Chapter 11 Olivia
OLIVIA
“Olivia, what do you think about changing around this area so the stools are over there and the chaise longue is here?” Mrs. Preston calls from across the open space, which will one day be the lounge of her hotel spa.
With a deep sigh, I search for inner strength and sanity.
While winning this project is the biggest coup of my young career and has already brought in new clients and created a wave of buzz for Cassidy Designs, working with Eliza Preston is like designing in a hurricane.
She has opinions about everything and changes her mind as often as the weather.
We finalized this layout last night—for the fifth time—and I’ve already ordered most of the materials. There’s no going back now.
“Well, Eliza, we could…” I stroll toward her with what I hope passes for calm confidence.
“It would look fine. You’ll recall we talked yesterday about keeping the stools there.
” I point to the original placement. “You mentioned it would open the space, add more seating, and separate the conversation area from those who want to relax.”
I hold my breath. She didn’t say that—I did—but if she thinks it was her idea, maybe we can skip the debate.
“Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me, dear.” She waves her diamond-clad fingers at me. “I don’t know what I was thinking. It makes perfect sense.” She grabs her purse off a chair. “Well, my dear, I’ll get out of your hair.”
When she flashes that satisfied smile and heads for the elevator, I nearly sag with relief. “Yes, of course. Talk soon.”
The moment the doors close, I exhale, smiling to myself. One more crisis averted. Then my phone rings. I glance down at the screen and my stomach flips.
Sam.
“Olivia Cassidy.” My tone slides into its most professional register though I can’t help the smile plastered on my face.
We’ve been talking and texting since Montreal. Our flirting and daily talks remind me of the fun of dating. And while I won’t openly admit it, I look forward to each and every one of our exchanges.
“Ms. Cassidy, just the person I was looking for.” Sam’s deep, sexy voice sends tingles down my spine.
Even after weeks of talking, his voice still affects me. Deep, warm, confident—it fills every empty space around me and makes my pulse skip.
“Sam.” I smile like a schoolgirl with a crush despite myself. “How are you?”
“I’ve been thinking about you all day and needed to hear your voice.”
My breath catches at the way he says it—like he’s stating a fact, not offering flattery. And yet, it’s a loaded confession. One that should scare me, but all I want to do is revel in it and tell him the feeling is mutual.
“It’s great to hear your voice too. I’m glad you called.” Why is it always easier to be truthful over the phone or via text? I’m pretty sure if Sam were here in person, while I’d love to see him, I wouldn’t be nearly as bold.
“What’s new with you? Did you get the shipment in today?”
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. He remembered I’d been concerned. That shipment had been a nightmare—delayed paperwork, supplier miscommunication, all of it. Pete never remembered things like that. He barely remembered to ask about my day, let alone specifics. I’m blown away.
“It came on time. And better yet, everything I ordered was there. You should have seen me screaming and dancing like a crazy woman down in the docking area this morning.” I laugh.
“Dancing? Hmmm, I definitely would’ve liked to see that. Were you alone?”
“What? Why?” I tuck my hair behind my ear and wait for his response, not sure what he means.
“I want to know who might have seen your gorgeous body swaying and moving. I don’t like the idea of other guys getting a look at you.”
“Sam.” I quickly dismiss his caveman comment, although secretly liking it. “I was alone.”
“Good. You will have to dance for me sometime.” His smooth voice skitters across my skin.
“Sam.” I blush, as his voice slides through me like silk, and I have to swallow before I answer. “Tell me about your day.”
“It was okay, but I’d rather talk about you. What are you doing now?”
“I’m at the hotel, finishing a few things, then I’m meeting a prospective client for dinner.”
“Dinner? Do you usually have dinner with potential clients?”
I roll my eyes, smiling. “No, but he’s leaving for Europe tomorrow. It’s the only time he can meet.”
“He?” The tone sharpens again, possessive, just slightly.
Sam asked me similar questions about a week ago when I told him I was going to the theatre with a male client. It was strictly business and the man was married. I was doing the couple a favor, and it was also an opportunity for me to meet new people and promote my business.
“He is part of a couple. I met his wife earlier in the week and he couldn’t make it then. It’s business.”
“How much older?”
“Sam.” I can’t help but shake my head and snort laugh, more exasperated than amused. “It’s a dinner meeting, and it’ll be over before you’ve plated your first entrée tonight.”
“Sorry, Olivia. I don’t like that I haven’t seen you in weeks…” He exhales. “It’s silly, and I won’t do it again. This long-distance thing is new to me.”
