9. Olivia
Olivia
The warmth of my bed was a rare luxury. There were no early meetings or demanding clients. It was just me, Mystic curled at my feet, and the white glow of the winter morning peeking through the curtains.
I should’ve gotten up and done something productive. But instead, I stretched beneath the duvet, sighing at the delicious laziness of it all. Mystic stirred, then let out a tiny, judgmental meow. Right. Breakfast.
Reluctantly, I padded to the kitchen, dished out her food, and watched as she tore into it like she hadn’t eaten in weeks.
“Drama queen,” I muttered, scratching behind her ears. She ignored me, fully absorbed in her feast.
I yawned, shuffled back to bed, and let the weight of sleep pull me under again.
And that’s when I dreamed of Brett.
Not just any dream. It was a steamy, vivid, pulse-pounding dream that left me tangled in the sheets and gasping for air.
His mouth was hot on mine, his fingers tracing fire across my naked skin, resting on my breasts and kneading them in his rough hands.
I could feel the press of his body as he mounted me and heard the low growl in his throat when he slid inside me, so thick and deep.
I heard myself begging him to make me cum.
I even felt his hot ejaculation fill me up, and my pulse racing with desire as I arched my back and reached orgasm too.
“That’s right, baby, cum with me.” Brett’s voice was raspy in my ear, our breaths ragged as we lay there satiated and reeling from the incredible sex we’d just had.
And then my eyes flew open.
Holy fucking hell!
I shot upright, my pulse hammering, my breath unsteady. The heat, sensation, and absolute realness of it still clung to me. I pressed my fingers to my lips and swore under my breath.
This is not happening!
I threw the covers off and stumbled to the bathroom, desperate for a cold shower or an exorcism. Mystic blinked at me from the foot of the bed, looking unimpressed.
“Don’t judge me,” I snapped as I undressed.
The shower blasted to life, steam curling around me. I braced for the chill, but the warm water felt too good. My traitorous body wouldn’t relax, and unfortunately, neither did my brain. It was all so freaking real!
Brett.
I couldn’t stop imagining the way his mouth had felt in the dream and the way his hands had gripped my hips, firm and possessive like he’d needed me.
I groaned and pressed my forehead against the cool tiles.
This was Brett we were talking about. Brett Collins. My Brett. No! My EX Brett! Shit! The same man who drove me utterly insane, always had a cocky smirk, and a smart-ass comment, who infuriated me at work with his impossible demands?—
And who, apparently, my subconscious had decided to turn into my personal fantasy.
I needed therapy.
Or I needed to get laid.
I reached for the shampoo, determined to scrub the dream—and every trace of Brett—from my mind. But, of course, my treacherous brain had other plans. So did my body. Every time an image of him appeared, my body turned it into a tangible, hot desire.
What if it wasn’t just a dream? What if some tiny part of me still wanted him?
No. Impossible. No!
I rinsed off, turned the water as cold as I could stand, and forced myself to think about anything else: work, my latest design project, the absolutely atrocious wallpaper my newest client wanted me to “incorporate.”
I toweled off, wrapped my robe tightly around me, and stepped into the bedroom.
And then I saw my phone. The screen was lit with a text from him.
I braced myself before I read it.
Brett: You free tonight?
I stared at it like it was a bomb I had to diffuse, heartbeat thumping in my ears. Coincidence. That’s all it was. No cosmic joke. No connection to the dream. Right?
Cautiously, I picked it up, and my fingers hovered over the keyboard. The smart thing to do would be to ignore him and pretend I was busy. I should just go about my day like I hadn’t just spent the last twenty minutes fighting off a full-body Brett-induced meltdown.
But then?—
Me: What do you want, Brett?
It took him less than five seconds to reply.
Brett: Same thing I’ve always wanted.
My stomach flipped.
He was not talking about work.
I exhaled sharply, tossing my phone onto the bed like it was some kind of poisonous insect. Mystic, clearly entertained by my crisis, flicked her tail and pounced on it.
“Go ahead,” I laughed. “Text him back. Please! Scratch his eyes out for me after you send the message.”
Mystic, naturally, ignored me.
I sank onto the mattress, pressing my palms to my temples.
This was ridiculous. I was ridiculous. Brett and I had a history, sure.
One that ended with me getting my heart stomped on while he walked away without a second thought.
But that was years ago. I wasn’t that naive girl anymore. I knew better. Didn’t I?
My phone vibrated again. I groaned, flopping backward against the pillows before reluctantly picking it up.
Brett: 7:00. Don’t overthink it. I’ll treat you to dinner at a fancy restaurant.
