13. Olivia
Olivia
The fire sputtered and died, severing our kiss like a cruel joke. Brett pulled away, lips still curved in a cocky grin.
“Guess I should fix that,” he mumbled, the husky edge to his voice doing nothing to cool the heat pooling in my stomach.
I exhaled, trying to gather what remained of my composure. “Yeah. Can’t have us freezing to death before this weekend is over.”
Brett knelt by the hearth, inspecting the pathetic pile of embers. “Looks like we need more kindling.” He turned, gray-blue eyes finding mine, a challenge hidden beneath his smirk. “Feel like helping, or are you content to just admire the view?”
I rolled my eyes, standing. “Let’s get this over with.”
The hotel’s old-world charm came with an inconvenient lack of conveniently placed firewood. What started as a simple search quickly devolved into a scavenger hunt through the hotel, Brett and I raiding every possible source of flammable material like two overgrown delinquents.
“Score!” Brett brandished a stack of newspapers from the lobby. “Not as good as wood, but it’ll do.”
I yanked open a supply closet. “Thin cardboard,” I announced, pulling out empty cereal boxes. “Oh, and toilet paper rolls.”
Brett squinted at me. “Did you just loot the janitor’s stash?”
“Would it make you feel better if I said no?”
He grinned. “Not really. Kind of turned on by the criminal streak.”
I shoved a roll at his chest. “Let’s go before we get arrested for petty theft.”
As we made our way back to the room, Brett kept glancing at me, amusement evident in his expression. “Admit it, you’re enjoying this.”
I huffed. “Oh yes, living my best life, stealing paper products, and running around a drafty hotel with my ex-lover.”
“You love the thrill,” he teased. “You’re an adrenaline junkie.”
“And you think you’re an expert on me now?” I arched a brow.
“I always have been, Olivia.” His voice was softer, laced with something dangerously close to nostalgia.
I ignored the tug in my chest and picked up my pace. “Hurry up. We’re losing precious fire-starting time.”
Back at the fireplace, Brett knelt and arranged the materials with practiced ease. He pulled a lighter he found from his pocket and sparked the flame back to life like he did this every day. I folded my arms, watching. “I don’t remember you being such a handyman.”
He shot me a sideways glance, his smirk full of trouble. “Are you flirting with me, Olivia?”
My stomach flipped. He was too close, his body radiating heat that had nothing to do with the fire. “You wish,” I said, stepping back. I attempted to change the subject. “Let’s go exploring.”
His brows lifted. “Running away already?”
“Please,” I scoffed. “I just don’t trust you near open flames. You’re reckless.”
Brett stood, closing the space between us in a lazy, predatory way. “Admit it,” he said. “You like that reckless side of me.”
I breathed out a sigh. Damn him. He knew exactly what he was doing. “I like adventure,” I corrected, ignoring how my pulse hammered. “Big difference.” But he was right, I sure did love that wild side of him.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. “Pretty sure that kiss said otherwise.”
“Pretty sure the fire interrupted,” I shot back, tilting my chin defiantly.
His grin widened. “So if the fire hadn’t died, you wouldn’t have stopped me?”
I opened my mouth, then snapped it shut. I knew the answer to that but wasn’t sure I wanted to admit it to him.
Brett chuckled, pleased with himself. “Come on, let’s go explore before you combust.”
I exhaled sharply, turning on my heel before I could do something I would regret—like pull him back into that kiss.
The hotel corridors were quiet, and the lighting threw elongated shadows. The floorboards creaked under our steps, and the aged building groaned around us. I loved the ambiance it shed.
“What exactly are we exploring?” Brett asked as we passed an ornate mirror, our reflections momentarily catching my eye.
“Anything interesting,” I said. “Secret passageways. Hidden treasures. Ghosts.”
“Ghosts?” Brett snorted. “You believe in that stuff?”
“Do you?”
He shrugged. “Never saw one. But I wouldn’t mind being haunted if the ghost looked like you.”
I rolled my eyes. “That was terrible.”
“It was honest.” He stopped, looking at me. “This is fun, you know.”
I hesitated. “What is?”
“This. Us. You are actually letting loose a little. I’m surprised!”
My chest tightened. “I let lose all the time.”
“Oh yeah? When’s the last time you did something spontaneous?”
“Just now,” I shot back. “Dragging you through this haunted maze of a hotel.”
Brett grinned. “Touché. But I still think you should let loose more often. Might do you some good, and you might smile more.”
“And you think you’re the one to teach me how?”
His smirk softened just a fraction. “I think I’d like to try.”
