7. Olivia
Olivia
The moment I stepped into Brett’s office, I regretted it.
Not because I didn’t belong there—I did. I’d worked my ass off to be the best designer at Maven & Moss. But because the second I laid eyes on him, that stupid, reckless part of me, the one that used to crave his attention, stirred like an ember catching flame.
He was sexy as hell, and I knew I was itching for his touch again.
Tall, broad-shouldered, effortlessly confident.
His navy suit was tailored to perfection, and when he leaned against his desk, arms crossed, looking at me like I was a challenge he couldn’t wait to dismantle, I nearly turned around and left before I did something I would regret.
My mind shifted to that dream I’d had, and instantly, my cheeks filled with blush. I knew deep down I wanted his hands all over me again, but I had to stop myself from thinking that way.
“Olivia.” His voice was smooth, laced with amusement. “Glad you could make it.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” I said, stepping farther inside. “You requested me personally.”
He smirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
It was.
Although I was here to discuss a project, my mind had already veered into dangerous territory—like the way his lips had once felt against my skin or the way he used to look at me before he ravished me.
I had no intention of letting him distract me, so I focused on the portfolio I held in my hands.
“Let’s get to it,” I said, flipping it open as I sat in the chair across from his desk.
Brett didn’t move. Instead, his eyes lingered on me, sharp and assessing. “You always were impatient.”
I forced a tight smile. “And you always liked to hear yourself talk.”
He chuckled, finally walking around the desk and sinking into his chair. “Alright, let’s brainstorm.”
I nodded, flipping to a page of concept sketches, but halfway through my explanation of material choices, my mind drifted again. I watched his fingers tapping idly on the desk and the way his gray-blue eyes stayed locked on me—damn him. I barely heard my own words.
“Olivia.”
I blinked, realizing I’d zoned out.
His lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Whenever you’re done daydreaming about me, we can get back to brainstorming.”
Heat surged to my face, anger and humiliation swirling inside me. “Oh, please. Not everything is about you.”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “You looked pretty lost there.”
I exhaled sharply, setting the portfolio down with more force than necessary. “I was thinking about the project.”
“Sure you were.” His smirk deepened.
I clenched my teeth, refusing to let him get under my skin. “Brett, stop being so full of yourself. I’ve moved on.”
He studied me for a long moment before tilting his head slightly. “Are you currently single?”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“You heard me.”
I narrowed my eyes, gripping the edge of the chair. “That’s none of your business.”
He grinned. “It is if you’re sitting here fantasizing about your boyfriend while we’re supposed to be working.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. “You are so unbelievably arrogant.”
“I prefer confident.”
I glared at him, my frustration bubbling over. “Yes, I’m single. Happy now?”
His grin widened, his eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to satisfaction. “Perfect.”
I exhaled through my nose, willing myself to stay professional. I picked up the portfolio again, flipping to a new page. “Back to the project.”
Brett watched me for a beat, then finally leaned back in his chair. “Fine. Show me what you’ve got.”
I launched into the next part of my presentation, hyper-aware of his gaze.
I can do this. I have to do this.
But the way he watched me, how his fingers absentmindedly traced the edge of his desk like he was barely holding back from saying something else, made it nearly impossible to concentrate.
Ten minutes in, he interrupted. “You’ve still got that fire.”
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
“That intensity and a need to prove yourself.”
I lifted my chin. “I don’t need to prove anything to you.”
He smirked. “Never said you did.”
I took a slow, measured breath. “Then stop trying to get in my head.”
His gaze darkened slightly, amused. “Maybe I just like being there.”
My stomach tightened. I hated that he could still affect me like this, and that part of me still wondered what would’ve happened if things had gone differently all those years ago.
I straightened in my chair, steel in my voice. “Focus, Brett.”
His smirk returned. “You first, Olivia.”
I resisted the urge to throw something at him and then considered walking out.
Instead, I forced myself to stay professional, pushing through the rest of my presentation without letting my voice waver. Brett listened, nodding occasionally, his usual arrogance tempered by something else—respect, maybe.
When I finished, he closed the portfolio and leaned back, studying me. “This is good.”
I raised a brow. “Just good?”
“Great,” he corrected. “But you knew that already.”
