Chapter Fifteen
SOMETHING IN THE house changes.
The power comes back on, yes, so the next morning I wake up in my room with all the lights on.
When I come downstairs, I find that Oliver has already been up for a while, as evidenced by the overwhelming scents of sugar and cinnamon that greet me as soon as I hit the first floor.
He’s fully dressed in jeans and a teal linen button-down, a dish towel draped over his shoulder as he flits around the kitchen; I’m wearing a pair of comfortable sweat shorts and a tank top.
“What is that incredible smell?” I ask in awe.
“Cinnamon rolls,” he says simply.
“Did we buy some at the store?” I ask, though I already know the answer—we didn’t. I spent a good five minutes standing in front of the fridge case debating it, but ultimately decided not to because the cart was already overflowing. It’s a small luxury I can go without.
He shakes his head as he checks the timer on the stove. His back is to me so I can’t see his face as he replies, “No, but we did buy the stuff to make them from scratch. They’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.”
My jaw drops as my stomach rumbles. “You… made homemade cinnamon rolls?”
“Yeah.” He turns to face me now, his brows lifted in question as he finally looks at me, like he doesn’t understand why I’m struggling to comprehend this.
“Why?” The question comes out breathless.
Cinnamon rolls are a pain in the ass to make.
I’ve only ever done it once or twice in my life—which is enough times to know that the effort is rarely worth it, even though they’re my favorite.
If Oliver made them this morning, that means he’s been at it for at least two hours.
As we stare at each other, his cheeks bloom with color.
“I saw you looking at them at the store,” he says quietly. “You know I have a sweet tooth, too, so I figured…”
He peters out. The sentence hangs open-ended, like an invitation for me to fill in the blanks. I let out a shocked huff of a laugh and shake my head.
“You figured you’d make them on your own?” My voice is filled with wonder. “That’s so… thoughtful. They’re my favorite. Thank you.”
He smiles just enough that it reaches his eyes, then nods. It’s not a full you’re welcome or no problem, but I’m starting to wonder if this is just how Oliver is. Maybe he’s the type of person to show what he’s thinking or feeling instead of saying it.
His cinnamon rolls are the best I’ve ever tasted. We eat half the pan that morning.
It’s clear something between Oliver and me has changed—a subtle but undeniable shift, like the gravitational force between us switched gears so we’re no longer orbiting each other. We can be next to each other now. Close, even.
And we are just that—physically close—in the days following our candlelight piano breakthrough.
The email to Chris went out after we finished our delectable breakfast; his response gives us both the boost we needed to keep going.
After Oliver and I celebrate this small win with a high five, I make it a point to tell him he’s invited to join me in the studio anytime.
That same evening, I find myself excited to post up in front of the studio computer and experiment with different sounds.
The door to the studio swings open, but I’m so dropped into what I’m doing that I hardly notice. It’s not until I hear a chair dragging over the carpet that I tear my eyes away from the screen. Oliver sets a spare dining room chair next to where I’m seated and plops into it.
His cheeks are already pink when he asks, “Is this okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.” The words come out of me in a weird high pitch I’ve never heard myself use before. I pretend not to notice that our knees are mere inches apart. “I was just playing with what we already wrote. Seeing if I could expand it with orchestration.”
“Show me?” he asks tentatively.
Oliver pulls his glasses from the top of his head and sets them on the bridge of his nose.
When he does this, he runs his hands through his hair.
I smile at the action, all at once reminded of the boy I used to know who did this when he was at the piano; here is the man he became.
Sitting right next to me, smelling like fresh soap and a hint of something fine and delicate.
If he’s wearing cologne, it’s got to be expensive.
He catches me looking at him. Our eyes meet and he pulls his lips between his teeth—as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. A tingly sensation blossoms all over my skin.
It takes a lot of effort to turn my attention back to the computer. I drag the mouse back to the start of the phrase I’d been writing. I hit Play, and then sounds of half an orchestra fill the room for about ninety seconds.
My heart accelerates as soon as it finishes. The silence envelops the two of us again. “Well? What do you think?”
