Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Shaye
Me: Famished yet satiated. Interesting morning over here.
Lis: Squee! Details!
Me: As soon as I get home.
Lis: GIRL
Me: Ha!
I yelp as Oliver slips behind me and nips at the back of my neck. I turn around to swat him, but he’s already retreated to the other side of the kitchen.
His home is more amazing than I even realized. As the sun came up over the horizon and we untangled ourselves from one another, the beauty of his space became apparent.
Every detail is intentional—from the handcrafted soaking tub in the master bathroom to the imported Italian tile in the kitchen.
The colors used throughout the house are calming and cozy, and random pops of color are displayed in what looks like a child’s finger-painting canvas to the untrained—meaning, my—eye.
It works, nonetheless.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to help you?” I ask him as he loads the dishwasher. “I feel lazy watching you do all the work.”
“That’s not what you said this morning.”
My cheeks heat. “Well …”
He laughs. “I want you to sit there and look beautiful.”
“Fine.” I pull my legs up beneath the T-shirt I borrowed from Oliver for breakfast. “I guess I can manage.”
He rinses out the pan we used to fry bacon and then wipes up the counter from the English muffins we toasted. The cheese is rewrapped and placed in a zipped baggie. The eggs are returned to the refrigerator.
He does it all in a pair of black boxer shorts.
“Do you cook a lot?” I ask him, trying to keep my focus on things other than the way his abs ripple with each movement. Or the way his ass flexes beneath his shorts. Or how his shoulders bend and flex and how my fingers want to touch them—to touch him.
“Sometimes. Why?”
“I don’t know. You just seem really familiar with the kitchen.”
He sprays off a plate. “Well, I live here. I designed it. Shouldn’t I be familiar with it?”
“I guess so. I just … I thought bachelors ordered a lot of takeout.”
A laugh spills from his lips as he places the plate in the dishwasher. “How very sexist of you.”
“It was, wasn’t it?” I shake my head at myself. “You just surprise me, that’s all.”
He raises the dishwasher door and snaps it in place. Then he plants his hands on the white stone countertop and looks at me.
“I have a very nice lady who comes by once a week and makes sure things are clean,” he admits. “I tidy up after myself just fine, but mopping and cleaning bathrooms—things like that—are hard to get to. I have to let some things go in order to be great at others.”
“That’s a nice luxury you have.”
“What?”
“The choice of letting some things go in order to be great at others.”
He tilts his head to the side and considers this. “I’ve never thought about it like that, but I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
He presses off the counter and dries his hands on a towel. I watch him.
Oliver is so different at home than he is at the office. I don’t know what I expected him to be like here—if I had any expectations at all—but being so casual wasn’t one of them.
I sit in my chair and watch him finish his chores—running the garbage disposal and wiping up a splash of juice that spilled when he grabbed me from behind. It’s … lovely.
It’s lovely because it’s so mind-numbingly normal.
A man in his kitchen with a woman, making breakfast and cleaning up.
He’s not a powerful CEO here. I’m not his EA or a woman who happened to be brought here after a night out.
We’re just two people who chose to spend some time together, and it feels wonderful.
Comfortable.
Safe.
I lay awake long after he fell asleep in the early hours of the morning. I curled up next to him and held on to him, trying to convince myself that he’s real. I’m really here. That this is real.
I prayed that I wouldn’t regret opening myself up to him. I hoped that when I opened my eyes that the way he looked back at me wouldn’t have changed over the night. I pled with the universe to please, somehow, let this situation be an anomaly in my life—let me have made the right choice for once.
Even though nothing about this with Oliver has felt like a choice. It’s felt like the natural course of my life … just heading in a positive direction for once.
“What are you thinking, my lady?” he asks.
I smile at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a Sunday morning like this in my entire life.”
“Really? What are your Sunday mornings usually like?”
He motions for me to get up and follow him, so I do.
We make our way lazily down the hallway. He tucks me under his arm as we enter a bright sitting room off the kitchen. White bookshelves line one wall, and a multitude of plants take up most of the counter that lines the other.
Two white wicker chairs face the windows that overlook an expansive field of grasses and flowers.
“So,” he says after we sit. “Your Sundays?”
“Oh. Well, I usually sleep in, and then sometimes I go to Lisbeth’s for brunch.”
“You and Lisbeth are close.”
I nod. “Sometimes I spend the afternoon in Forsyth Park with a book or watch a movie and sleep through most of it.”
Oliver laughs. “What kind of movies do you like? Besides Steel Magnolias?”
My heart swells at the fact that he remembered what I’d said.
“I like girlie movies. Anything with Julia Roberts or Sandra Bullock. Ocean’s Eleven—all of them— are good. Jason Bourne.”
He seems surprised. “All excellent choices.”
“Thank you.” I laugh. “What do you do on Sundays?”
He rocks back and forth and gazes across the meadow. “I usually sleep in … until seven,” he says, watching me out of the corner of his eye.
“That is not sleeping in!”
He laughs. “It is for me.”
“One of these days, I’ll show you sleeping in.”
“Didn’t we sleep in today?” He holds out his hands. “It’s nine o’clock.”
I sigh. “No. Sleeping in means at least until ten. Maybe eleven. Twelve if you’re really going big.”
His eyes go wide. “You can sleep until noon?”
“Yeah. I’ve even slept until one.”
