Chapter 18
I got out of the shower feeling much more clearheaded.
Maybe Oliver was right. This was really only the third time we’d hung out.
The first time was directly following a major implosion in his life and the second followed one in mine.
We hadn’t given each other a real chance, outside the physical stuff.
And the physical stuff was mucking up our judgment, our ability to see if there was something beyond that.
Despite how little we had in common, we seemed to get along over messages.
That could transfer to real life. I chuckled when I thought about the first thing Oliver ever said to me: not even the best programmer could replicate human interaction.
Maybe his self from three years ago knew what he was talking about.
It took me ten minutes to put on a minimal amount of makeup and some casual yet cute clothes. Then I rushed out of my bedroom, feeling bad about leaving Oliver alone.
Only he wasn’t alone.
I rounded the corner to see him and Sloane sitting on the couch together, talking.
“Look who I found in our apartment, Margot. Your boyfriend,” she said.
“Not my boyfriend,” I blurted at the same time Sloane said, “Your boyfriend is even cuter in person.”
“Sloane,” I scolded. “Stop calling him that.” To Oliver, I clarified, “It was just a joke because of how long we’d been messaging each other.”
He smirked my way like he appreciated that joke.
She stood from the couch and collected a Styrofoam box from the coffee table.
“I’m going to put these delicious leftovers, that I let not a single man in my life take, in the fridge and then I’m going to come back over here and be filled in on how you ended up here.
Because last I heard, you were a judgy jerk. ”
I sighed and sat in the seat she had just abandoned, next to Oliver. “My roommate has an oversharing problem. Seriously, Sloane, I’m never telling you anything again.”
After several moments of Sloane grumbling about space in the fridge and how we needed to save only exceptional leftovers from now on, she finally shut the door and joined us, sitting in the love seat to our left.
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, as if ready to take in all the gossip we were willing to share.
“Oliver, Sloane,” I said. “Sloane, Oliver.”
“We already met,” she said, waving a hand through the air like I was wasting time. “While you were showering.”
“Right.”
“I see you came to your senses,” she said to him. “We both know Rob is an ass and not deserving of our girl here.”
“Actually,” I said, cutting her off before she got too far, “Oliver came over because I left him an unhinged voicemail.” I narrowed my eyes at her to assess if she had been present while that choice had been made.
She cringed. “Oh, that.”
“How dare you let me leave that.”
“You told me you’re a grown-ass woman.”
“I’m obviously not.” My eyes found the empty jar on the coffee table. “And what happened with our jar?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember very little of last night.”
“Probably for the best since you performed a very poor rendition of ‘My Heart Will Go On.’”
“What? I did Celine? I would never .”
“You did.”
“Tell me someone recorded it,” Oliver said.
“You don’t need another recording in your possession,” I shot at him.
He laughed.
“Sadly, nobody recorded it as far as I know. Maybe it will show up online at some point in the future, posted by some stranger who found it as funny as we did. As for that”—Sloane pointed to the jar—“you paid half of next month’s rent with it, telling me how you were going to be broke in a year if you weren’t extra careful with money and how we should Airbnb your room while you sleep at your parents’ house. ”
“I claimed all the money in the Bad Decisions jar as my own?”
“To be fair,” she said, “most of it came from you, so I accept it as payment.”
“How magnanimous.”
“I reject the Airbnb idea, though,” she said. “I’m not trying to get murdered.”
“It could make a good meet-cute for you,” I said.
“That’s what you said last night,” she reminded me. “And like I told you last night, I already have a boyfriend and I’m not hung up on meet-cutes like you are. And like I also told you, we’ll be fine. You’re going to be a rock-star agent.”
“Rock star,” I said, the last missing puzzle piece of the night finally clicking into place.
Sloane pinched the bridge of her nose. “Considering I still have a hangover, we will resume this conversation tomorrow.” She stood and, as she reached the hall, turned and said, “Oliver, my brain has been too foggy to get to know you properly. So you get to come to coffee with us tomorrow.”