Overthink? Me? Never.
I stared at the screen, my pulse still erratic and my head a mess of conflicting thoughts: the dream, the text, and the fact that, deep down, I desperately wanted to say yes.
Me: Sorry, I already have plans tonight.
Saying no was the safest thing for me because, with the thoughts swirling around my brain and my body defying me, I would likely end up in bed with him.
Correction. I would end up in bed with him.
Even though that option sounded pretty good with my current yearning for him, it was the worst possible thing I could do to myself.
I threw an arm over my eyes.
Crap!
This was going to be a problem.
Early that afternoon, my sister and I attended an art gallery, which was packed.
A swirl of expensive perfume, pretentious murmurs, and clinking champagne glasses filled the air.
Fiona and I maneuvered through the crowd, stopping occasionally to admire—or silently judge—the art.
The walls dripped with abstract nonsense, pieces that either screamed genius or fraud, depending on the angle.
“I don’t get it,” I groaned, eying a canvas splattered with violent reds and blacks. “This looks like an accident.”
Fiona hummed. “Maybe that’s the point. Chaos and emotion. A reflection of the artist’s inner turmoil.”
I shot her a dry look. “Or a reflection of the artist’s inner child.”
She smirked. “You’ve been sighing dramatically ever since we got here. I assume it’s not just the distasteful art?”
I shifted, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the next painting—a mass of dark, swirling blues. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Fiona arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Let’s skip the act, Olivia. What’s going on?”
I hesitated. I knew I’d never hear the end of it if I told her. But this was Fiona. She’d extract the truth eventually, so I might as well rip the bandage off now.
“I had a dream about Brett.”
Her lips twitched. “Oh? Do tell.”
I crossed my arms. “It wasn’t a big deal. Just a stupid dream.” If she only knew!
Her eyes danced. “Was it stupid because it was boring or because it was the kind of dream that would make a nun reconsider her vows?”
I groaned. “The latter.”
Fiona let out a delighted laugh. “Oh, this is golden.”
I shot her a glare. “It means absolutely nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” she echoed with a wink.
“It was just my subconscious dredging up old memories. Nothing to worry about.”
She tilted her head. “Or maybe it’s unresolved feelings manifesting in your sleep?”
I scoffed. “There are no unresolved feelings. We called a truce. That’s all.”
Fiona smirked. “And yet, here you are, flustered over a dream.”
I rolled my eyes and started walking again, hoping movement would end the conversation. It didn’t.
“Did you at least enjoy it?” she pressed, trailing behind me like a cat sensing weakness.
“Fiona!”
She laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Before I could snap back, something caught my eye—or rather, someone.
Brett.
Standing across the room, dressed in an infuriatingly well-fitted navy suit, looking every bit as smug and magnetic as ever. But he wasn’t alone. A sexy, stunning woman stood beside him, hand resting lightly on his arm, laughing at something he said.
My stomach flipped, then twisted into something sharp.
Fiona, of course, noticed immediately. “Oh-oh. Now, this just got interesting.”
I turned sharply. “We need to leave now.”
She grinned. “Absolutely not.”
“I’m serious, Fiona.”
She folded her arms. “Are you running from him or yourself?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re transparent.”
I exhaled sharply. “I just don’t want to deal with him tonight.”
“Right. That’s why you’re glaring daggers at his date instead of walking away.”
The way he stood and leaned in told me it wasn’t a date with a new woman; it was something else. And that something irritated me. They seemed to know each other far too well. Was that because she was his girlfriend?
Fiona smirked. “Admit that you’re jealous.”
I spun on my heel. “I’ll admit no such thing. We’re leaving.”
I made it two steps before I turned a corner and nearly collided with a hard, familiar chest.
Brett. It was the same chest that was my dream just hours ago.
The world hated me.
“Olivia?” His voice slid over my skin like silk, warm and self-assured.
I clenched my jaw. “Brett.”
His gaze flickered with amusement like he knew exactly what I was thinking.
And then, as if the universe was determined to screw with me, the woman beside him stepped forward. “Who is this, sweetie?”
Sweetie? I turned to her, forcing a polite smile.
“Rochelle Jacques, meet Olivia Shaw,” Brett introduced me without looking me in the eye.
I nodded because speech eluded me in my jealous inner battle.
Brett offered no explanation of who she was to him. He just stood there, watching me with that maddening smirk.
I felt my pulse hammer in my ears. “Nice to meet you.”
She smiled. “You as well.” My mere presence didn’t even seem to phase her. Did she know Brett was my ex and didn’t feel the slightest threatened by me? Who was she?
