Chapter 8
OLIVIA
The mauve lipstick glides smoothly over my mouth and I press my lips together, making a small kissing sound. Sin’s perched on the tub watching my every move like a cat who knows the ending but won’t spoil it.
“You look great, Liv.” She adjusts herself on the ledge. “So, you like this guy?”
My phone buzzes across the counter. Pete. Again. I slide the lipstick closed and hit ignore. He’s relentless, calling all the time, even when I was out with Sam yesterday.
Sin arches a knowing brow. “He’s calling again?”
“Yes.” I exhale sharply. “And yes, I like Sam. He’s charming and sweet, but this can’t go anywhere, so stop looking at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?” She bats her eyelashes, feigning innocence, and follows me into the bedroom.
“Like you think I’m looking forward to tonight.”
She laughs. “You’re not?”
“It’s just dinner.” I have stressed this point far too many times today.
“Seriously?” Erin pipes up from the bed where she’s lounging.
“Dinner with a man who makes you smile every time his name comes up. You’re hung up on the younger man thing.
Liv, please. Who cares how old he is? He obviously likes you.
Otherwise he wouldn’t have asked you out—not once, but twice.
” She holds up two fingers with a scowl.
Yes, he’s twelve years younger. Still, when he said thirty, it didn’t sound so impossible. Amazing what changing that two to a three can do.
Then Erin bounces on the bed to get my attention. “Just throw the guy a bone. Or better yet, bone the guy.”
Both she and Sin dissolve into laughter, barely pulling it together when a knock sounds at the door. Erin’s eyes sparkle with mischief.
“Please tell me you didn’t—”
Sam and I are supposed to meet in the lobby. But, there’s no doubt by the way my friends are acting, it’s him on the other side of the door. And Erin’s behind it. I don’t know how, unless she got his number from my phone. My heart trips over itself, surprise and anticipation colliding.
Erin hustles to the door, flinging it open to reveal Sam, leaning casually against the door frame. He’s dressed in dark jeans and a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. Those perfectly sculpted forearms I’ve spent far too much time thinking about.
The other night, I caught a glimpse of ink when he was slipping on his chef’s jacket. Now, I can see it clearly.
A snake, detailed and graceful, coils around his arm and disappears beneath his sleeve, entwined with delicate, unexpected florals. It’s beautiful. Deep. Unexpected. Like him. My fingers ache to follow it, to digest the story it weaves against his skin.
And now, those forearms consume me. They were never my weakness—until Sam. The way his muscles move, the quiet strength in every motion… It stirs something I can’t ignore. Something that feels too much, too soon, and far too real.
“Good evening, ladies.” His voice is low and warm, brushing over me like a velvet ribbon stretched across bare skin. “Olivia, you’re stunning.”
I shiver. “Thank you.”
The dress that had felt too plain suddenly feels too much—light blue paisley halter, soft fabric clinging just enough. I tug at the skirt, pretending to smooth it while my pulse races.
I grab my purse from the bed, and we leave my friends behind with their laughter and promises to meet up later on Crescent Street. Erin insists we go out with a bang—or more like, she’s already planning her next conquest.
The cab ride is short, filled with easy conversation, and my nerves settle into a warm, steady buzz of excitement.
He takes me to a small, landmark restaurant I’ve always meant to try.
The lighting is low and amber, the air scented with rich, roasted herbs.
He talks about the chef with genuine admiration, and I realize again how much he loves what he does.
It’s rare, someone who’s found their calling, so young at that, and wears it like a second skin.
We order wine, and just when I’m starting to relax, he surprises me. “How long have you been divorced?”
The question lands softly but sure, and my muscles stiffen. Still, I don’t want to hide from him. He was so open with me yesterday, and I’m at ease in sharing this with him.
“Eight months. We were separated about that long before.”
His expression is open, listening, not probing. “You were married a long time.”
“Yes. We met at university.” I pause, searching for words that make the truth easier. “It was good for a long while. Heck, even great. But we drifted apart, wanted different things. It sounds so cliché.” A nervous laugh bubbles out of me.
