Chapter 16 #3
Olivia’s condo was open and airy with large windows.
The space was filled with tasteful decor and sleek countertops, with a living room that opened to a large balcony overlooking Everston.
Outside, sleet started to fall, light and scattered.
It tapped softly against the glass, a quiet reminder that winter was here.
We’d made it inside just in time, it seemed.
I scanned her bookshelf, dark and overflowing with various trinkets from travels, along with encyclopedias and autobiographical books.
My eyes fell on my own books. She had three of them.
The spines faced outward with the name I had left behind in New York, and my stomach churned with the shame of my deception.
For every day I kept my real self hidden from the group, I felt more and more uncomfortable with my lie.
I had never anticipated that I’d feel the way I did about them; I’d originally just wanted to sink into the shadows of this town and hide forever.
I sat down on the couch as she poured the glasses in the kitchen, the warmth of her apartment a welcome change from the cold outside. She had a Venus flytrap sitting near her TV, and when she saw me looking at it, she laughed.
“My aunt,” she said. “She’s trying to get me invested in them as well.”
“How’s that going?”
Olivia handed me a glass of wine. “There’s just a part of me that wishes it were bigger, so I could casually leave it in my boss’s office.”
I grinned into the glass, inhaling the rich plum scent before taking a sip.
“Much better,” I said.
Olivia sank down into the couch next to me, our knees touching.
“There’s something about you,” she murmured softly, her thumb stroking my arm, “that feels familiar.”
Time seemed to stall as we were swallowed by the moment.
I was lost in her gaze, heavy and wanting.
I was pinned there, by the promise in her eyes, the curve of her lips, the faint freckles across her nose.
Olivia leaned closer, her lips inches from mine, and I could feel the air pull in around us.
Then, in an instant that felt like eternity, our lips met.
Kissing Olivia was like diving headfirst into a sunlit ocean.
Time slowed, and the world fell away, until there was only her.
It was like discovering a secret garden, or like coming home to the lights being left on, so you knew someone was waiting for you.
It was like rediscovering springtime after months of ice and snow.
Our bodies could not get close enough. Olivia pressed me back, her weight delicious and grounding as she crawled on top of me, lips trailing from my mouth to my neck, her hands buried in my hair.
She murmured something I couldn’t catch, the syllables dissolving against my skin, as her hips rolled harder into mine, like she wanted to feel every inch of me.
Heat surged through me until my fingers fumbled at the buttons of her shirt.
I could see where this was going, mapped out before me, and it filled me with anticipation, need, desire… and fear.
“Wait,” I whispered.
Olivia paused, her forehead resting against mine. “Do you want to keep going?” she asked softly, her eyes searching mine for reassurance.
“No,” I said, then quickly corrected myself.
“I mean yes, of course, yes.” I hesitated, the words catching in my throat.
“There is just…something that I need to tell you.” Of course, I needed to tell her.
The truth had been weighing on me from the moment we first met.
Every kiss, every laugh, it all felt tainted, because she didn’t know anything about my past. I had told myself I was protecting her, but really, it was me I was protecting.
Now, with her so close, I couldn’t carry the secret anymore.
She deserved honesty, and if I wanted this—us—to mean anything, I had to tell her.
She looked at me quizzically, her brow furrowing. “Please don’t tell me you actually work for Fox News…”
I smiled faintly. “No. But you might think it’s worse.”
Olivia eased back, shifting off me, but her hand lingered, warm against my arm. I ached to close the space again, to feel her pressing into me, moving against me the way she had just moments before. “Tell me,” she said.
I inhaled sharply. “My name isn’t Wren. Or at least, not exactly. Wren is my middle name. My real name is Brooklyn,” I admitted, my gaze falling to where our skin met. “My fiancée Lucy did die in a car accident, but I didn’t leave New York just because I was grieving.”
Her eyes poured into mine, confusion blending with quiet curiosity.
