Chapter 19 #2
The only sound besides the low hum of the TV is the soft tap of her fingers against her phone. She angles the screen just slightly away from me, not enough to seem deliberate.
I still notice. My grip around her waist tightens slightly, my thumb pressing idly into her ribs.
“Who’s that?” I ask, keeping my tone light, brushing a kiss along the top of her head.
“Carolyn,” she says quickly.
Not a lie. A half-truth.I let the silence stretch, feeling the steady beat of her heart against me.
Her fingers don’t move as quickly anymore.
She’s baiting me.
I knew it the moment she shifted, pulling just enough from my grasp to grab the water glass on the table. Her body stays pressed to mine, but there’s distance—small, but perceptible.
She wants to see how far I’ll let her pull away.
I tip her chin up with the edge of my finger, forcing her to look at me. Her lips part slightly, soft, questioning.
I don’t answer whatever thought lingers there. Instead, I kiss her.
Slow and deep, tasting the sweetness of her mouth. Olivia exhales softly, melting into me, and I feel the tension bleed from her body as she grips the front of my shirt.
My hand slides to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair as I pull her closer.
Her lips part easily under mine, and I don’t hesitate—my tongue slipping into her mouth, coaxing her to meet me.
She responds with a soft, sweet lick, her arms winding around my neck as she presses up against me.
I tilt her head further, kissing her deeper until I feel her soften beneath me.
I savor the way she opens for me, the soft drag of her tongue against mine sending a slow burn through my veins.
My other hand traces the curve of her waist, fingers grazing the sliver of skin beneath her sweater.
She shivers at the contact, but doesn’t pull away—if anything, she presses closer, her breath hitching softly between kisses.
She wants this. No matter how far she tries to push, she always comes back when I give her reason to.
Her teeth graze my bottom lip, tentative but teasing, and I answer by taking the kiss slower, licking into her mouth. I feel her chest rise against mine, her nails gently scratching the back of my neck as we sink further into each other, the rest of the world fading away.
By the time I pull away, she’s breathless, her phone forgotten on the armrest. I brush a strand of hair from her cheek, admiring the flush in her skin.
Let her play. Let her think she can run circles around me.
She’ll learn soon enough—I don’t chase. I collect.
The campus bustles with noise and movement, but my world narrows to the sound of Olivia’s voice as we exit the lecture hall together. She brushes her hair behind her ear, her steps purposeful, her presence magnetic. I walk beside her, content to remain in her orbit for as long as she allows.
“I need to grab a couple of things in the city,” she announces, her tone neutral but practiced. It sets me on edge, even as I smile.
“Let me come with you,” I offer, my words casual, my intent anything but. “I can help.”
She glances up at me, her green eyes warm but guarded, the faintest flicker of something unreadable passing through them. “Thank you, but it’s fine,” she replies. “I could use the alone time.”
Alone time. My jaw tightens, though I keep my expression soft. I shift, recalibrating. “At least let me drive you,” I counter smoothly, tilting my head, feigning nonchalance.
Her lips twitch, a ghost of a smile, but her gaze lingers a beat too long. I can see what she’s doing—what she’s been doing the past couple of days—leaving breadcrumbs and seeing if I will follow.
She’s watching for my reaction, daring me to falter. Instead, I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, lingering just long enough to feel her exhale.
“Be safe, baby,” I murmur, pulling away. “Text me. I’ll come get you whenever you need.”
She nods, stepping back, and with that, she’s gone. But not really. I wait long after she turns the corner, then pull out my phone.
Her location pops up instantly, the small dot tracing her path across the city. Mayfair Book Shop. I frown. She hasn’t mentioned it before.
What is she doing there? My fingers hover over my phone, the urge to text her overwhelming. I resist, though the restraint burns.
The hours drag, each one stretching longer than the last. I try to distract myself—emails, work, even scrolling through meaningless updates on my phone—but nothing holds my attention. My thoughts circle back to Olivia, to the bookshop, to the time ticking by without explanation.
Finally, I give in.
The drive across the city is a blur. I park across the street from the bookshop, the large windows giving me a clear view inside. There she is, seated by the window, a cup of coffee untouched beside her. She’s scrolling through her phone, her brow furrowed, her expression pensive.
I pull out my own phone, accessing the clone of hers with practiced ease. The draft message appears almost immediately, and my stomach twists as I read it.
OLIVIA
Landon, I’m sorry for how our last meeting went. I know it got messy, but I’d really like to fix our friendship if you’re open to it. If you want to meet again, I promise Nathaniel won’t show up this time.
My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles ache.
She’s debating whether to reach out to him. Considering it. Planning it. The fact that she hasn’t sent the message yet is irrelevant. The idea is in her mind, and that’s enough to send a white-hot wave of jealousy crashing through me.
