14. Cala #2
He doesn’t answer. Just watches me walk away.
Oliver Walker grips the steering wheel with both hands, eyes locked on the road ahead.
The streetlights cut across his face—sharp jaw, three-day beard, thick brows, and that dark hair, black as a crow’s wing.
“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter.
“Thank you,” he says flatly.
“That wasn’t a compliment,” I snap. “I said I was coming back on my own.”
“And I said coming back alone at night’s impossible. It’s a forty-minute drive on the highway, Cala. What were you gonna do? Take your bike?”
Is he being sarcastic right now?
Some of the Bishop Arts streets are darker here, but he drives like he knows every turn by heart. His cornering’s a little too sharp, but honestly, tension is his default setting—why would driving be any different?
“Are you sure this is about my means of transportation?” I ask.
He exhales, a short, sardonic laugh slipping out.
“Don’t read into it. I’m just making sure my employee’s alive to show up for work tomorrow.”
“I’ve never been late for work, Oliver. Not once.”
“Being on time’s already late, they say.”
He merges onto the highway and turns on the radio—just to shut me up.
Metallica blares through the speakers, and I give up trying to talk.
I lean my elbow against the window and watch Dallas glow in the dark.
If he doesn’t want to talk like a normal human being—if he wants to keep acting all confusing and invasive—fine. I’d rather not know.
At least I’ve got free transportation.
Three songs later, the volume finally drops, and I smile to myself. Guess he couldn’t stay silent forever.
“So, did you break the kid’s heart?”
Figures. He doesn’t know any other language besides provocation.
“He’ll live,” I mutter, eyes still on the road ahead.
“Why’d you end things with him?”
“Do you actually wanna know, or are you just looking for something to tease me about?”
Oliver glances away from the highway long enough to meet my eyes.
“I’d never make fun of you,” he says, serious.
Sure.
Right.
I cross my arms and let out a long sigh.
“We just weren’t compatible. He wants to be the best journalist of the country someday, and I… don’t have those ambitions anymore.”
Silence settles over us again.
The aggressive guitar riffs fill the space between us—loud, relentless, and nothing like the calm, ethereal music I usually listen to.
“What are your ambitions now?”
Is he asking because he really wants to know… or because he can’t stand the silence between us?
“To live in the moment,” I say after a beat. “Keep learning, little by little. Get better every day.” I stretch a little; this SUV’s huge, plenty of room to move.
“I don’t know how much more you can learn,” he says. “You’ve already got everything down.”
“Is that a compliment, Mr. Walker?”
He lets out a soft laugh.
“It’s the truth. You’re doing great. You’re still standing after everything that’s happened these last few months. What can I say—you’re damn near perfect.”
The smile fades from his face as soon as the words leave his mouth. He clears his throat and looks straight ahead again, brows furrowed, like he’s mad at himself for saying it.
“Thanks,” I whisper, tucking my hands between my knees. “Sometimes I just… need to hear that. Dad can be a little strict.”
“I know. My father was the same way with us—nothing was ever enough.”
“You have siblings?”
“Yeah. Three. Silas, Luca, and Killian.”
“I always wanted brothers,” I say, looking out the window. “Being an only child gets lonely sometimes.”
“Can’t imagine life without mine,” he says softly. “We don’t talk as much now—they’re scattered all over the country—but they’re my family.”
“And are they all hopeless bachelors like you?”
He laughs—a real one this time, warm and unguarded.
“No. Well, Killian, maybe. Silas and Luca are married with kids. My nephew Julian’s the spitting image of Silas—hot-headed and spoiled. My niece, Mila… she’s still little, but—”
He trails off and stop talking all the sudden.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Just realized I was rambling. Didn’t wanna bore you.”
That was rambling? Clearly this man’s never been trapped in a room with my mom and her sister.
“I wasn’t bored,” I tell him.
He nods once and goes on, quietly.
“Mila loves horses. She came out here once. Her mom promised she’d bring her back soon.”
“That’s why the guest room’s decorated like that, isn’t it?”
He nods again, his grip tightening on the wheel.
And my heart breaks a little for him.
He decorated that room for a little girl who barely visits.
The thought of him waiting—wanting family time and never getting it—makes my chest ache.
When we finally reach the ranch, Oliver parks the SUV in front of the mansion.
We both get out without a word.
The kitchen lights are still on, even though no one’s there. He turns them off as he walks past and heads for the stairs.
Our bedrooms are both upstairs.
We climb the steps in silence, side by side.
When we reach my door, I stop in the doorway and smile.
“Thanks for the ride,” I whisper, finally giving in.
The short drive with him was more enjoyable than the entire dinner with Roger—and that’s something I probably need to think about.
He’s my boss.
I can’t forget that no matter how many butterflies I’ve got fluttering in my stomach.
Oliver nods once, swallowing hard.
Slowly, his hand moves toward mine until the tips of our fingers touch. Once he adjusts to the contact, his fingers close around mine, gentle, careful.
When he looks up, I can see the confusion in his eyes—mirroring my own—but there’s something else too.
Restraint.
Like a rope holding him back from doing what he wants to do.
Then my gaze drops to his lips and that’s all the permission he needs.
He steps forward and kisses me—softly, achingly tender—until my knees feel like they might give out.
His movements are slow but sure, deliberate and devastatingly sensual.
When his tongue brushes mine, I melt into him, my hand finding the back of his neck as his slides along my cheek.
The kiss deepens for what feels like forever, until finally, he pulls back.
“Goodnight, Miss Saint-Clair,” he murmurs against my lips.
“Goodnight, Mr. Walker.”