He adds a dropped jaw to the mix. The whole look is more than I can take seriously. I swat at his shoulder and giggle.
“So I sleep in but apparently not to your standards,” he says, running a hand through his perfectly mussed hair. “Then I usually go to church with Mom and Wade. And then we’ll do lunch, or I’ll come back here and work in the office for a while.”
I shake my head.
“What?” he asks.
“You work at home on Sundays?”
“Yeah. That’s how you get shit done. You do it.”
I lift my feet off the floor, and my chair rocks back and forth too.
We sit quietly, the sun warming my skin. It must be the fresh air that the plants give off—or maybe it’s the large crystal in the corner of the room that sets the tone, but there’s an intrinsically peaceful nature about the room.
“What do you want to do today?” Oliver asks.
I keep my gaze trained on the window. “I actually need to go home.”
“Why? I thought we could go to the beach or go out to dinner somewhere nice.”
This sweet man.
I give myself a minute to pretend having expensive dinners and afternoons at the beach are my life. That all I have to worry about is if I’d like seafood or steak, a movie in or a night out. It’s a wonderful sixty seconds suspended in a daydream that stars me and Oliver and fancy evening dresses.
I sigh. “I have to work tonight.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes. I do.”
“I give you the night off.” He bumps my hand with his. “See how that works? Now you’re free to spend the night with me.”
I turn my head and look at him. “I can’t.”
Despite the revelations that I’ve shared with Oliver, I haven’t told him about The Gold Room. I haven’t not told him that I work for Nate; it hasn’t come up. I’m happy that I haven’t given it much thought because now that the moment is here, I’m not sure it’ll be smooth sailing.
Oliver’s brow furrows as he tries to feel his way around this topic.
“Why the hell not?” he asks.
“Well,” I say, stepping gently into this particular pool, “I have a second job.”
This catches him off guard. He leans back as if it’ll somehow help him understand the plain English that I just used.
“Okay.” He licks his lip, still unsure. “Where is it? What do you do?”
“I’m a waitress. I cook, too, and do dishes. And God knows I clean because Nate couldn’t find his way around the place with a mop if he had to.”
Oliver stills. “Who is Nate?”
“Nate is my boss. He owns the place.” I squirm under Oliver’s stare. “He’s one of my best friends.”
He nods, but it’s more for my benefit than an actual understanding and acceptance of my statement. That much I’m certain.
“Do I not pay you enough?” he asks. “Because I swear I saw your employment offer, but if Toni—”
“You pay me enough. More than I expected and more than I made at Monroe. It’s not that.”
He shifts in his seat. “Then what is it, Shaye? How does my EA work as a waitress at a … bar? Is that what you said?”
“Yes. It’s called The Gold Room. It’s nice. Nate just updated everything. I promised Nate that I would stay on for a while, and I don’t go back on my promises.”
My mouth goes dry. I’m not sure what Oliver’s reaction is going to end up being. I’m not sure he knows either.
His fingertips tap against the armrest. In a painfully slow motion, he looks away from me and out the window.
“You and Nate are just friends?”
“Of course.”
He rocks back and forth. “I want to be very clear about something that I didn’t realize I needed to be clear about.” He stops moving and looks at me. “But I do.”
His gaze is intense, his eyes searching the depths of mine for a truth that I can’t name. I just let him see what he wants to see because I have nothing to hide.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice steady.
“I don’t know what the kids call it these days, but as far as I am concerned, you and I are exclusive.”
My throat constricts as I absorb his admission.
Exclusive.
We’re exclusive?
We’re exclusive.
Holy shit.
His shoulders fall. “I want to give us the space to get to know each other, Shaye.”
“I do too.”
He looks relieved. “I don’t want …” He sighs.
My stomach roils, a mixture of anxiety and joy swirling together. The longer we go without saying anything, the more the anxiety overtakes the joy.
So I act.
“I don’t know what’s happening between us,” I say. “I feel like we just met—”
“Because we did.” He gives me a wry smile.
“And it feels like it in some ways, right? There’s all this newness and excitement. Everything is fun, and it feels like there’s so much potential.”
He nods, caution rippling through his features.
I reach over and take his hand. I trace the lines in his palm with my finger.
“But it also feels like I’ve known you forever,” I say. “When I’m with you, I … I don’t feel like my world is about to be split in two or that I have to look over my shoulder.”
“You don’t. I’m already looking over it for you.”
The sincerity, the pure genuineness of his words makes my eyes water. Because I know he means it.
I believe him.
And that, in and of itself, is monumental for me.
Oliver takes my hand and urges me out of the chair. He leads me in a half-circle until I’m facing him.
He holds both hands in his and looks up at me.
“Are you positive you can’t stay with me today? I don’t want you to go,” he says.
“I have to.”
“Okay.” His jaw tenses, but the frustration doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can you spare me another hour?”
I bite my lip. “It depends on what you have in mind.”
He stands abruptly, scooping me up in his arms. I shriek at the motion.
My legs dangle over his thick biceps as he grins at me.
“I’m not about to let my woman go to work for another man without being completely certain that she’s satisfied in every fucking way.”
He crushes my mouth with his. His fingers burn into my skin.
My insides ache as we make our way through his house.
I’m not sure where we’re headed or what is to come, but I know that it’ll be great with Oliver.
And maybe it’ll be great after that too.
Just maybe.