He doesn’t chuckle to join me in lightening the mood or to fill the now uneasy silence. His restraint invites honesty.
“Pete was consumed by work. He’s an investment banker—successful, ambitious, always chasing the next deal.
I tried to be understanding, but somewhere along the way, I disappeared.
I was very much alone. I felt invisible.
” I pause, glancing down at the white linen tablecloth. “When I tried… God, I sound so whiny.”
Sam’s hand covers mine, steady and sure. “No, you don’t. You sound human.” His gaze is warm and genuine. “Continue. I’m not judging. I’ve no clue what it was like to be in your shoes.”
My laugh is half-hearted at best, though I’m grateful for his understanding.
“I kept trying to fix it. Talking, compromising, therapy. Even pretending things were fine. But it wasn’t.
I realized during a trip to New York that unless things changed, I would be alone and unhappy.
I was at an interior design business conference and Pete was supposed to come with me, but he’d canceled, again. ”
“The trip alone was exactly what I needed to realize we were no longer partners. We were amicable, more like friends living together. Sometimes only acquaintances. I didn’t want that for my life.”
A marriage takes work, both people committed to putting the other person first, checking their egos at the door. I wasn’t perfect and had my moments, but Pete was no longer committed, even if he didn’t know it.
Even in my silence as I contemplate the days, weeks, and months that led to the demise of my marriage, Sam doesn’t interrupt. He simply watches me, and his quiet attention feels more intimate than a touch.
“I left. Not out of anger or even sadness. I left because I wasn’t living. And as cliché as this sounds too, life is too short to waste even one breath.”
He nods, gaze thoughtful. Sam opens his mouth, then closes it, a question on the tip of his tongue, and it’s easy to guess what’s on his mind.
I smile, if only to coax it out of him. “Go on. You can ask.”
He smiles hesitantly. “Was he unfaithful?”
I love the way he words it. Sam’s a romantic at heart. Not cheating, unfaithful. It suggests so much more than the physical act of sex. And isn’t that the truth.
“No.” I adamantly shake my head. The question is common. “This might sound strange but somehow that made it harder. There was no villain to blame. Just…distance.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to know,” he says, voice low and steady.
My brow lifts, curiosity stirring. Not sure what he means.
Then his eyes find mine—dark, unwavering, intent. “Olivia, I don’t want to know, let alone even think, about you with him. Or with any other man.”
The words land like a touch, delicate but sure. I swallow against the lump rising in my throat, my pulse tripping. “Oh.”
His raw confession steals the air between us. It’s disarming, how simply he says what others never would.
Sam’s attentiveness is such a contrast to the latter half of my marriage.
Pete’s silence had been a slow erosion, his indifference a shadow that lengthened over the years until I could barely see myself.
I shrank inside it, dulled by the weight of being unseen.
Somewhere in the midst of it all, I forgot how to laugh, how to embrace beautiful, how to be me.
He easily steers the conversation into lighter territory, carried by laughter and another glass of wine. I tell him some more about design, about the joy of creating spaces that feel alive. He listens like it matters, like I matter.
By the time we reach the bar, the city buzzes with energy even as the weekend is winding down. Inside, the crowd is loud and close, bodies brushing past in waves of music and perfume. Sam finds my hand and threads his fingers through mine, guiding me toward my friends.
Sin waves from a corner booth where she’s trapped between a laughing couple I’ve never seen before and Erin, who’s already halfway through her next flirtation with the guy next to her. Erin readily introduces us to their new friends while Sin and I share an amused look.
Sam and I have barely settled in around the table when a voice squeals over the noise. “Sam. Mon Dieu, it’s so good to see you.”
A blonde, five-foot-nothing woman drapes her petite frame over him, practically climbing into his lap. He’s stunned but it doesn’t stop her from plastering her chest against his and wrapping her hands around his neck.
She kisses him on the cheek, not once, not twice, but three times. Is it a French thing or is she extra friendly? Either way, I don’t like it.