“I like it. It feels almost… melancholy,” he says thoughtfully. “This is all for the character of Dahlia, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You resonate with her the most?”
“Well, yeah,” I reply with a shrug. “She’s the outsider who has no idea what she’s getting herself into when Harrison brings her to meet the family.”
“Don’t sell Dahlia short,” Oliver says with a smirk. “She catches on to their bullshit pretty quick. She refuses to let them play her.”
I nod along as he speaks. My heart continues beating too fast in my chest. What he’s saying—that’s what I took from the script, too. We agree on something.
“Yeah, so I was thinking that it can transition into something more devious as the episodes play out.” The words rush out of me so fast I can’t contain them. “When we get to see her play the Moores at their own game.”
As I talk, Oliver leans closer to listen.
I can tell that he’s focused on me completely—that we’re zeroed in on each other, on the task at hand, on the act of creating something together.
It’s just him and me in the world right now.
There is no one else, not even the hundreds of people who are making the same show we’re discussing.
When our knees touch, neither of us pull away. Not for hours, until it’s finally time to call it a night, well after midnight.
The funny thing about this kind of collaborative work is that somehow, two people end up forming their own schedule.
There’s no one else here to make plans with, no one to meet at restaurants or coffee shops or even yoga classes that charge you a fee if you cancel.
There are no requirements that we start at a certain time or limitations on when to eat certain meals.
Breakfast becomes dinner. Lunch becomes handfuls of things from boxes eaten on the floor of the studio.
Night is day; up is down. Oliver and I don’t care—we’re working together, and it’s going well.
For the most part, that is. He disappears for an hour or two occasionally, but I don’t press him on it.
There are also stretches where we do little more than tinker away at the piano or shake a tambourine to a nonexistent beat.
It’s during one of those weird periods that Oliver looks down at me from the piano bench with a curious look on his face.
I’m lying on the floor drumming a beat on my legging-clad thigh, but this is normal now.
“I think we need to change things up,” he declares with authority.
I sigh. “Yeah. You’re right.”
“There’s a hiking trail just off the back deck. Let’s put some shoes on and get some fresh air.”
“Hiking?” I haul myself to sit and raise my eyebrows. “I’m not really an outdoorsy gal. I’m what you’d call a city rat.”
“Rats live outside.”
“Not this one. This rat took up residence in a very nice building and has everything it needs.”
He huffs out a half-laugh. “First of all, I’m not going to compare you to a rat. Second, we’re not getting anything done right now and it’d be good to get some fresh air. Third, haven’t you already been out walking?”
I brush past the initial surprise that he noticed my brief forays outside. “That’s different than hiking.”
“How so?” he asks, eyes narrowed, lips curled into a half-smile.
“Because it’s flat,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “What time is it anyway?” I peer at my phone—it’s 2:45 p.m. I have no real reason to fight him on this. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I’m about to pull myself to stand when Oliver appears directly in front of me, his hand outstretched.
I look at it. For all the progress we’ve made in the last couple of weeks, this moment feels symbolic.
Like it’s more than just peeling me off the floor because this is the first time Oliver has invited me to do anything since we got here.
When our fingers touch, a jolt of something electric runs through me. He’s warm—so warm—and his grip is strong. Those pianist fingers are long. Soft, too, except for the scrape of a few calluses.
I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye for longer than a millisecond. I don’t know what’s happening to me and I don’t know if I like it.
Once we both have our shoes on and sunglasses in hand, I meet him at the back door. He leads me outside in the breezy, cool afternoon. The fresh air kisses my face and I close my eyes to take the deepest breath I can.
When I open them again, Oliver is standing a few feet away near the edge of the deck, smirking at me.
He looks so… stylish in that pair of black Wayfarers, light-wash Levi’s, and a simple gray T-shirt that hugs his arm muscles.
At least I’m wearing my cutest athleisure, a set of black leggings paired with a matching bra and a soft-blue shirt.
“Lead the way then,” I say, not quite ready to admit this was a good idea, or that I like what I see.