I turned back to Brett, irritation simmering beneath my skin. “Well, enjoy your night.”
I moved to step around him, but his voice stopped me. “Sleep well, Olivia.”
My body betrayed me with a sharp, involuntary inhale. My mind snapped back to the dream and how incredibly good he’d felt deep inside me, satiating my wildest desires.
No!
I spun on my heel and walked away, heart slamming hard in my chest.
Fiona caught up with me. “Wow. That was a whole moment.”
“Don’t even go there.”
“Oh, I will.”
I exhaled through my nose. “I hate him.”
“Sure you do. You hate to love him.”
I ignored her, but my pulse refused to settle, and my thoughts refused to let go of how Brett looked at me. Almost as if he knew about my fantasy.
Fiona tapped the steering wheel as we sat at a red light, her tone infuriatingly smug. “You’re really going to sit there and pretend Brett doesn’t still get under your skin?”
I clenched my jaw, staring out the window at the Chicago skyline, glittering cold against the winter night. “Drop it.”
She snorted. “Alright. Please be careful, and remember he broke your heart once.”
“Why do you think I’m trying to stay far away from him?
“I know. I just know how taken you were with him back then, and now that you’re older, you may be thinking he’s changed.”
“Maybe he has changed.”
The light turned green, and she gave me a look that said sure, Olivia before driving on.
“People don’t change that much,” she challenged.
“I’m not interested in finding out,” I lied.
“Good.”
When I got home, my nerves buzzed like an overcaffeinated design intern. Mystic met me at the door, twining around my legs as I tossed my keys on the console table. “You would not believe the day I had,” I groaned, stalking toward the kitchen.
Mystic yawned, unconcerned.
“I know, I know,” I sighed, rolling up my sleeves.
“I shouldn’t let him get to me. But he just—ugh.
” I grabbed the cleaning spray and a rag and dove into my frustration, scrubbing countertops like they were my enemy.
“I mean, the arrogance of him. The way he smirks, like he knows every single thought in my head.”
Mystic jumped onto the counter, swiping a paw at the rag.
“And don’t even get me started on that whole ‘I’ve changed’ act,” I grumbled, viciously wiping down the stainless steel sink. “Like I’m supposed to just forget how he walked away?”
Mystic batted the rag onto the floor.
I sighed. “Exactly.”
Dinner was a sad affair—a bowl of freezer-burned ice cream I barely tasted. Then, I curled up on the couch with Mystic and a romantic comedy, which turned out to be a terrible decision. The leading man had the same brooding confidence as Brett, and by the halfway mark, I was swearing at the screen.
“This is so unrealistic,” I said, shoving another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth. “Men like this don’t change. They don’t suddenly become perfect. They?—”
The hero delivered a soul-stirring apology, complete with forehead kisses and whispered confessions.
I growled, shut the TV off, and grabbed my laptop. Work. That would distract me.
Or so I thought.
Every time I tried to focus, Mystic decided to be a menace. She darted across the keyboard, knocked my stylus to the floor, and then pounced on my brainstorming papers, sending them flying.
“Really?” I snapped, hands on my hips.
Mystic blinked, utterly unrepentant and completely adorable. I fully expected her to grow red horns.
I groaned and swept the papers off the floor—then, on impulse, threw them across the room.
Mystic pounced after them like I’d just given her the greatest gift of all time.
“Glad someone’s having fun,” I growled.
A bath could fix this.
Fifteen minutes later, I was submerged in steaming water, with lavender-scented bubbles floating around me. The tension in my shoulders eased as I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. When I opened them again, I focused on the flame of one of the many candles I had put on the tub’s edge.
And that’s when it hit me.
The dream. Heat crawled up my neck as the memory surged—Brett’s erection sliding in and out as I clung to him, sweaty and hungry for the climax.
I sat up, splashing water everywhere. “Nope. Not doing this.”
I climbed out of the tub, wrapped myself in a plush robe, and stomped into my bedroom. Mystic was curled on my pillow; one eye barely cracked open.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I grumbled, toweling off my hair. “It’s just residual nonsense. Nothing important.”
Mystic stretched, still eying me.
“Stop judging me.”
I turned off the lamp and slid into bed, but my brain refused to shut up.
Why did I let him get to me?
Why did that dream linger in my head?
Why did my body want that dream to be real?
I flipped onto my side, yanking the covers up. Brett Collins was nothing more than a thorn in my past—a long-buried mistake.
And yet…
I swore I could still feel him inside, pulsing before his orgasm.
Sleep wasn’t going to come easy tonight.
And if it did, there was always the chance that another fantasy might emerge…