Sam tenses and drops my hand as he manages a polite smile. “Yasmine, hi. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful now you’re here.” Her French accent is thick and inviting. She clings tighter, her high-pitched laugh slicing through the music. “Papa is here. You must say hello before he leaves.”
I strain to hear her over the loud music, catching only half of what she says before she slips into French. My high school French isn’t that great. Still, I understand enough with her body language alone to know she’s staking a claim.
Sam looks to me apologetically. I swallow the lump in my throat and my irrational wish for him to get rid of her. As if hearing my thoughts, he gently nudges her out of his arms, motioning to me, but she barely moves an inch. I can’t say I blame her. I wish it was me in his arms.
Reluctantly, she peers over her shoulder in my direction and he introduces us, still trying to extricate himself from her hold. “Yasmine Thibault, this is Olivia Cassidy. Yasmine’s father is a friend.”
The blonde leech with her plastic smile and blank eyes assesses me in less than a beat and she swivels back to Sam. Not so much as a word for me.
Her thin, stringy hair whips past my shoulder and I want nothing more than to yank on it. Shit, where did that come from? I’m a grown woman, and this gnat brings out the mean girl in me.
Not good.
I will not be that woman, no matter what’s happening right now. This isn’t who I am, and Sam and I mean nothing to each other. Even with the truth of the matter, I can’t seem to lift the heaviness weighing on my chest.
He glances at me apologetically. “Olivia, excuse me a moment? Her father is—”
“No need to explain. Go.”
He stands with one hand clasping my knee, gently squeezing, calming me. Yasmine’s gaze narrows at where we’re touching.
I force a smile, though brittle, for him and watch Sam saunter toward an older, portly man talking to someone else many feet away.
Yasmine doesn’t leave with him. Instead, she slides into his vacant chair. “Olivia? And what exactly are you to Sam?”
She’s got balls, I’ll give her that. There’s no room for misunderstanding. Her intentions are crystal clear.
I meet her gaze evenly, refusing to squirm under the weight of her scrutiny. “A friend.”
Her brows lift, as if she’s hoping for more, but I simply offer a faint smile. The kind you give to someone you’ve already decided isn’t worth the energy. Then I reach for my glass, letting the pause stretch long enough to make it clear. Conversation over.
“Ah.” Amused, she twists the word like silk around her tongue, undeterred. “Sam has so many friends.” Her grin is sickly, her eyes sharp. “The other night, he cooked a special dinner for me. It was my birthday. He doesn’t do that for just anyone.”
I smile, calm and practiced, though my heart thuds. “How nice for you.”
Perhaps sensing the strain radiating off me, Sin taps my shoulder and saves me from myself.
Without a glance at Yasmine, I turn toward her and let the conversation with the young couple wash over me.
They’re chatting about bedtime routines and toddlers refusing to eat vegetables.
I nod where appropriate, smile even, but I’m only half there.
Because I can still feel Yasmine behind me, like static in the air. It isn’t until she’s gone that I give in to the foolish impulse to look over my shoulder. She’s joined Sam and her father now, and the three of them stand together as if they belong in the same frame.
When they finally drift out of sight—Sam not once looking back—a chill creeps through me. It’s not jealousy, not really. It’s something older, more familiar. The quiet sting of being overlooked. Of not being chosen.
It’s the same hollow shroud that used to settle over me in my marriage.
Those endless dinners where Pete’s eyes were on his phone, not on me.
Where my voice could vanish mid-sentence and he wouldn’t even notice.
And here it is again, rising unbidden, reminding me just how easily I can slip back into that space of invisibility.
I draw a slow breath, steadying myself. Sam hasn’t done anything wrong, but the ache doesn’t care. It presses in anyway, sharp and uninvited.
Still, this time, it doesn’t swallow me whole. I recognize the shadow for what it is. An echo, not a truth. I’ve already lived that kind of emptiness once, and I won’t let it claim me again.
So I lift my glass, find my smile, and turn back to Sin. Because whatever this thing with Sam is—or could become—I intend to face it with my eyes open.