Chapter 19 #2
“I invited Oliver because I know how much he likes his racing,” Gran says.
“I didn’t know that,” I say. Then my cheeks heat again because why would I know that? No one knows how well Oliver and I know each other.
Fortunately, Oliver doesn’t leave my comment hanging around for scrutiny for very long.
“My grandad’s best friend used to take me to the Walthamstow dog races. I’d hunt around all the discarded stubs of tickets because you could almost guarantee someone would have discarded a winning ticket. It was how I saved up for my first bicycle.”
Oliver’s telling the group the story, but his eyes linger on me.
I tuck this fact away in my internal Oliver file because it’s another small glimpse into what makes this man tick. I want to know all the Oliver facts. I want to collect them like you collect baseball cards, pore over them like they’re treasures to be savored.
“I can imagine the Walthamstow racecourse had a slightly different clientele than here,” Nicholas says. From his tone, it’s impossible to know if he’s trying to empathize with Oliver or pass judgment on his background.
Oliver’s lip curls in amusement. “Just slightly.” He takes a sip of his glass of champagne.
“Isn’t your government introducing legislation to curtail dog racing?” Nicholas asks.
“We’re looking to regulate the industry so animal welfare is the primary consideration, yes,” Oliver says.
“And you’ve done that despite your own history with dog races?” Nicholas asks.
“My job is to do what’s right for the country, personal feelings aside,” Oliver says.
“That’s the job of the monarchy as well,” Nicholas says. “To put the country first.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” Oliver replies. His gaze snaps to mine for a second before he glances away.
A lump grows in my throat.
Is there a double meaning in his words? Is he trying to explain why he abruptly cut off our friendship after we kissed?
I guess it is a valid point that it’s better for the UK if the Prince of Wales and the prime minister aren’t being distracted from their jobs by kissing each other.
I grab my own glass of champagne from one of the servers circulating because I’m fairly sure I’m going to need alcohol to get through the experience of having Oliver so close yet so far away.
Sure enough, the next few hours are agonizing.
I watch Oliver as he observes the races, cheering for the horses he’s placed bets on and talking with everyone who approaches him.
He’s charming and witty within the confines of his stern persona, but he’s not the real Oliver.
He’s not telling extremely bad jokes.
He’s not smiling my favorite smile, where one side of his mouth quirks up.
He’s the public Oliver, the charming yet serious prime minister.
More than anything, I want to see the real Oliver. Just to check that he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
So, as everyone is fluttering around putting bets on the last race, I sidle closer to Oliver, who is finally, finally, standing by himself.
“Do you want to hear a horse racing joke?” I ask quietly.
Oliver snaps his head up from where he’s been studying his ticket. My heart beats faster just from having his dark eyes focused on me.
“What joke?” he asks. I’m not sure if he’s looking hesitant because we’re alone for the first time today or because he knows from experience he should always have this kind of hesitancy when it comes to my jokes.
“I bet on a horse to come in at ten to one, and it did!”
Two small creases form in the center of his forehead, and he tilts his head. “Why is that a joke?”
“Unfortunately, all the others came in at twelve-thirty.”
Oliver just looks at me for a few moments, his face expressionless. Surely he understood the joke and I don’t need to explain it?
“I think we have a new contender for the worst joke ever told,” he says finally.
Yep, he definitely got it.
“Quite possibly,” I agree. Happiness flushes through me. I feel lightheaded and breathless just from being close to Oliver.
I want to keep him close to me. I want to keep his attention focused on me, have more chances to soak up the small details of Oliver.
The way his suit jacket is scrunched up slightly on the left side, exposing a small patch of dark hair on his wrist. The way his long fingers grasp his race card, the smooth curve of his fingernails.
But I need something to say, something to prolong our conversation so Oliver doesn’t move away.
“It’s hot today,” I say. Apparently, talking about the weather is the height of my conversational skills right now. And the tabloids don’t think I’m British enough!
“Yes, it is,” Oliver agrees.
“Why do you think formal dress requirements mean one gender always freezes while the other overheats?”
