olivia’s lips are kiss-swollen and flushed, her breath hitching in that way that makes my brain forget how to function.
Her eyes —glassy and dazed—look up at me like she’s unsure whether to slap me or climb me.
Honestly, I’d accept either.
“Well,” she whispers, voice rough and uneven.
“That was . . .”
“A public service.” The words slip out before my brain catches up, which is probably for the best, considering my current mental state is somewhere between panic and rebooting.
Her brow lifts. “A public service?”
“Yeah.” I swipe my thumb across her bottom lip—because I’m clearly not done touching her.
“I just single-handedly saved the greater tri-state area from the seismic energy of our unresolved tension.”
She blinks.
“You’re absurd. Plus, we’re not even in the tri-state area.”
I shrug my shoulder.
“You kissed me back.”
She exhales, chest rising like she’s trying to level herself out.
“I did.”
“And?” I ask like I’m not hanging on her every syllable.
Like I didn’t just fall for her mouth, her laugh, her entire existence, in the span of three-point-five seconds.
She takes a step back.
I let her. Barely.
“I don’t know what that was,” she mutters, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as if I hadn’t just had my hands all over her.
“And before you say something smug about it, Lucian, I’m already spiraling.”
I smile.
“You’re always spiraling.”
She throws me a glare that’s far too weak to be effective.
“You’re the worst.”
“I try.” I glance at Sarah, who’s now sitting like a smug little narc in the corner, her tail wagging with maximum self-satisfaction.
“She barked on purpose, didn’t she?”
“She’s a menace.” Olivia crosses her arms. “She probably sensed I was about to commit to something reckless.”
I grin.
“If that was reckless, I hope you make a whole career out of bad decisions.”
She groans, dragging a hand over her face.
“Why are you like this?”
“Genetics. Poor supervision. That glow in the dark energy drink I sponsored last year?”
She stares.
“Lucian.”
“Olivia.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Maybe,” I agree, stepping a bit closer—just enough to make her flinch and fight a smile.
“But it’s a very entertaining bad idea.”
“You kissed me,” she accuses, even though her cheeks are still pink, and she hasn’t moved away.
“You dared me.”
She opens her mouth.
Closes it. “No, I said, ‘Don’t you dare.’ There’s a difference between that and ‘I dare you.’”
“There is?” I lean down, dipping just enough to brush over her skin.
“Because if I remember correctly, your exact words were: I dare you. That sounds an awful lot like consent and encouragement. Plus, I asked you to stop me, but you didn’t.”
“You and your selective hearing.” She glares at me with narrow eyes that make me believe she’s actually trying to remember why she doesn’t hate this.
Or me.
I sigh, holding up my hands like I’m surrendering—which I absolutely am not.
“Fine. No more kissing. For now.”
She looks skeptical.
“For now?”
“Unless you ask nicely.”
She sputters.
“You are?—”
“I know.” I grab the box of cereal, snag a handful, and pop a few pieces into my mouth as if I haven’t just wrecked the air between us.
“Irresistible.”
Olivia narrows her eyes at me.
“You’re delusional.” Then she points at the cereal as if she’s attempting to pretend we’re having a normal conversation.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
I chew slowly.
Purposefully. Like a man with intentions.
“Oh, but sometimes,” I say around the last bite, my voice dropping just enough to linger below her belly button, “it’s so much more fun to talk with my mouth full. We should actually order dinner. Unless . . . you want to be my dinner.”
Her spine straightens.
Her nostrils flare. But her pupils?
Yes, they dilate just enough for me to notice that I’ve hit a nerve.
She swallows. “You can’t take anything seriously. I guess we can order food, since you’re eating my cereal.”
Her voice is exasperated, for sure.
But there’s an undertone of breathlessness—throaty and tight—suggesting she still hasn’t come down from the high that led to the kiss we just shared.
It’s as if the thought of my mouth doing anything else is something she can’t entirely ignore.
And that?
That’s my cue.
“I don’t want to focus on food.” I toss the cereal box onto the table.
Then I close the distance between us, slow enough to give her time to stop me—but she doesn’t.
“Why don’t we discuss more important things? Like my mouth devouring your cunt and telling you all the dirty things I’d like to do to you.”
Her breath stutters.
Her eyes widen.
But her feet?
Still rooted to the floor like she wants to hear it.
Like she wants to know how far I’ll go.
I lower my head, lips brushing just under her jaw as I murmur, “Like how I’d drop to my knees right now, slide your panties down those fucking gorgeous legs, and taste you until you forget your name.”
Her gasp is audible.
I smile against her skin.
“Or how I’d fuck you against the counter, with your fingers tangled in my hair, moaning my name like it’s a prayer you don’t believe in anymore.”
“Lucian,” she breathes.
“Yeah?” I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, her lips parted, cheeks flushed, and every ounce of her composure circling the drain.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispers.
I nod slowly. “One hundred percent.”
“Like . . . spectacularly bad.”
“Maybe,” I agree then add, “But what if . . . and hear me out . . . it’s beneficial for both of us? We’re becoming very, very good friends. As friends, we could have a lot of fun.”
She looks up at me—like I’m both the problem and the solution all in one inconvenient package.
Then she lets out a long breath as if trying to find a reason to stop this.
Spoiler: there isn’t one.
And I’m surprised when she says, “Tell me more.”
And fuck me—I’ve never wanted anyone more than I want her in this exact second.
I push her against the wall, my body already hard, and ready, and completely done pretending I don’t fantasize about her on a daily basis.
“You want more?” I whisper, grazing my mouth along the shell of her ear.
She nods, and, fuck, my cock gets even harder.
“I’d strip you down,” I murmur, voice rasping over her skin.
“Lay you out on my bed like you’re the goddamn feast you are. Eat you slow. Fingers and mouth. Until you’re begging me to fuck you.”
Her hips press against mine involuntarily, and I hiss because even through the fabric of her sleep shirt and my sweats, I feel her heat.
“Then I’d take my time. Real slow. Make you come with my mouth first. Then, my fingers. Then my cock. Just so you know how fucking serious I am about ruining you for anyone else.”
She makes a soft, choked sound—and I swear I’m losing my goddamn mind.
I kiss her again, deep and hungry and desperate, like I’m starving and she’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to taste.
She kisses me back with that same chaos—biting my lip, clutching at my arms, pulling me closer as if she needs me to crawl inside her skin.
And maybe I would.
If she asked, but first we have to set boundaries before one of us makes a mistake and falls in love.
I take out my phone and order food.
That will keep my mouth busy and my mind slightly occupied before I finally make her mine. Mine.