Chapter 15 Olivia
OLIVIA
“Wow.” I’m engrossed with cataloguing the lines and space of the room. “This is beautiful.”
The afternoon light pours through the tall windows, catching the dust motes dancing in the air. I can already picture it—a restaurant filled with warmth and laughter, the clink of glasses, the hum of conversation.
Sam walks ahead of me, his broad shoulders and lean frame commanding every inch of my attention. I shouldn’t stare, but I do. How can I not?
The memory of his mouth on mine still burns beneath my skin.
The way he kissed me last night—hungry, certain, like I was something he’d been craving for far too long—still has me unsteady.
My knees had gone weak beneath the table, and if I hadn’t been sitting, I’d have ended up a puddle on the floor.
Things got…awkward after that. Or more like, I made it so. I wanted to talk, to clear the air, but the timing never lined up. The car ride conversation was light and I figured my place was best. But by the time we got back, Drew was home, and any hope of a conversation vanished.
“Olivia?” Sam’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “What do you think?”
“Sorry?” I slant my head to one side, caught somewhere between the past and the present.
He gestures toward the ceiling. “Patti was just saying the electrical and floors need work. We might be able to negotiate the price. What’s your take?”
Patti, his real estate agent, is hovering a polite distance away, giving us space.
I force my brain to catch up. “You’re right. But I’d still get an inspection, especially on the electrical. If that checks out, you’re golden. The area’s solid, steady weekday crowd, packed weekends, great visibility.”
His lips tip into that slow, approving smile. “You really know your stuff.”
And just like that, I’m melting again.
We’re only a stone’s throw from my house in the Annex. This is the final stop on today’s list and easily the best. This neighborhood has that rare mix of old-world charm and modern pulse, an affluent, diverse enclave nestled in the heart of Toronto. Perfect for a restaurant.
Patti leads us toward the kitchen, her heels clicking across the worn wooden planks. The place needs a complete overhaul, but that doesn’t deter me. If anything, it sparks something electric inside me.
Every exposed pipe, cracked wall, and scuffed floor tells me this could be the one.
Where others see decay, I see potential.
As an interior designer, spaces like this are my playground.
A blank canvas waiting for life, laughter, and light.
I live for transformation, for creating beauty out of chaos.
I’m envisioning warm, romantic tones and soft lighting, when a melodic “Bonjour” slices through the air.
The sound hits me like a hammer to the skull. The sharp click of heels follows, and then, Yasmine Thibault appears in the doorway, every inch the polished princess.
My stomach drops. Of all people.
What the hell is she doing here?
Did Sam invite her?
“Yasmine.” Patti’s greeting carries a surprised lift to her tone.
Sam echoes her name, his smile courteous but thin, and they exchange the customary deux bises. My hands curl into fists at my sides, the sound of those polite little kisses scraping like nails on glass.
Yasmine’s eyes find mine, and there it is, the glint. That calculated, gleeful spark that says she knows exactly what she’s doing. She rests a manicured hand on Sam’s forearm, her faux sweetness dripping as she turns to me.
“Olive, lovely to see you.” Her voice could curdle milk.
I bite my lip, the urge to roll my eyes bordering on physical pain. “Likewise.”
Sam, bless him, catches the shift in the air and steps in. “It’s Olivia.”
For a heartbeat, the noise of the room fades. There’s just Sam. His quiet defense, his steady presence anchoring me. It shouldn’t mean as much as it does, but it does.
Yasmine, of course, doesn’t miss it. Her smile falters for half a second before she recovers, squeezing his arm like she has the right.
And that’s when I feel it, that same cold, slithering unease from before. Not jealousy exactly, but something deeper. The ache of recognition. The memory of what it’s like to stand in a room and feel invisible while someone else commands all the light.
Not this time. Not again.
Stomping out the chill, I straighten, and the corners of my lips lift in a cool, knowing smile. If Yasmine thinks she can rattle me, she’s underestimated the woman who can turn ruins into something beautiful again.
“Yasmine, what are you doing here? How did you know we’d be here?” His tone is even, but there’s an edge beneath it, suspicion wrapped in civility.
“Oh, she called—” Patti starts, but Yasmine cuts her off with a too-bright laugh.
“Patti called me, mentioned what she was up to, and since I happened to be in the city, I thought I’d stop by. Papa will be thrilled to hear you’re looking, though he’ll always prefer Québec.”
