Chapter Seventeen
THE NEXT MORNING, it takes me all of two seconds after opening my eyes to remember what went down the night before, aka the hottest kiss of my life.
Right away, there’s so much nervous energy coursing through my body that I clamp a hand over my mouth while I stretch out my legs in bed—in the same guest bedroom I came to last night, alone, after bidding Oliver a very dazed goodnight.
Up he went to his dark wing of the house and up I went to mine. Alone.
I tried calling both of my sisters multiple times to talk through it while I shoved handfuls of trail mix in my mouth.
When neither of them answered, I paced in my room, every centimeter of my skin alive with sensation, my mind racing a million miles per minute.
I managed to calm myself when I popped my headphones in my ears and turned on some of Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies.
By the time they called me back, I knew that this wasn’t something I was ready to share yet.
Whatever happened between me and Oliver, we’d figure it out—just us.
In the watery gray light of a cloudy morning, I still don’t know what to do next. Are we friends? Roommates? We’re colleagues, yes, but are we on kissing terms now?
I roll over and groan into the plush pillow.
The longer I dawdle alone in this bedroom, the more awkward this is going to be when I do finally see him. Knowing Oliver, he’s already gotten a workout in and is sitting at the piano. That didn’t seem like it mattered before; we’d found a rhythm and a way to work together.
And now, we… what? Kiss sometimes?
I groan one more time for good measure before hauling myself out of my bed and into the bathroom to brush my teeth.
For a second, I consider changing into something nicer than my old gray sweat shorts and Juilliard T-shirt but decide against it.
He’s already seen me in my most basic clothes—what does it matter now?
When I appear downstairs, Oliver is in the kitchen, wearing a white T-shirt and a pair of blue-and-green plaid pajama bottoms, idly sipping his coffee while he reads on his phone.
It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him in real sleepwear.
It only makes him more charming, seeing him a little undone with sleep-mussed hair.
He looks up and smiles when I approach the kitchen island. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” My voice is still scratchy from sleep.
“Coffee?” he asks.
“Please. Thank you.”
He fixes me a cup just how I like it—cream, no sugar—without even asking me how I take it. So, he’s been watching, noticing, cataloguing. More than I realized. My stomach somersaults as I take the first sip and realize that I know how he takes his coffee too: black.
“Have you been up long?” I ask, still a little off-kilter at seeing him in his pajamas.
“Not really,” he replies. “My sleep schedule is a disaster.”
I huff my agreement. “Tell me about it.”
“Is it the bed?” A line forms between his brows, just above his glasses, as he looks at me. “You’re welcome to try one of the other rooms—”
“No, no, the bed is fine,” I say as I wave off the concern.
“I’m the problem. I’ve never been good at keeping a sleep schedule.
There are periods where I’ll try to get better about it.
You know, going to bed at a reasonable time, getting up early—that kind of thing.
But it never sticks for me. I guess it’s just that freelance life or something. ”
He nods as he takes a sip of coffee. “I know how that goes.”
“Are you the same way, then?”
“Yeah, but I’ve never slept well.” He purses his lips before adding, “Before you ask, yes, I’ve tried melatonin, Ambien, even weed gummies, all of it. Melatonin did nothing, Ambien made me a danger to society, and weed gummies just made me hungry and stupid.”
“A danger to society?” I rein in a laugh. “What does that mean?”
“Well, the first time I took it I was in London. I woke up in the middle of Trafalgar Square the next morning with no recollection of how I got there. It was a twenty-minute walk from my apartment. The second time I tried it, I was back in New York, thinking that I’d be safer on home turf or something.
I wasn’t. I knocked on my neighbor’s door so loudly that I woke him up in the middle of the night and he had to walk me back to my own place and put me to bed.
I had no memory of this until I saw him the next day.
” He cuts me a sly look and adds, “It’s okay. You can laugh.”
I can’t help the half-horrified chuckle that slips out of me. “I’m sorry. That sounds terrible.”
“It’s fine. I always have this,” he says as he raises his coffee mug and finishes off what’s left.
That nervous, frantic energy that propelled me out of bed this morning intensifies as I watch him move around the kitchen to pour himself another cup of coffee.
There’s no denying that I enjoyed what we did last night—I can accept that.