My pulse skittered. I turned away because looking at him any longer would be a mistake. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s see if we can find some actual ghosts.”
Brett followed, and I ignored the part of me that wished he’d pull me back.
As it turned out, we didn’t find any ghosts, but it was nice stretching our legs. We made it back to the fire and decided to relax for a while, both of us falling asleep.
A few hours later, as soon as I woke, I was restless again.
The hotel was grand in that old-money way—ornate chandeliers, thick carpets muffling every footstep, the fire still flickering in the lobby.
But I felt caged. Maybe it was the winter storm raging outside, or perhaps it was Brett. Definitely Brett.
“Come on,” I said, standing abruptly. “I want to explore some more. Walking around will alleviate our boredom.” If I was honest with myself, it was more about keeping us busy enough, so we didn’t have time to explore that kiss again.
It was self-preservation. I was trying to keep myself out of trouble.
Brett sighed and arched a brow from his spot in the armchair, his long legs sprawled out in the way men do when they take up too much space. “Olivia Shaw restless? I always thought you had everything under control in your artsy life.”
“I design spaces, Brett. This is research.”
He smirked. “Right. Research.” He stood and grabbed the package of matches off the fireplace mantel. “You can never be too careful,” he said, holding them up with a grin.
We wandered down a dimly lit hallway, past old framed photos of Chicago’s skyline and gilded mirrors reflecting our own mismatched pairing—me, bundled in a sleek black sweater, my hair spilling down my back; Brett, all broad shoulders and cocky ease.
A door at the end of the hall stood slightly ajar. I nudged it open and stepped inside.
The room was small, dusty, and lined with forgotten furniture covered in white sheets. In the corner, a wooden box peeked out from under an old writing desk.
“What’s this?” I knelt, running my fingers over the intricate carvings.
Brett crouched beside me, his presence making the space feel smaller. “Looks old. Might be cursed.”
I rolled my eyes and pried it open. Inside were a bundle of journals, letters, and photographs neatly stacked, untouched for years.
I pulled out a letter, my pulse skipping as I unfolded it.
“February 3rd, 1946,” I read aloud. “My dearest Eleanor, I fear I shall never see you again, but know that I have loved you in ways words could never capture.”
I looked up at Brett, expecting a sarcastic comment, but he was studying the letter with quiet intensity.
I rifled through the rest—love letters, postcards, torn journal entries. Heartbreak. Longing. Mystery. Something about it felt intimate—maybe too intimate.
“You’re quiet,” I said, watching Brett’s expression shift.
He exhaled, his fingers brushing over an old black-and-white photograph of a woman staring wistfully out a window. “I get it. The whole ‘what if’ of it all.” His tone was reflective.
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the papers. “Do you think he ever saw her again?”
Brett shrugged, his voice softer. “Doubt it. People wait too long to say what they should.”
A beat of silence passed between us. Was he referring to us? I could have let it go. I should have. But I was tired of the unsaid things between us. “So what happened with us?”
He stilled. His jaw clenched like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer or bolt.
Finally, he said, “ I want you to know that I did want a relationship back then.”
The words hit like a bullet to the heart. My eyes widened involuntarily. “That’s a joke, right?”
His eyes snapped to mine, and I could tell he was dead serious.
“I thought I was just a ‘fling’ to you,” I said, my voice cracking despite my best efforts to sound unaffected.
Brett shook his head, his gaze unwavering. “I’m sorry, but you were never that to me.”
I searched his face, waiting for the smirk or playful dodge, but there was nothing but sincerity. I didn’t know what to do with that.
I swallowed. “You’re the one who walked out.”
His lips pressed together. “Yeah. Because I was a jackass who thought he had to be the bad guy.”
My pulse was thundering now, my body tense with something that snaked through me. Anger? Frustration? Desire?
“I spent years thinking I was just another notch on your belt.”
“That’s not fair.” His voice dropped, low and rough. “You were never ‘just anything’ to me.”
The way he said it and how his gaze burned into mine made my lungs freeze mid-breath.
The silence stretched awkwardly between us. The hotel walls felt like they were closing me in. The only other sounds were the distant pelting of ice outside and the crackle of the fireplace.
Brett’s fingers brushed against mine, barely there, but enough to send a shockwave up my arm.
“Say something,” he prompted.
I licked my lips, my throat dry. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “Something honest.”
I inhaled sharply. “Fine. I never stopped thinking about you.” I could not believe I just said that and desperately wanted to take the words back.
However, something changed in his expression. Relief? Regret?