Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Shaye
“Where are we going?”
We’ve been in the car for a solid fifteen minutes. Neither of us has spoken a single word. The radio is off, our phones are muted—not one word from us or otherwise has been said.
Oliver tilts his head my way at my question. One arm extends over the steering wheel; his other hand plays with his bottom lip like he’s thinking. Or planning. Or plotting.
The idea of what he might be considering fires a heat wave through my body. I clasp my hands in my lap and press lightly, hoping the ill attempt at relief will hold me over.
“If you’re taking me home, we’ve gone the wrong way,” I tell him.
He drops his hand away from his mouth and grins. “I know how to navigate Savannah. But thanks for the input.”
“I was starting to have doubts since you didn’t answer my question. I thought maybe you got confused and couldn’t answer me.”
“Patience really isn’t one of your strengths, is it?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I have been around you all night, and I have managed to be pretty damn patient.”
He grins. “What are you waiting for?”
I grin back. “What do you mean? Why am I being patient, or what do I hope comes at the end of it?”
“I’m guessing that you hope you come at the end of it.”
He leaves his gaze on me for one suffering, hot moment before turning his eyes back to the dark road ahead of us.
I’m underprepared for this. My flirting feels rusty, and the anticipation of being with him makes me fidget. It’s been so long—so fucking long—since anyone has touched me, and even then, it was lackluster at best.
What if he finally touches me, and I’m all talk and no action? What if I’ve been throwing puns around like they’re confetti, and then I forget how to have an orgasm in the first place? And I didn’t bring a condom. Should I have?
I stare out the windshield and try to contain my thoughts.
“Or am I wrong?” he asks.
My head swings to his. “Wrong about what?”
“About you … never mind.”
Oh. I shift in my seat as I remember what we were talking about.
“If you’re having second thoughts, I can turn around,” he says.
“I’m not.” The words come out fast and succinct. “I promise.”
He laughs. “Good to know.”
“It’s just been a while.”
His laughter fades. “How long is a while?”
“A while.” I bite my lip. “I’m a little nervous. That’s all.”
“For someone who’s been talking smack, this is an interesting turn of events.” He does a quick once-over of me. “That’s also a little hard to believe.”
“Do I look like someone who just sleeps with random men?”
“Not what I meant.” He fires me a look. “What I meant was that it’s hard to imagine you going anywhere and not having men trying to take you home with them.”
“Oh.” I look out the passenger’s side window so he can’t see my face and smile. “Marius wasn’t trying to take me home. Just for the record.”
Oliver’s laughter is loud and unexpected. I slide my gaze across the car to see his features alight with humor.
“My lady, he most definitely was trying to take you home with him,” Oliver says, raising a brow in challenge.
“I beg to differ. He was the epitome of a gentleman.”
“Marius Blast doesn’t know how to spell gentleman.”
“Then why did you leave me alone with him?”
The humor on Oliver’s face slips away into the night. He regrips the steering wheel.
The swift change in his posture—the rigidity that forms across his shoulders—has me wishing I could take back the question.
But I do want to know. And before I fall into his arms or his bed, I deserve an answer.
“Didn’t we already talk about this?” he asks.
I force a swallow. “Kind of, but not exactly. You said you left me alone because I said I was your EA. You didn’t say why you left me with him.”
He runs a hand down his thigh and exhales harshly.
I grab both sides of my seat and try to keep myself calm. The longer the silence between us, the more I have a need to fill it. But if I talk—if I help him wrangle himself out of this situation—then I might never have a chance to ask him again.
His forehead wrinkles. When he speaks, his voice is calculated and raw.
“My ex-fiancée met Charles Gamby, her new husband, at the Landry Gala,” he says. “I should’ve known that night that something was amiss, but I didn’t. I missed every freaking sign.”
“That’s sad.”
He sighs ruefully. “It’s not. Not really. My life has been infinitely better without Kendra.” He glances quickly at me. “I can’t imagine having her sitting beside me now.”
There’s a warmth to his gaze, to his voice, to the hand that reaches across the console and sits on my thigh. It’s a warmth that I feel all the way into my soul.
“I’m glad she’s not sitting here,” I whisper.
He flexes his hand against the fabric of my dress.
“When you were dancing with Marius, you looked up and saw me. I could see in your eyes that you didn’t want to be with him.
And while it’s bullshit that I put you in that position—I know that, I’m not proud of it, and I apologize for it—it made me feel … relieved.”
“I don’t like that you tested me, Oliver.”
“It wasn’t a test. A test would mean that I thought about it prior, and I didn’t.
I assure you.” He nibbles on his bottom lip.
“I like to think of myself as a man in control, but tonight, that slipped.” He watches me out of the corner of his eye.
“I wasn’t leaving you alone to see what you would do, and it wasn’t intentional to leave you alone with Marius.
Trust me. But I was … shaken, a bit, I guess.
I reacted to the situation without thinking it through and that will keep me up at night for weeks.
I didn’t expect to get to the gala with you on my arm and … ”
His voice trails off, but a glimpse of a smile kisses his lips.
“And what, Oliver?”
“I needed to know that you were there with me and not as my EA.”
The grittiness of the tone catches me off guard. It’s laced with an honesty, a vulnerability, a sweet rawness that hits my heart with the force of a cannon.
“And not as my EA.” This sentence percolates through my brain, sending shock waves through my chest. “And not as my EA.”
Holy crap.
He gathers the fabric of my dress in his hand, never taking his eyes off the road.
My breath hitches as his fingers dip beneath the fabric. His fingertips drag across my left leg. His touch is the weight of a feather, barely slipping across the sensitive skin of my leg—touching here, then there as it drifts toward the apex of my thighs.
I pant, my gaze lasered on the side of his face and the sharpness of his jawline as he toys with me. My legs part—offering him an opening if he chooses to take it.
And he doesn’t.
He scoots my dress back toward the floor and pulls his hand away, leaving me breathless.
“You know what?” I say, fighting off a full-body shiver. “I’m starting to hate you.”
He laughs. “There’s a thin line between love and hate. Isn’t that what they say?”
“Yes, but I never knew it was this thin.”
He puts the car in park and kills the engine. “We’re here,” he says, motioning in front of us.
I look up and see the most statuesque home that I’ve ever seen. It’s lit up with lights tucked beneath pristine hedges.
“Where are we, exactly?” I ask, withholding a gasp.
“My house.”
I turn in my seat to look at him. His eyes are wary.
“You brought me to your house?” I ask. Even though I’m experienced in the art of dating, I know from Lisbeth’s tales that men don’t always take you back to their homes. There are a myriad of reasons, from what I’m told, but it’s always a big deal to Lis when they wind up at a guy’s abode.
Yet here we are.
Oliver grins. It’s a new one to me. Not the uber-sexy CEO smile nor the sweet one that I saw earlier. This one is vulnerable and hopeful. This one melts my heart.
“Want to come in?” he asks.
I smile. “I definitely want to come in.”
He laughs and climbs out of the car. I sit in my seat and say a quick prayer.
Please, let me know what I’m doing.