My lips twitched despite myself. “Glad you’re finally catching up.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Still competitive as hell, aren’t you?”
“And you’re still a pain in my ass.”
His grin was slow and deliberate. “You love it.”
I stood abruptly, gathering my things. “Are we done here?”
“For now,” he said, still lounging in his chair. “But I’d love to do this again sometime.”
I shot him a glare. “Don’t push your luck.”
Brett only smirked. “Too late.”
I turned on my heel and strode out, ignoring how my heart thundered in my chest.
Chicago’s winter had teeth. I pulled my coat tighter as I knocked on Sindy’s apartment door, my fingers half-numb from the wind. Seconds later, the door flew open, revealing Sindy in leggings and an oversized soft-pink sweater, her blond waves a wild mess.
“Olivia!” She pulled me in before I could respond, shutting out the cold. “You look like a woman on the brink. Wine or food first?”
“Food,” I sighed, shoving my coat onto a hook. “If I drink first, I might just spill my soul onto your floor.”
Sindy grinned, unbothered. “Uh-oh, that’s a lot of drama for the first few minutes of our get-together.”
The smell of garlic and butter wafted through the air, and I suddenly felt better already.
I followed her into the kitchen, where a pot of pasta bubbled and a pan of chicken sizzled.
Her apartment, full of mismatched furniture and soft lighting, was the exact opposite of my meticulously curated condo.
It was cozy, chaotic, and felt lived-in.
“Alright, talk.” She handed me a glass of wine anyway because she knew me. “This is about Brett, isn’t it?”
I hesitated, twirling the stem of my glass between my fingers. “It’s complicated.”
Sindy snorted. “Spare me. I write romance for a living. There are only two types of complicated: the kind where you actually hate someone, and the kind where you want to rip their clothes off but are pretending you don’t.”
I took a sip. “It’s both.”
She clapped, delighted. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
We moved to the table, plates full of food, steam curling into the air between us. I speared a piece of chicken and sighed. “He drives me insane, Sindy. One minute, he’s infuriating—arrogant, stubborn, a total control freak. And the next… “
“Sexy as hell?” she supplied, biting into her pasta.
I shot her a look. “And the next, he’s… thoughtful, almost protective. Sweet in ways that make me forget how many reasons I must keep my distance.”
Sindy sipped her wine. “You mean in ways that make you forget he broke your heart in college?”
I groaned. “I should’ve known you’d bring that up.”
“Of course. That’s my job as your best friend. You pretend you’re over it, but let’s be real—you never moved on from Brett. You just got good at pretending you did.”
I stabbed at my pasta. “I have moved on,” I defended myself.
Sindy hummed, unconvinced. “Then why are you sitting in my apartment, drinking wine, spiraling over him?”
“I’m not spiraling.”
She smirked. “You’re twirling.”
I glared. “Twirling is for ballerinas. I am strategizing.”
Sindy burst out laughing. “You really think you can strategize your way out of falling for someone?”
I set my fork down, frustration bubbling to the surface. “I can’t afford to be reckless. I’ve worked too hard to let emotions get in the way of my career.”
“Olivia, I love you, but that’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard.”
I scowled. “Excuse me?”
“You’re acting like emotions are some ticking time bomb that will blow up your entire life. Newsflash: You’re not a robot. You feel things, and no matter how much you pretend otherwise, Brett is one of those things.”
I crossed my arms. “I can separate work and personal life.”
Sindy leaned back in her chair, eyes gleaming. “You think love works like one of your design projects? That you can put it in a neat little box with perfect lighting and just admire it from a distance?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. I knew she was right, but I couldn’t admit it.
Sindy grinned. “That’s what I thought.”
We migrated to the living room, where she pulled out the Scrabble board. This was our ritual—wine, pasta, and games, and I lost spectacularly because Sindy had a disturbingly large vocabulary for someone who spent her days writing about people making out.
“Alright,” she said, shaking the tile bag. “Let’s make this interesting. Every time you deny your feelings for Brett, you lose a turn.”
I rolled my eyes. “That’s not how Scrabble works.”
“That’s how tonight’s Scrabble works.”
“Fine.” I pulled my letters and started forming a word. Sindy played first. Passion.