My mind races.
She’s here, deliberating, keeping me in the dark. My pulse thunders, my thoughts spiraling into a tangle of possessiveness and paranoia. Is this her way of testing me? Of pushing boundaries to see how far I’ll let her go? If so, she doesn’t understand the rules of this game. She never will.
I stay rooted in my car, watching her from a distance. She doesn’t move for what feels like an eternity, her thumb hovering over the screen before she locks her phone and places it on the table. Relief wars with fury. The message hasn’t been sent. Yet.
I debate walking inside, confronting her, demanding an explanation. But I know better. Confrontation will only push her further away, and I can’t risk that.
The engine roars to life as I pull away, my thoughts a storm of contradictions. She hasn’t sent the message. That’s the only consolation I cling to as I drive home, the image of her face etched into my mind.
By the time I reach the penthouse, I’m a live wire of nerves and fury, pacing the living room with my phone in hand.
Again and again, I check her messages, waiting for the moment I’ll need to intervene.
But it never comes. The draft remains unsent.
Still, it doesn’t quell the gnawing fear inside me.
For the second time in days, I find myself turning to physical activity to burn off my frantic energy, punishing my body for my mind’s inability to keep it together.
I pound the treadmill, the rhythmic thud of my footsteps the only sound in the gym as I try to drown out the noise of my own thoughts.
I run faster, the numbers on the screen blurring as if speed can pull me out of my head, out of the gnawing hollow that Olivia’s absence has left behind.
My lungs burn, but it’s not enough.
Each step feels futile, like trying to outrun a shadow that’s already fused itself to my skin. No matter how fast I go, I can’t close the distance between us. She’s just out of reach—like mist slipping through my fingers the harder I try to hold on.
She hasn’t sent the message to Landon. I should feel relieved. Should tell myself that means something. But it doesn’t change the fact that she thought about it.
It’s not the lack of trust that gnaws at me. I trust Olivia. But trust isn’t the antidote to this sickness winding through my veins. I know this isn’t rational—love doesn’t behave this way, but I’m not wired to love her softly.
As I told her before, I need her like air.
The thought of her choosing someone else, even just emotionally, isn’t something I can allow. Survival dictates that I keep her tethered to me. Trust doesn’t matter if losing her means losing everything.
The treadmill beeps as I slam the stop button with the heel of my palm.
A familiar voice cuts through the tension like a balm to a burn.
“Nate?”
I spin around to see Olivia leaning against the gym doorframe, watching me with a small smile that makes the knot in my chest loosen—barely.
She crosses her arms, her eyes trailing down over me, and she quirks a brow. “Well, isn’t this a sight to come home to?” She’s unabashedly staring at the sweat trickling down my abs.
I laugh under my breath, wiping the sweat from my brow. “You should have come home earlier.”
She steps forward, the space between us shrinking, and brushes her lips lightly against my cheek. The soft press of her body against mine makes my head swim. I relish the contact like a dying man savoring the last drop of water.
“How was your day?” she asks, pulling back just enough to meet my gaze.
I give her a brief answer, my thoughts elsewhere, already winding toward the question that burned in my throat all day. “Fine. Yours?”
“Oh, you know. Nothing special,” she replies lightly, but the small lift of her shoulders is just a fraction too casual.
I tilt my head, watching her with careful precision, the way a wolf watches a deer edging too close to a snare. I can feel it—the calculation behind her soft smile, the deliberate vagueness.
She’s testing me again.
I trace the line of her cheekbone with my thumb, letting the tension sit between us for just a moment longer. “Did you pick up anything interesting at the Mayfair Book Shop today?”
Her body stills.
The smile doesn’t falter, but I see the faintest flicker in her eyes—a crack in the mask she wears so carefully. It’s subtle, but I catch it. She recovers quickly, brushing it aside like it didn’t happen.
“You know me. I can never leave a bookstore without something,” she responds smoothly. But the words are empty.
I shouldn’t have said it.
The moment the name left my mouth, I knew I gave too much away. I’ve just laid the evidence bare between us.
I force a smile, as if I didn’t notice her shift in demeanor, as if my pulse isn’t thrumming with the knowledge that I just handed her another piece of the puzzle she’s assembling.
Later that night, the quiet returns. Olivia curls beneath the covers beside me, the glow of her phone casting shadows across the room. I watch her from the corner of my eye as she scrolls, the flickering light illuminating the furrow in her brow.
She doesn’t say a word. Every now and then, her thumb hovers above the screen for just a second too long.
I want to ask. To reach for her phone and see. But I stop myself.
Instead, I lie beside her, pretending not to notice, while every nerve in my body screams that something is slipping away.
And I hate that I can’t stop it.