Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
Olivia
The Crawford Introduction
The first thing I notice when we land is that the air smells .
. . expensive.
Like trees receiving weekly facials.
Like grass that has never been touched by actual feet, only admired from wraparound porches.
Like generational wealth that understands it’s better than to post about itself.
Lucian helps me down the steps of the jet-like we’re starring in a soft launch of Succession: The Golden Retriever Son Edition.
His hand is warm around mine, and I tell myself it’s just a gentlemanly gesture.
Definitely not comfort.
Definitely not safety.
Definitely not related to the fact that I might’ve curled into him like a mildly overwhelmed, semi-feral kitten for the past hour, and now don’t quite know what to do with my limbs.
“Welcome to part of my childhood.” Lucian motions to the estate ahead like it’s a charming bed-and-breakfast and not a literal castle with windows that probably cost more than my student loans.
I squint up at the house—or mansion—or architectural humblebrag with excellent landscaping.
“You said it was a house, not Knives Out Three: Sports Gentlemen Edition.”
Lucian grins.
“Technically, it is a house. Just . . . a house with stables, a private rink, and probably enough square footage to qualify as a small country.”
We walk toward the entrance, Sarah’s arrival being coordinated like she’s royalty and not a dog who once tried to eat my sock drawer.
I glance over at Lucian.
“Do I need to curtsy?”
“Only if Papa offers you a bourbon before dinner. That’s his test. If you decline, he’ll still like you. Accept, he’ll love you. Say something insightful about the oak finish and he’ll start planning our wedding.”
I shoot him a look.
“You’re doing that thing again where you pretend to help, but you’re actually making me more anxious.”
He squeezes my hand.
“Relax. They’re just simple people who believe in linen napkins and heirloom tomatoes and probably have a wine cellar that could cure depression.”
I snort.
“Simple. Sure. Just like you were ‘casual’ when you sent me a playlist for ‘Packing Sarah’s Favorite Toys.’”
“That playlist slapped,” he says, completely unbothered.
As we reach the front steps, I catch him texting.
“Are you calling the butler?”
“There’s no butler,” he replies, eyes still on his phone.
“Just letting everyone know we’re here. And coordinating help getting Sarah off the plane.”
“I could’ve helped.”
“We need her kennel, too,” he says.
“And her travel blanket. And her peanut butter chews.”
The doors open before I can respond.
Lucian’s dads are exactly what I expected—and somehow still intimidating in wildly different ways.
John Crawford—aka Dad—is tall and broad, boasting a classic ex-football-player build.
Handsome, warm eyes.
He seems like he could coach your kids and grill you a steak without breaking a sweat.
On the other hand, Papa looks like he owns three bookstores and maybe a vineyard in Tuscany.
He’s dressed like he walked off the cover of GQ: Legendary Husband Edition, and his smile could either charm you or disarm you, depending on your mood.
Nothing like the famous hockey player Aspen told me about.
Not that Aspen knows I’m here.
It was difficult to avoid telling her that I am the one who lives with the famous Luc Crawford.
That I am, in fact, sleeping with him—very much not casually.
That I am the reason his dog now responds to exactly three commands while ignoring all the rest with sass.
That I am wearing his shirt more often than my own.
That I find myself slowly losing my mind over a man who texts me at two with a range of flirty and very dirty texts while checking on his dog.
That I am terrified I might be falling for him, one sarcastic flirt and soft-eyed moment at a time.
“Luc,” Papa beams, arms wide.
“You’re late.”
Lucian hugs him as if they haven’t seen each other in weeks, rather than just three days.
“We landed two minutes ago.”
“Which is early by his standards,” I say, hoping to find the right balance of friendly and not-trying-too-hard.
Papa steps back just enough to study me.
“And this must be . . .”
“Olivia,” I say, offering a hand.
“The neighbor . . .”
“Doctor Olivia Halston,” Lucian adds smugly.
“She’s the new vet in Birchwood. Her clinic should open soon.”
“I’m just Liv,” I say quickly.
“I’m puppysitting Sarah at the moment.”
“She’s being modest,” Lucian says, resting his hand at the small of my back like he owns the place—and perhaps me, too.
“Liv’s the reason Sarah didn’t commit a felony against a Maltipoo last week. And the reason I’ve survived the offseason with some shred of sanity since everyone was too busy.”
His dad chuckles as he shakes my hand, his grip warm and firm.
“It’s nice to meet you. I heard you might be taming our boy. Is that right?”
Lucian groans.
“Okay, we’re not doing the taming bit. I’m not a zoo animal.”
Papa waves us to the massive double doors.
“Dinner’s in twenty. Come inside. We’ll get your things brought in. Sit, relax, and tell us everything.”
Lucian grins and winks at me.
“You ready?”
No. Absolutely not.
But I nod.
Because, for once, I think I might want to be.