If the circumstances were different, if we weren’t creative partners working together, if so much of my future weren’t riding on this job…
Then I’d have no problem walking right up to him and kissing him again. Just to see if the first time wasn’t a fluke.
But that’s not my—our—reality. That much is clear when he looks at me, coffee mug in hand, with that careful mask back in place. Oliver is guarded again. So am I. An uncomfortable silence settles between us.
If there was a moment for us to talk about the kiss, it’s gone now. I take a sip of my own coffee before I say, “So. Lots to do today.”
“Right.” His response is short. Terse.
“I’m ready to get started whenever,” I reply, trying for breezy, but mostly I sound out of breath.
Oliver’s brow furrows ever so slightly. It’s a blink-and-you-miss-it reaction to my awkwardness. Without a word, he turns on his heel and heads for the studio. I trail after him in silence.
It’s going to be a very long day.
After eight straight hours, we both agree it’s time to call it.
We drift off to our respective corners of the house and leave the giant proverbial elephant in the studio where it hovered over us all day.
Alone in my bathroom, I shower, and for reasons I’m not yet willing to admit to myself, I shave my legs for the first time in a week.
I throw on a short pink summer dress and admire my handiwork with the razor before finding Oliver downstairs, wearing dark jeans that fit him just right and another linen button-down, this one with light-green stripes.
He’s perched on the couch, his elbows on his knees as he scrolls through his phone, those full lips pulled between his teeth.
“I was thinking—” he starts to say, but stops short when he looks up at me.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach when his gaze drags up and down my body.
My outfit isn’t anything spectacular; it’s just a simple cotton dress and my hair is still damp from the shower.
But the way he’s looking at me right now, with that quiet, dark intensity—you’d think I just descended the stairs in expensive lingerie.
“You’ve gotta be careful about that,” I say with a smirk. “It’ll get you in trouble.”
“I’m aware,” he mutters, then shakes his head and stands.
We stare at each other from across the living room. He’s quiet for so long that I toy with the hem of my dress. His eyes track the movement.
The tension pulls taut between us. I hate it, the way it makes me feel so uncertain, the strange, heady combination of fear and desire that courses through me when I look at him, the weight of all my problems bearing down on my shoulders at the same time.
Finally, I blurt out, “Oliver, we have to—”
At the same time, he declares, “Let’s go out for dinner.”
“Oh.” I blink. It seemed like we were about to have that conversation here, in the living room, but a restaurant works. I’ve missed eating out so much. Haven’t stopped thinking about it since Rosa sent that picture weeks ago, honestly. “Yeah. That sounds good,” I add.
His lips curl just enough that I would classify it as a smile. For Oliver, at least. “There’s a brewery not far from here. Let’s go.”
It takes no time for me to grab my denim jacket, shoes, and purse.
A few minutes later, we’re tucked into the SUV, cruising down the twisty backroads surrounding Boothbay Harbor.
The warm glow of sunset streams through the open windows, bathing Oliver in a golden light that makes him look so handsome that I can’t help but sneak glances at him the entire fifteen-minute drive.
When we pull into the gravel parking lot, he cuts the engine.
He’s out of the car and pulling open my door before I even have the chance to unbuckle my seat belt.
He offers me his hand to help me down, which isn’t entirely necessary because I’m not that short, but I take it all the same.
He lets me go the second I have both feet on the ground.
The place is busy, with nearly every table full, but we’re seated at a small two-top near the bar right away.
Oliver pulls out my chair before taking his own seat.
These little displays of his affection—they’re doing a number on me, now that I think I know what’s going on.
In all my years of dating and hooking up, I’ve never had anyone do these things so consistently.
The last guy I was with—Drew, who lasted six months—never once carried my bags, let alone drove seven hours to pick me up.
Once Oliver is seated opposite me, I flip open the menu and ask, “Have you been here before?”
“Once, yes,” he replies. “They had just opened the last time I was here a few years ago.”
“Seems popular,” I muse as I glance around at the sprawling restaurant packed with people. There are life preserver rings and pictures of the shore hung up on the walls; suddenly the name Hull & Keel Brewing makes sense. “People really love boats around here, don’t they?”
“Well, it is a harbor town,” he replies with a teasing half-smile.