OLIVER #2
“Is your life as glamorous as it seems to be in magazines and interviews? I saw pictures of your house.”
He laughed. “That house was a staged interview. I would never allow a reporter into my own home. That’s private.
My place is nothing like the pictures. It’s nice—small by Hollywood standards.
Not glamorous at all.” He was quiet for a moment.
“And my life isn’t at all what you see. That is simply an image, Kassie.
Cultivated by my team. The world doesn’t want to know I live a fairly normal life.
I don’t lounge around in designer clothing and eat fancy meals while servants cater to my every whim.
” He sounded amused. “My housekeeper puts me in my place if I step out of line. She has no problem telling me to pick up my dirty socks or not to leave coffee cups around the house.”
“Oh, you still do that?” He always forgot to take his coffee cups to the sink.
He squeezed me closer. “Yep. A trail of cups follows me everywhere. Or some days, water bottles.”
“I see.”
“I hate getting dressed up. I rarely go out, and if I do, I’m often mobbed, so I always have bodyguards.
I hate crowds, never sure of who is watching me.
I’ve been followed, harassed, pushed around, and screamed at to get a reaction.
” He sighed. “It took me a long time to learn not to give them one. Some of the paps are relentless. A few, in particular.”
“I’m sorry,” I offered.
“My life is lonely, if I’m being honest. There are few I trust, and I only have a small circle of friends. We’re all in the industry, so we only see each other on occasion since we tend to be working. I spend most of my time reading scripts, researching for roles, working out.”
“Solitary endeavors,” I said with a frown.
“Yes. And it’s fine. It’s the trade-off to being able to do what I loved.”
“Loved? As in past tense?”
He sighed. “Lately, the spark is gone. I’m tired of the hamster wheel I’m on all the time. Working, the interviews, press junkets, smiling and pretending I’m happy. The emptiness of it all gets to me more than it used to.”
I propped myself up on my elbow, meeting his eyes. I could see the sadness in them, the emotion he hid from the world so well. “You can’t be unhappy all the time, Oliver.”
“I’m not. There are moments of joy. I still enjoy losing myself in a role.”
“It’s not living if you have to lose yourself to be happy.”
He smiled sadly. “It’s all I know.”
“Then do something different.”
“I have been thinking of that,” he admitted. “I’ve been watching Davis. I find directing fascinating, and he’s a great teacher. Maybe going behind the camera instead of in front of it. I would have to find the right project and backers that were willing to give me a chance.”
“Could you work with him on a project?”
“I’m not sure he’s looking for an apprentice.”
“Have you asked?”
“No.”
I lifted one eyebrow at him, and he smiled, stroking my cheek.
“I’ll talk to him. Feel him out.”
“Good.”
“What about you, Kassie? Are you happy?”
That was a loaded question.
“I’m content. I like my life now. I have friends here. A good business. I love baking pies and being part of the community again. I missed that in Toronto.” I sighed. “The big city isn’t as great as I thought it would be.”
He nodded, absently stroking my arm with his fingers.
“I have to admit, I like it here more than I remembered. No one stalking me, pushing a camera in my face. I can just be Oliver, picking up some groceries or grabbing lunch. I don’t have to have backup plans in case I get spotted by the paps or mobbed by some fans.
” He blew out a long breath. “It’s easier here.
I don’t feel so anxious. It’s a nice change. ”
“I’m sure by the end of the shoot, you’ll be bored and happy to get back to your life there,” I said lightly.
He was quiet for a while before he replied.
“Maybe,” was all he said.
I sat up, pushing my hair off my face. He had fallen asleep not long after we finished talking. But he never let me go. I woke up a couple of times, and he was right beside me, his arms holding me close. He had always been a cuddler, but I was surprised how right it felt to be in his arms again.
I stretched, pleased not to feel even a twinge in my back.
Oliver had been so gentle last night, concerned about hurting me, even in the grip of passion.
Every move, every sensation, the feel of his body, the warmth of the caresses, all of it brought back so many memories of us.
Our past. There was no doubt he was more experienced now, his confidence established, his actions certain.
Yet, he was still Oliver. Still the boy who knew how to bring out the passion in me.
His honest statement had been one hundred percent right.
We were fucking epic in bed.
Our bodies knew each other. My soul felt connected to his. I felt safe with him. Adored. He knew where to touch me. His kisses were highly addictive and drugging. His passion was intense.
And for the next while, he was mine.
Only for the next few weeks, I reminded myself.
I tamped down the sadness those words made me feel. A few weeks of Oliver Hart in my bed was more than I’d ever expected to have again. And this time, I was going into it with my eyes open. We set the rules. We agreed on them. It was mutual. A little affair between old lovers.
That was all.
I was smarter now than I was when I was a teenager. I wouldn’t catch feelings. I could revel in the physical aspect with him because of our history. And if I were honest with myself, once it was over, perhaps I would be able to move on with someone new.
I pushed aside the laughter that echoed in my mind.
I rose and headed to the shower, planning my day. I needed to make some more pies since the huge catered lunch yesterday had depleted my supplies. Luckily, I had a lot of crusts ready to go, so I had only to make the fillings and bake them. It would keep me busy and my mind off other things.
Especially the thoughts of a dark-haired, blue-eyed man who touched me with more care than I had been shown in years. Looked at me with an intensity I found overwhelming at times.
I couldn’t afford to dwell too long on those thoughts.
It was only for now.
I had to remember that.