I glanced over at the coffee table, where Emerson’s gifted copy of my book now sat prominently.
The sight of it sent a shiver through me.
“I left New York because my work is known by a lot of people,” I continued, my voice tightening.
“Especially the press. After the accident, they were relentless. They tore Lucy’s reputation apart, blamed her entirely, even though I remember it differently.
I couldn’t fight back, not with how vulnerable I was. So, I ran.”
Her brows knit together. “Who are you?” Olivia murmured.
“B.W. Paisley,” I said, the name landing heavily between us.
Her eyes widened slightly but did not leave mine, and I rushed to fill the silence.
“I have wanted to tell you,” I stuttered, “but…there’s been this part of me trying to start over, to figure out who I am without all the noise.
My world has been colorless since Lucy died, but then I found myself here, and for the first time, there were bursts of color again.
And when I met you…” My voice cracked, my heart pounding.
“It felt like everything came back at once. I just…I didn’t know how to tell you.
” Tears started to bead at the corners of my eyes.
Olivia didn’t say anything at first. I’d grown so used to her facial expressions that I could see the moment her brain kicked into overdrive, processing everything I’d just laid out.
I might have even seen a flicker of hurt, and confusion.
My heart could barely handle it. She shifted slightly, her eyes filled with the same look she got when she was about to read a poem in front of the grief group, like the words were delicate, and she was determined to handle them with care.
“I understand if you’re angry…” I began, but my voice faltered.
She reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from my face, her touch light and deliberate. “I’m not angry,” she said gently. “I knew there was something about you. I just didn’t know it was this. And I understand why you’d protect yourself, we all do that. I’ve got you, okay?”
I blinked at her, unsure if I had heard her correctly.
“You know that, right?” she asked, her fingers tracing the sides of my face. She had the softest hands; they sent electricity skimming through my veins.
“No one’s said that to me in a long time,” I murmured. A strange mix of relief and apprehension settled in my chest. Now that Olivia knew—really knew—who I was, would she see me differently?
“Well,” Olivia said, her lips curving into a small smile, “it must have been exhausting, carrying this secret for so long. Not being able to fully be yourself. Your work is a pretty big deal, and you’ve written so many books, some we’ve shared at the meetings. That had to strike a nerve.”
“The first time I heard Emerson read from one of my books, it felt like it belonged to someone else,” I admitted.
“Like it was from another lifetime. Those poetry books are more than ten years old. I started with poetry very early in my career, before all the success from The Lost Archives. But, a couple of years ago, I decided to move back into poetry. My publishers thought it would be something exciting for longtime fans. A book of love poems. And then Lucy died.”
Olivia reached toward me again, her fingers brushing lightly against that same spot on my arm. A quiet reassurance, an unspoken I see you. She smiled playfully. “Speaking of Emerson, you know she’s going to absolutely lose her mind. I can’t believe she hasn’t realized it’s you.”
“Please don’t say anything,” I said, my stomach twisting at the thought.
“Not yet anyway. I’ve changed so much—cut and dyed my hair, lost weight, dropped the glasses—it’s no wonder I look like a completely different person.
I want to stay that way. Just until I tell her, and the others, but… I need time.”
She nodded. “I understand,” she replied. Her gaze grew more serious. “But, you know, if you remember that night, the accident, differently, it might be because it was different. Maybe the press got it wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Lucy’s fault.”
“Maybe,” I said softly, my hand trailing along her cheek, marveling at the way her hair framed her face so perfectly.
“Does it change how you see me?” I asked.
Olivia’s eyes glinted as she climbed back on top of me. “You mean how you just let me in? I think that’s sexy, if you ask me.” Her lips grazed mine, the heat of her breath coiling low in my stomach. “And besides,” she added, “I do like Wren. It suits you.”
I blushed, my hands slipping beneath her shirt, wanting to explore more of her.
“And just while we’re being honest…” Her lips hovered so close I could taste her. “I think there are other ways you can let me in.”