His lip twitched into a smirk, then he nodded.
“Also,” she said, pointing to both of us, “don’t eat my leftovers.”
I gestured to our pile of half-eaten burgers and fries in the kitchen and she grunted her acknowledgment.
“What exactly are her leftovers?” Oliver asked after she was gone. “Her passion for them is admirable.”
“Trust me, it’s just an omelet or something basic. When she’s hungry she thinks everything was more delicious than it actually was.”
“You two have a fun dynamic.”
“Do you have roommates?” I asked.
“I do not.”
My eyes narrowed. “Don’t you get lonely?”
“Yes, very,” he said, his husky voice sending tingles skating up my spine. “Also, what’s a meet-cute?”
I smiled. “It’s what we call the first meeting between the love interests in a book or movie. It’s usually something adorable. Like a mixed-up drink order or a mistaken identity, a kiss cam or a concert shoulder ride.”
“What about a u up on a dating app? Does that qualify?”
I laughed. “Never!” Another memory came to me from the night before. “I deleted my apps last night. Right after that guy texted me those words, which prompted my unhinged message to you.”
He didn’t seem surprised. “I delete mine every few months.”
“Me too.”
“That’s why we keep matching,” he said.
“That and your toilet.” I pulled my knee onto the couch with me, hugging it to my chest.
“Oh yes, the proximity of you to my toilet is important, I forgot.”
My eyes shot down to his crotch even though I really knew toilet was not code for his penis. My cheeks went pink and I quickly averted my gaze. “How many people are you chatting with this round?”
“On the apps?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Like five or six.”
“Any standouts?”
His eyes met mine again. “Yes, this woman who only wants me for my body.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You do have a nice body.”
“She thinks we’re incompatible because we have nothing in common. Any advice for me?”
I let out a sharp breath. “Tell her to give you time. You seem like the type who grows on people.”
“I am,” he said, a sly smile coming onto his handsome face.
I needed to get up, move. Not sit so close to him, absorbing all his energy, making me wonder why I let any sort of line be drawn in the sand about our relationship status or lack thereof. “Do you want a tour?”
“A tour?” he asked.
“Of the apartment.”
He scanned the room. From where he sat, he could see that there wasn’t much to our apartment. He’d been in our modest kitchen and now sat in our small living room. He probably thought he’d already had the tour.
“Your books,” he said after his scan. “I’d like to see your books. You said you had a bigger collection than at your office. You need to back this up.”
My books were in my bedroom. No big deal. I could take this man into my bedroom. We were friends now. Friends who weren’t going to have sex anytime soon.
“Yes, you must see my collection. If I’m going to brag about size, I better be willing to prove it.”
He chuckled. “You’re good at that, you know.”
“At what?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“You know what.” He stood.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll stop.”
“Don’t stop on my account.”
I smiled, then led him down the hall and opened my bedroom door.
He hesitated at the threshold. “I didn’t realize they would be in your bedroom.”
“Is that a problem, friend ?” I teased.
“Not at all,” he said, stepping in first.
I shoved him playfully with a laugh and he stumbled forward, laughing as well. I pointed toward my bed, the comforter balled up at the bottom, my sheets twisted and messy. “I blame that on my night. Normally I make my bed every morning.”
“Do you?” he asked, curious.
I cringed. “No, but I’m starting that habit tomorrow. And that’s my clothes chair.” I nodded to the stack of clothes piled high on my overstuffed chair. “Worn once but not dirty enough to need a wash.”
“You have a system,” he said.
“Organized chaos.”
Across from my bed, on the opposite wall, were my bookcases.
I’d bought them from Ikea and they fit almost perfectly across the length of the wall, giving the appearance of built-ins.
And like my bed and my clothes chair, the books that lived there were a mismatch of stacks and rows, organized in a way that only I understood.
“Oh wow,” he said. “You’re right, you should brag about size. You should even pull out a tape measure.” He took several steps closer and ran his hand along some spines. He might as well have been running his hand up my spine based on how my body shivered in reaction to his words and action.