“Me too.” I soften my tone, not thrilled with his behavior but also enjoying the attention. He cares. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m not looking to start anything with anyone else. What we have is working out just fine.”
“Just fine? That’s it?”
“Better than fine.” A huge smile eclipses my face. “Amazing.”
The week races by in a blur of work, family, and friends. My business is thriving, and my projects are steady. Sam and I talk every day, sometimes quick, sometimes long, always a highlight of the day. And yet…every time I hang up, there’s an ache, small but insistent.
By the time Friday comes, after a full day on-site and a workout with Sin and Jonah, I’m pleased to forget it all as I step into the shower. The hot water helps soothe the tension in my body and lessen the exhaustion.
After I towel off, I reach for my phone and notice that the battery is dead.
While it charges, I get dressed for bed.
It isn’t like me to let the battery drain but it was a day.
My stomach twists. If anything were to happen or if my kids needed to reach me, they couldn’t.
When I finally turn on the phone, messages flood the screen.
None from my kids—thank God—but several from Sam.
Livvy, are you having a good day?
Four hours later.
Hey, you ignoring me?
Five hours after that.
Olivia, I know you’re busy. Just let me know you’re okay.
Guilt blooms in my chest. He must’ve been worried sick. This is the first time I’ve taken this long to respond. I call, but it goes to voicemail. He’s most probably in the kitchen at one of his restaurants. So I text.
I’m okay, promise. Crazy day. Left my phone in my purse like an idiot. Just tried calling you. How’s your day been?
Almost immediately, the screen lights up.
Sam: Better now that I know you’re okay. Gimme a sec.
A smile tugs at my lips. Seconds later, my phone rings.
“Sam, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.” I can hear the release of tension in his few words. “I get it. I got worried and wondered if something had happened. I miss you and need to see you, soon.”
His words hit somewhere deep and I close my eyes, pulling the bed covers up over me.
A trip to Montreal this month isn’t possible.
Between deadlines—now that construction has begun on the hotel—clients, and the chaos of running a business, being a mother, and finding time for everything else, I can’t.
He’s said several times he misses me, but I never reciprocate, although I feel the same. If I want to keep things casual, and I do, this is better. Yet part of me wonders why he hasn’t made plans to come here. Is he waiting for me to make the move?
“Where are you tonight?” I switch gears, needing something lighter.
“At Beaulieu’s, going over orders for the week. You in bed?” His voice softens, turns molten.
“Um…yes.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Sam.” I laugh, though it comes out breathy.
“Tell me.”
“A nightie.”
“Describe it.” His tone deepens, low and rough.
“It’s…white cotton.” Warmth blooms under my skin.
“Livvy,” he murmurs, my name a vibration more than a word. “More.”
I bite my lip, heart thudding. “It’s short. Barely covers my panties. Thin straps—like strings.”
“Spaghetti straps?”
I smile. Of course he gets it. He’s a chef. “Exactly.”
“I can almost see you. Edible.” His voice is now a hushed, gravelly tone. “But you know what would help?”
“What?”
“A picture.”
The breath catches in my throat. He wants a picture.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” I’m all composure, though my pulse says otherwise.
“My phone’s locked, so only I’d see it. Besides, you already know I don’t like to share you. Would it help if I sent you one first?”
Why does he have to sound so gentle yet deliciously persuasive?
Before I can respond, there’s a rustle and a soft whoosh. Then—ding.
I click on the notification. Sam’s smiling—no, beaming—dimples flashing, dark hair mussed, his signature scruff, and eyes bright and direct. It’s intimate, unguarded. My heart stutters.
The sight of him pinches my heart. I’d love to see him in person, to touch him, then I remind myself why this is better. We’re taking it slow, and the fact we live in two different cities helps. It helps keep me from losing myself or falling heart first into something I might never recover from.
“Olivia?” Sam calls through the phone.
“I got it. You have a nice smile.”
“Nice?” He chuckles. “Your turn.”
I hesitate only a moment, offering a few mental words of encouragement, then lift the phone.
With a quick glance to make sure the frame is harmless but suggestive, I dare not take too long or I will change my mind.
My shaky finger hits send and then I click off the light and drop my head on the pillow.
“Look at you.” His voice drops to a growl, threaded with awe. “Damn, Livvy. You’re beautiful. I wish I was there.”
I close my eyes, the sound of his voice wrapping around me like a tender caress.
“Now you’ve done it. You’ve made my night.”
I smile into the dark, every nerve alive. “You and me both.”
He laughs softly. “Tell me more.”
And when I do, my voice low and unguarded, it feels like falling—slow, certain, and unstoppable.