Her words drip with charm, but I see right through them. She’s lying. It’s written all over her smug little smile. I’d bet good money she called Patti herself, fishing for Sam’s whereabouts. The faint crease between Sam’s brows tells me he’s not buying it either.
Thanks to Yasmine’s arrival, the mood has shifted, and Sam is quick to wrap things up. He’s polite but distant, thanking Patti and barely acknowledging Yasmine. His abruptness is deliciously satisfying.
When he gestures for me to follow, I toss Yasmine a parting wave, a smug little smile curling my lips.
Petty? Maybe. Worth it? Absolutely.
Outside, as we walk to the car, my insides still simmer. I’m not sure what about her gets under my skin the most. It’s not that I’m threatened though maybe I should be.
Yasmine’s younger, stunning in that glossy, curated way that photographs well. And she’s clearly got her sights set on Sam. But I’ve known women like her before.
My best friend, Erin, operates with that same fearless, take-no-prisoners energy. Except Erin’s heart is pure gold beneath the sass. Yasmine’s more like polished glass—reflective, sharp, and hollow.
Still, something about her digs deep. Maybe it’s the reminder of everything I’m not—younger, uncomplicated, unscarred.
And damn it, why did my mind even go there?
Compete? We’re women and should be on the same team.
Even still, Yasmine strikes me as one who’s never been for solidarity. She’s made me the enemy from day one.
Back at my place, we settle around the kitchen table, both pretending the earlier encounter didn’t rattle us.
“So,”—I tap my pen against the notepad in front of me—“which one was your favorite?”
“I think the last one.” Sam leans back in his chair. “You?”
“Same. It’s got potential. The layout’s good, and the light’s amazing. For the front, you could shorten the foyer and open it up into a small bar area. It’s perfect for pre-dinner drinks. Maybe a vintage French vibe, distressed mirrors, low lighting, antique chairs and banquettes.”
I warm to the vision, sketching as I speak. “And you could open up the kitchen, either full view or just a cutout behind the bar. Give diners a peek at the show. Your fans would eat that up.”
“Fans?” He twists his mouth.
“Please. Don’t tell me you don’t know you have them. A certain chef with a certain following? ‘Samson Beaulieu, the culinary heartthrob’?”
He moves so fast I barely have time to react. One moment I’m in my chair, the next, in his lap as his arms loop easily around my waist. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Sometimes.”
His lips brush my collarbone, soft, fleeting, then they move up my throat. My breath catches, knees weakening all over again.
“I told you.” His warm breath punctuates each word. “There’s only one woman I want adoring me. And.” A kiss just under my jaw. “That’s.” A kiss behind my ear. “You.” A final kiss on the corner of my mouth unravels what little composure I have left.
He gently twirls me around, and suddenly I’m straddling him, my palms splayed against his chest. His heartbeat thuds beneath my fingertips.
My thoughts scatter as his mouth claims mine.
Slow at first, then deep, consuming. The taste of him, the feel of his hands at my back, the low sound in his throat.
Intoxicating.
My fingers sink into the soft strands of hair behind his neck as his hand latches onto the back of my head, guiding me toward his mouth. His hand cups the back of my neck as he kisses me full on the mouth.
Our lips glide, skim, and mold together, each of us willingly exploring the other like this is our first, last, and only kiss.
I should stop. I know I should. We’re moving too fast, and I promised myself not to get swept up. But God, his touch silences every rational thought.
His lips are warm, firm, and alluring. As his hands travel down my lower back to cup my bottom, butterflies take flight low in my stomach. God, this feels so good.
Still feeding on my lips, he rises, holding me easily, my legs instinctively wrapping around him.
“Bedroom?” he mumbles against my lips, waiting for my answer.
It’s more a question than for direction, as if he’s asking me if I’m okay with this. And I’m not sure about us long-term. But for right now? I’m absolutely sure about the way he makes me feel alive again. Sexy. Desired.
As much as my mind warns me to slow down, my body has taken over. My body wants this. Now.
“Yes,” I pant into his mouth.
For a fleeting moment, Drew and Paige flash in my mind.
Drew’s not home from work yet, and Paige will be here later.
He takes the first step, his hard abdomen rubbing pleasingly against my core, and a sound escapes me.
Half gasp, half moan. The air hums between us, thick with want. Any reservations evaporate like smoke.
His lips wander my neck, peppering my tender flesh with each one of his ascending steps. I tilt my head to the side to give him better access.
And then—
“Mom?” Paige hollers from what sounds like the front door.