“You want to borrow a book?” I asked too loudly.
“Sure, will you pick one out for me? Your favorite.”
“I don’t have a favorite,” I said, which was mostly true.
I couldn’t pick. I liked lots of books for lots of different reasons but some did rise to the top.
The problem was the top was always changing.
“Do you like romance?” I stepped up beside him, examining my books along with him, our shoulders bumping as I did.
“I’ve never read a romance.”
I crinkled my nose. “Deal-breaker.”
“Above or below the Dirty Dancing requirement?”
I smiled. “I mean, if I say, ‘I had the time of my life,’ I need someone to be ready and willing to respond with, ‘and I owe it all to you.’”
He closed one eye in thought. “I take it that’s a Dirty Dancing reference?”
I let out a fake sigh. “All my hopes and dreams going up in flames.”
We shuffled a few more steps forward.
“Do you meet a lot of men who read romance?” He angled toward me, his breath mingling with mine now.
“No, it’s why I’m still single,” I said.
His lip curved into a crooked smirk. “Understandable.”
I continued along the shelves, him following until I came to a stop on one I thought would be tame enough not to scare him, but spicy enough to give him ideas. Ideas of what he could do to me if… Stop, Margot. I pulled it out and presented it to him.
“Is this the kind of book you wanted me to read out loud?” He took it from me and opened to one of my colorful tabs near the middle.
I nodded. “Yes, actually.”
His eyes scanned the page and his eyebrows rose higher and higher as he read.
“What’s it say?” I teased, knowing exactly what the pink tabs marked in my books. They weren’t the red tabs, but they were good.
He took a resolute breath, then surprisingly cleared his throat and read aloud, “‘His finger drew circles around her sweat-slicked navel and he longed for a salty taste of her. She whimpered, goose bumps forming under his touch. He wasn’t sure he could last another second without his mouth, his tongue, on her. Her top covered her breasts, but just barely, and the evidence that she wanted him just as much was visible through the thin material.’”
I want to throw you on this table and taste every inch of you.
Oliver had said those words to me earlier and now the words coming out of his mouth were reminding me of them.
The throbbing between my legs wasn’t helping either.
I wanted to forget everything we had just agreed to about friendship and abstinence.
Oliver stopped and closed the book. “I get the gist.”
I took a breath, my head light, my legs weak.
“I wasn’t lying when I said that you should narrate books for a living.
” We were close. So close I could feel the heat from his body on my bare arms. Had we inched closer during his reading?
His eyes were stormy when he looked at me, like he was trying to hold back.
I wished he wouldn’t, but he seemed to have all the willpower in the world.
I tapped his chest. “It’s good we’re just friends, Oliver. Because I think you might be too nice for me. I could wreck you.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were even more intense. And his voice was husky when he said, “Maybe it would be good for me.”
The bathroom door shut across the hall and I jumped.
Oliver seemed to snap out of his daze as well. “I better go,” he said. “If I’ve proved my ass is stickless, that is.”
“You have definitely proved that.”
“Coffee tomorrow?” He jerked his head toward the hall, reminding me that Sloane had invited him.
“Yes, that would be… yes. We go to Java. Do you know it?”
“Yes, I’ve been there.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow.” I play punched his shoulder, not sure why. Every word out of my mouth sounded the opposite of sincere right now.
He looked down at where my fist had connected with his shoulder and smiled a full smile. My heart melted a little.
“Bye.” He took a step toward the door, but before he took another, I grabbed his hand that wasn’t holding my book and pulled him into a hug.
“Friends hug,” I said. “Right?”
“Friends hug,” he answered, holding me tight, his lips resting on my temple.
It wasn’t a friendly hug between friends.
But a tight desperate hug of people who had just agreed to stop touching each other but still wanted to.
I wondered if he could feel my heart pounding heavy against his chest. He pulled back first, then rushed away.