I sighed. “Really?”
She smirked. “Just setting the mood.”
I played Logic.
She snorted. “Predictable.”
We kept playing, wine loosening my tongue. Sindy watched me struggle with my next word, her amusement growing.
“Alright,” she said, sipping her wine. “Humor me. Say you gave in. Say you stopped fighting it. What’s the worst that happens?”
I hesitated, then moaned, “He proves me right.”
Her brow furrowed. “And what exactly would he be proving?”
“That this thing between us is just heat and chemistry. Eventually, he’ll get bored, or I’ll wake up and realize it was a mistake.”
Sindy placed her tiles down with a dramatic flourish. Fear.
“That’s the real problem, isn’t it?” she said softly. “You’re not afraid of Brett. You’re afraid of what he could do to your heart.”
I exhaled. “It doesn’t matter, Sindy. We’re on opposite sides of a business deal. I can’t afford to mix personal feelings with?—”
“—with the fact that you’re wildly, stupidly, head-over-heels for him?”
I shot her a glare. “I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She plucked a tile from the bag, utterly unfazed by my glower. “I just think it’s funny that you design spaces for a living, but when it comes to emotions, you have no idea what to do with them.”
I sighed, leaning my head back against the couch. “I hate you.”
She grinned. “No, you don’t. You hate that I’m right.”
I groaned. “Why did I come here again?”
“Because you love me.” She nudged my knee. “And because you knew I’d say what you’re too scared to admit to yourself.”
I didn’t answer mostly because she was right. Again.
Sindy smirked, placing her next word. Love.
I threw a pillow at her. “I hate this game.”
She cackled, dodging it. “Hate it all you want. But you, my dear, are so screwed.”
I stared at the board, at the ridiculous words she’d played. Passion. Fear. Love.
And I knew it, somewhere deep in my chest, behind all my careful walls and neatly arranged justifications, too.
I was screwed.
Later that night, Mystic batted at my pencil, her little black paws smacking it across the sketchpad like a tiny, furry menace.
“Mystic, cut it out,” I sighed, shifting her off my paper for the third time. She immediately plopped back down, her tail flicking over my sketches like she owned them.
The sleek lines of a penthouse living room, the intricate details of custom cabinetry—all buried beneath a very satisfied kitten.
“Fine. Be a creative genius too,” I sighed, rubbing my tired eyes. It was well past midnight, but my mind refused to quit. The weight of my looming deadline pressed against my skull. If I nailed this, Maven & Moss would have no choice but to make me partner.
I picked up my pencil and started sketching again, the movements automatic. There was a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and the tilt of a smirk I knew too well.
I froze.
Brett Collins stared back at me from the page.
“No,” I hissed. “Absolutely not.”
I ripped the paper from my sketchbook, crumpling it into a tight ball before Mystic, the opportunistic little terror, pounced on it. She tackled it off the table, batting it across the hardwood like it was her personal World Cup.
I cursed under my breath.
“Why?” I asked Mystic as if she had the answer. “Why is he still in my head?”
Mystic responded by flopping onto her back, stretching like she had no cares in the world.
“Must be nice,” I groaned, watching her bat the crumpled paper around.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Brett. Not that ridiculous smirk or the way he used to look at me like I was the only challenge worth taking on. Not how my stomach had flipped when I saw him at the meeting today like I was still that naive college girl mesmerized by his reckless bad boy image.
“He’s why I won’t make partner,” I told Mystic. “He’s a distraction. A walking, talking, smug-as-hell distraction.”
Mystic, of course, had no opinion beyond catching the ball of paper between her paws and rolling onto her side in victory.
“At least someone is winning tonight,” I sighed, pushing my hair back.
I needed to focus. I needed to forget Brett Collins existed. But as I reached for my pencil again, my hand hesitated over a blank page.
My mind wandered back to how his voice had deepened since college and how his gray-blue eyes had lingered on me with such intensity.
“Nope.” I snapped my fingers at Mystic. “New rule. Brett Collins is officially banned from my brain.”
Mystic gave me a slow blink, then a big meow.
“That’s what I thought,” I sighed, flipping to a fresh page.
I had designs to create. And absolutely no time for ghosts of the past.