Chapter 15 #2
Oliver shifts to see if I’m still awake, as if I would fall asleep during such a classic. A soft smile graces his face. “Hey,” he whispers, “ready to call it a night?”
I nod, pretending alarm bells aren’t blaring in my head about sharing a room. About sharing a bed. It’ll be fine, Callie. It’s not like you actually sleep naked or anything weird like that. But the shock on his face was pretty great when I said that earlier.
We get up as quietly as possible. Replacing the blanket on the couch, we say goodnight to Imogene and Mom, the only Rutherfords left awake on this Christmas Eve eve.
By the time we reach our room, panic is slowly leaking back into my system. I try reciting the list of presidents but I only make it to Millard Fillmore before Oliver locking the door behind us sends my nerves into overdrive.
“Do you think Chris would’ve eaten that carrot if he knew Goldie licked it before offering it to him?” Oliver asks.
Twisting around to answer, every word I’ve ever known flies out of my head.
I need an escape. Fast.
“I need to shower,” I blurt much louder than necessary.
The man visibly flinches. “Yeah,” he clears his throat, “no problem. I can clean up after you’re done.” He kicks his shoes off while I grab my things, including the world’s ugliest but comfiest pajamas, and scurry into the bathroom.
Inside the safety of the tiled sanctuary, I let out a deep breath.
“This is going to be a long Christmas,” I mutter.
Turning on the shower to maximum heat, I take care of all other necessities and step into the scalding water.
But even the fiery water licking my skin does nothing to abolish these undeniable feelings growing for the man waiting on the other side of the door.
When I’ve spent as long as humanly possible in the shower without turning into a pile of goo, I resign myself to my fate.
It’s only minutes later that I’m toweled off and standing in the middle of the bathroom in my old, ratty, fleece pajamas featuring potted plants, trowels and shovels all over them.
With nothing left to do in my safe haven, I brace myself and open the door.
Steam rolls out of the bathroom like the beginning of an improv rock concert.
Oliver peeks up from where he lays stretched out on the bed.
Setting his phone down on the nightstand, he takes in the hideousness of my favorite pajamas that have been patched up more times than should be legal before throwing them out.
“Have a good shower?” he asks. Rolling in his lips, he suppresses a smile.
“Don’t make fun.” Sniffing, I march proudly to drop off the wad of dirty clothes in my suitcase.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smirks. “But the length of time you were in there was truly impressive.” The click of a lamp sounds behind me, following the bedsprings protesting Oliver’s movements.
“A lot happens in there on hairwashing days.”
I don’t even have to look to know he’s eyeing my completely dry ballet bun. “Did you wash your hair?”
“Nope. Did that this morning.” Spinning around to face him, I plant my fists on my hips. “Any other inquiries you’d like to make about my bathing routine?”
Oliver looks at me much longer than necessary, before shaking his head.
“Good,” I breathe a false sigh of relief, “because I’ve always heard the key to healthy relationships is excellent communication. And, frankly, I’d hate to have to give you the hairy details about how difficult it is to get a decent shave. Pun intended.”
Oliver bites down on his lower lip, a grin daring to creep into place.
As soon as Oliver’s in the bathroom with the door shut behind him, I flick off the main light, snagging my phone and charger from where I dropped them on the dresser earlier.
Turning on the other bedside lamp, I climb into what will obviously be my side of the bed.
Oliver may have been laying on top of the comforter, but his signature cinnamon apple scent lingers in the air.
Groaning, I throw my head back onto my pillow, pulling my phone to my face for any kind of distraction.
Eight texts from Ian and six from Aaron await my viewing pleasure in our group chat. Each one ranges from concern about why I haven’t responded in hours, to suggestive things I may be doing with my boyfriend, in which case, it’s okay that I’m not answering and to update them in the morning.
Rolling my eyes, I decide they can wait.
Switching to Pinterest, I scroll through endless pictures of my ideal greenhouses, plants I can’t afford, and all the best tips for making my new Monstera love me.
Ads for indoor greenery subscription boxes tempt me, continuing to perform their seductive dance as they appear on my screen.
Hot chocolate recipes find their way into my algorithm, and I discover no less than four new concoctions I now need to try when we get home.
When Oliver and I are officially done pretending to be in love.
Here, all alone in my room, the thought guts me.
My vision from earlier dares to wiggle its way back into my consciousness, making my eyes burn.
Fury brings heat to my cheeks. Anger at my family for driving me to do something as insane as this.
Irritation at Aaron for finding that stupid flyer and at Ian for pushing me to go meet the advertiser.