“Perhaps it’s a conspiracy to make sure someone is always in a bad mood,” Oliver replies, and I huff a small laugh.
Oh god, I love laughing with Oliver so much. Trying to hide my happiness, I nod down at his card.
“So, do you think you’ve picked the winner for the St James’s Palace Stakes?”
“I’ve gone with the favorite. My philosophy is to always play the best odds.”
“My strategy is to pick the name I like the best.”
Oliver studies the card for a second before glancing up at me. “Let me guess, you picked Stirrup Trouble.”
My stomach swirls. “How did you know that?”
His eyes are dark and full of hidden depths as he stares at me.
“I thought the pun would appeal to you,” he says quietly.
It feels like someone has stepped on my lungs.
I rip my eyes away from Oliver, staring out over the emerald-green grass of the racecourse, trying to regain my breath and balance.
I meant what I said to him in the diner.
I’ve never had this kind of connection with someone before.
Someone who can look at a list of eleven horse names and instantly know which one I’d pick.
And it makes me more determined to get things back to how they were before. Because this type of friendship is rare and precious. Especially to me.
I look up and notice Nicholas standing by the bar, watching Oliver and me, a small frown etched on his face.
I slant my body so my back faces Nicholas and lower my voice. “Can we…ah…talk?”
Oliver’s face is suddenly wary. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”
“You know what I mean.”
Oliver’s face changes, and I suddenly see his genial composure has simply been a mask.
He flicks a glance at my family before lowering his voice.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“About what happened that night.”
A muscle in Oliver’s jaw works, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Can we just forget about it?” I run my hand through my hair. “I really don’t want to ruin the friendship we have.”
Oliver continues to stare at me, his expression unreadable.
He swallows, looking away, his jaw still tense. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
“Oh, come on, you’ve been ghosting me so hard that Casper would be jealous of your skills.”
I see his lips twitching like he wants to smile, but he manages to wrestle it back.
“I really want to know how I can get things back to how they were before,” I continue.
Oliver studies the carpet for a long moment before replying.
“Do you think we can just be friends?” he asks, his voice low.
It’s not a rhetorical question. It sounds like he really wants to know my opinion.
And when he looks up to meet my gaze, I see something flickering in his eyes that I don’t expect.
Something that turns my mouth instantly dry.
Want.
Oliver Hartwell is looking at me like he really, really wants me.
Shit. Oh, holy shit.
My eyes fall to his lips and the memory rushes back to me. Suddenly all I want to do is kiss Oliver again.
For an insane second, I don’t care that we’re surrounded by my family and other dignitaries, that there are probably hundreds of photographers focused on these windows and any sign of affection between us would melt the internet.
I just want to touch Oliver.
I have to exert physical willpower not to raise my hand to his face, not to trail my fingertips along the stubble of his jawline or lean toward him.
I force myself to take a step back. “We can try.”
But my words are weak.
Oliver lets out a small exhale. A muscle in his jaw works.
I hold my breath like I’m waiting for a judge to announce his verdict. Or for the executioner’s axe to fall.
“It’s too dangerous. The stakes are too high if we screw up,” he says finally.
My stomach drops. But I nod because he’s right. Of course he’s right. Oliver is a smart man. An exceptionally intelligent, perceptive person. There’s a reason the Labour MPs chose him to lead their party, and the UK chose him to be their prime minister.
“I think if we go back to what we were, we’ll open ourselves up to a temptation neither of us can afford,” he continues, and part of my heart breaks at his words. He’s correct in this too. I can’t imagine talking to Oliver without wanting him.
But not talking to him isn’t the option I want either.
Unfortunately, it’s not just my decision. And I can see in his eyes that Oliver is resolute.
“Are you saying you don’t trust I won’t jump you at a weak moment?” I try to inject some humor into this, try to cover up all the hurt and devastation I’m feeling right now.
But Oliver doesn’t even attempt to upturn his mouth as he stares at me seriously.
“I trust you,” he says softly. “I just don’t trust myself.”