4. Oliver
OLIVER
My hands shook so hard, I dropped my bag and it took me two attempts to punch in the right code. I picked up my suitcase and walked in, shutting the door behind me and leaning my head back.
“Fuck,” I muttered. “That was…” I shook my head. I didn’t have words for it.
I had been informed Kassie had left town. I’d never heard she had come back. With a sigh, I scrubbed my face. The truth was, I hadn’t spoken to anyone from Richton in over five years. And I’d never thought to check again. I felt the past was best left in the past.
But seeing her today… Kassie. It hit me hard in the chest, stirring up all sorts of memories and feelings I had locked away. Or at least, I thought I had.
Good God, she was beautiful. I had thought so as a boy, but now as a grown-ass man? She was exquisite.
And so goddamn angry at me.
I pushed off the door and headed into the living room.
It was light and spacious, simply furnished, but homey with creamy walls and a dark brown leather sofa and chair.
The hardwood floors gleamed in the early afternoon light, and I was pleased to see a good-sized TV in the corner.
There were added touches—plump cushions on the furniture, a fuzzy blanket draped over the chair.
I carried my suitcase to the bedroom, grateful for the king-sized bed.
At six three, I found anything less was uncomfortable to sleep in since my feet usually hung off the end.
It, too, had extra touches. Luxurious linens, a fluffy comforter, and plump pillows that looked inviting.
The bathroom was across the hall and appeared recently renovated, with a roomy shower.
Again, I was impressed by the added toiletries, the thick towels, and the multiple showerheads.
A lot of thought had gone into the place.
In the hall, I inhaled, the faint scent somehow familiar.
It was light and pleasant, the notes of honey and flowers slamming into me as I recognized the fragrance.
It smelled like Kassie. How she had always smelled. Warm, welcoming. Soft and memorable. I had always loved her scent.
I gripped the edge of the doorway, shaking my head. She must have been up here earlier. That was why I smelled it. That had to be it. Otherwise, it might drive me mad.
The well-fitted kitchen was at the back of the house, the windows overlooking a decent-sized backyard.
On the counter was a basket and, curious, I pulled it toward me, smiling at the items inside.
A container of jam and some coffee pods.
A small loaf of bread. A couple of bags of chips and packages of microwave popcorn.
And on the counter beside the basket, a note and a plate containing a small pie.
I picked it up, studying it. It was blueberry—my favorite—the berries plump and ripe, overflowing the pastry.
It looked delicious, and I recalled how much Kassie enjoyed baking pies, so it had to be handmade by her.
The note was simple:
Welcome to Richton.
I hope you will find these items useful until you have a chance to get to the store and buy your own supplies. Bottled water is in the fridge.
Thank you for your business, and if there is anything you need, please let me know.
K. Brennan 905-555-5555
There was the same list as Annie had given me, as well as a small map showing me where stores were located. It was all thoughtful and a nice touch.
One I was sure she wouldn’t have bothered with if she’d known it was me.
I opened the fridge and grabbed a water, carrying it and the pie to the small table. The pastry burst into small flakes as I cut into it with my fork, the explosion of flavor in my mouth decadent. I stared out the window as I ate the entire tasty pie, my mind racing.
What were the odds of this happening? Not only me coming back here to shoot a film, but Kassie being here and my temporary landlady as well?
I’d never thought I would see her again.
We had parted ways, each of us living a life we hadn’t planned.
For us to be back in the same place after all this time seemed unreal.
Kismet, some might say.
“Coincidence,” Annie would snort. “Snap out of it,” she’d growl.
I finished the pie, draining my water, the exhaustion I had been feeling gone.
I was wide awake and tense, needing to move.
To get rid of the excess energy building inside me and escape that scent that suddenly seemed everywhere.
After unpacking, I rinsed the plate, took a deep breath, and headed downstairs.
Kassie
Oliver Hart.
Oliver fucking no-heart was in my house. Upstairs. I could hear him moving around. No doubt exploring his accommodations. I was certain, compared to the lavish lifestyle he lived, he was finding it lacking.
Maybe he’d take my advice and leave. Find an expensive hotel in Toronto and commute to the set here daily.
Being the masochist I was, I had followed his career.
Watched him grow up right before my eyes, the gangly young man slowly morphing into a sexy adult.
Confident, sure of his success. Always with a different woman on his arm.
All those years, I had waited for the inevitable announcement of his marriage, surprised I never heard it.
He played the perfect leading man in his romantic comedy movies. Awkward and shy at times. Confident and charming at others. Saying the right things. Doing the right things. Always with a happily ever after at the end.
Unlike real life.
Last year, I had gone to the cinema, curious at the arthouse-type films he was part of.
They were terrible, but he was not. The camera loved him and his talent showed, but the films were badly shot, poorly produced, and panned hard.
Still, he appeared on the red carpet, smiling and gracious.
But I was certain I saw a glimmer of vulnerability when the camera zoomed in closely. Then I told myself I was being stupid.
I didn’t know him anymore. I had no idea his thoughts, his hopes, or what was going on in his life.
Maybe what I saw was boredom or concealed impatience.
He made no secret of his dislike for the cameras that followed him everywhere.
The paparazzi that shouted at him all the time.
They were especially brutal after the two flops, but he seemed to ignore them the way he usually did, never acknowledging them on the red carpet or if they followed him to the grocery store.
I paced the room, unable to believe he was here. Back in Richton. Upstairs.
How was I going to handle it?
I huffed out a breath and pulled back my shoulders.
I was going to handle it just fine. I could be polite on the rare occasions I saw him.
Our history was in the past. It had been twelve years.
We’d both been eighteen and immature, thinking we were in love.
We had both moved on. Our lives were totally different.
None of the plans we had so blindly made were real.
What seemed possible at eighteen was very different when you were thirty.
I nodded, shaking out my arms to dispel the tension in my shoulders. I would follow my routine. Work in my office. Bake my pies. Take my daily runs. Visit with friends.
The fact that Oliver was upstairs wouldn’t change anything. He was a stranger now—someone I’d known in the distant past. Simply a tenant. I would engage only when necessary and remain aloof. Polite but distant.
The knock on the door startled me and, opening it, I found Oliver standing there. His hair was in total disarray, as if he’d been in a windstorm. He had a small smear of blueberry on the corner of his mouth. He held out the empty plate. “Thank you for the welcome. The pie was delicious.”
Wordlessly, I took the plate, holding back the retort in my head that was snidely telling him if I had known it was him, I wouldn’t have bothered.
“Um, nice place you have up there,” he mumbled with a strange look on his face. “Not, ah, cluttered,” he added.
I lifted one eyebrow. “Not the sort of place you’re used to anymore, I suppose.”
He shrugged. “It’s, ah, homey.”
I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or a slight. I was proud of my rental. I made sure it was clean, neat, the furniture comfortable, and the place welcoming.
“Anything else?” I bit out, wanting to tell him off but remaining silent.
“I was wondering if there was a gym here now?”
“Sorry?” I asked, having missed his question with my rude inner dialogue.
“A gym? I didn’t see one listed on your information sheet. Does this hick town have a decent gym?”
His words made me angry. I disliked his blatant distaste for my hometown. He must have forgotten he once loved it here too. The same way he’d forgotten he loved me.
“You want a gym?”
He nodded. “A private one, preferably.”
I snorted. “Try the Y, superstar. That’s about all you’re going to get. Or, even better, try the big city. They have private gyms and far more luxurious places to rent.”
And I slammed the door in his face.
Yep. I was going to handle this just fine.