Rage at myself for letting my ridiculous heart become involved, no matter how hard I’ve tried to keep that from happening.
Sniffing, I roughly wipe away the saline that dares to show itself to the world.
“Callie? Are you alright?” Panic laces Oliver’s tone as he rounds the bed to sit on the edge beside me.
Not having heard him even open the bathroom door, my fight-or-flight instinct tries to kick in, and I have to repeatedly tell myself that this man is not an intruder that’s come to steal Gilmore away in the dead of this wintery night.
Nope, it’s just this amazing guy who looks criminally good in a white T-shirt and red pajama pants.
“Callie?” he tries again, voice soft as he reaches up to brush away a hair gone wild. A tender thumb gently wipes my stray tear.
Sighing, I shut my phone off and give him a weak smile. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, waving him off. Placing my phone on the stand, I resituate so I’m sitting up.
Oliver drops his hand. “If something concerns you, it concerns me.”
“A parent … They just posted something stupid on social media. That’s all,” I lie.
Those stunning blue eyes search my face behind his glasses.
“Really, it’s nothing,” I insist. When it’s obvious he doesn’t believe me, I switch topics. “I like your glasses. I don’t think I told you that before. On Thanksgiving.”
A light pink tints his cheeks, doing funny things to my insides. “Thank you,” he murmurs. Apprehensive eyes dart over me to the empty side of the bed. “Um, let me just grab my pillow and—”
“Why?”
“Well,” he says slowly, “I know you were concerned about being uncomfortable with sleeping arrangements earlier.” Oliver gets up and moves to the other side of the bed, grabbing the unsuspecting pillow. “So I’m happy to sleep on the floor or in the chair.”
Rearing my head back, I’m surprised by the amount of annoyance flooding my system. “Don’t be an idiot.”
He frowns. “I usually try not to be.”
“I just mean—” I dig the heels of my palms into my eyes, sighing “—you don’t have to be so chivalrous all the time.”
“I’m telling my mom you said that.”
I look up to find him grinning at me. “Oliver.”
“Callie.”
“Get in the damn bed.”
He watches me for a long moment, trying to discern whether or not I’m serious.
And while the space from him is good for my heart, his intense stare does nothing for my already shredded nerves. In one last attempt to end this interaction, I yank back the covers, displaying the inviting sheets prime for the taking.
Oliver gingerly climbs in beside me and I realize I’ve never been this aware of another human being in my entire life.
Which probably isn’t great since my profession has me around tiny humans all day long.
But regardless, Oliver Grant Rhodes sitting in bed beside me makes me hyperaware of his every movement.
Oliver removes his glasses, shifting to face me. “I think this is going well. Really well.”
Jutting out my lip, I nod and try to tell myself I’m imagining the earnestness in his voice. “Definitely. Even Goldie really likes you.”
“So, Goldie …”
Lifting a brow, I check the time on my phone. Mainly to get a reprieve from seeing Oliver comfortable and undone from the day. Here, in bed with me. “What about her?”
“Her mom is … ?”
Shrugging, I shake my head. “We don’t know. Actually, we don’t even know who she is.”
“Are you serious?” His brows knit together.
“I mean, Prescott does, but he won’t tell us. Only he and our parents know. A woman knocked on Prescott’s door one day with a six-month-old baby in a carrier and handed him a note.”
Oliver’s head rears back. “Was it the mom?”
“Nope,” I sigh. “It was a friend of hers, apparently. She told him she never wanted to be a mother and that this little accident from their one night stand didn’t change that.”
Oliver’s jaw drops.
“The birth certificate was included in a bag she sent with her friend that had shot records, some diapers and formula,” I continue. “But Prescott was listed as the father.”
“Oh my gosh,” he whispers. I can’t help the easy smile that spreads across my face, thoroughly confusing him. “What?”
“I like that you don’t hold back with me,” I admit. “Your reactions are honest. At least, they are when we’re alone.”
Oliver breaks into a shy smile. “You make me comfortable.”
In the process of internally denying every warm and fuzzy feeling buzzing around in my stomach, I beam back at him.
“What did he do? After that?” he asks.
“Prescott? He, um, went to our parents’ house and showed them everything.
They went to the doctor to confirm paternity.
Obviously, it was positive.” Sighing, I search Oliver’s expressive eyes.
“It’s honestly crazy how one tiny moment can change your life forever,” I muse. “And then the rest is history.”
Oliver watches me intently, cataloguing every emotion I try to hide as they flicker across my face. Something intense lies behind his outward expression, something trying its hardest to break through to the surface. He finally nods. “And then the rest is history.”