Barely even friends, p.19
Barely Even Friends, page 19
“How come I’m the one doing all the talking?” I nipped at the skin underneath my cheek before smoothing it with a kiss.
He gave a low chuckle. “Because it’s a day that ends in ‘y.’”
“Well, I guess intermission is over now.”
“No,” he almost yelled, arms tightening around me. “No, I’ll talk.” I could almost hear the wheels of his brain working. “Fine. I told you how I can’t cook?”
“Yeah. You might have mentioned you struggled with certain things.” I found it cute how bad he was at some stuff despite how hard he tried. Made me want to wrap him up in a hug. I was invested now. It was only a matter of time until we discovered something he was good at.
“When I was first rehabbing, they wanted me to keep the weight off my leg, and I figured I could learn from some YouTube videos. How hard can it be to boil water or make scrambled eggs?” His body heat seeped into mine.
“You’re going to tell me how hard, aren’t you?”
“Whose story is this?”
I pressed my lips together, eager for more of this, more of him, my heart pounding in an entirely different way now.
“I might have also had a bit of confidence. My sisters and I would sneak out of our rooms in the middle of the night and I … wait, I think I want to tell you another story now.”
Oh, we were getting to the good stuff. “Nope, no backsies.”
“What if I go down on you again?”
Tempting. “Stop stalling.”
“Fine. I made us some excellent bowls of cereal.”
I waited a moment for him to continue, and when he didn’t, I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. “You thought you were a chef because you could pour a mean bowl of cereal? Did you do something wild with the milk?” Rue had guaranteed job security.
“We ate them dry.”
“You live life on the edge.”
He laughed with me, my favorite sound. “I learned that cereal was what I should stick to. I can try my best to hold to a recipe, follow it exactly, but somehow it always comes out wrong. It gets burned, tastes funny. I tend to create small fires.”
“Fires!”
“Did you notice we don’t have a microwave? I’d been through five before they insisted I stop buying new ones.”
I was a giggling mess. I could picture it, him incredibly stubborn, swearing the next meal would be the one he’d get right. How the estate was still standing was truly a wonder. “Keep going.”
“My sisters would rope me into their plays.”
Now I was a goner. He was nice to his sisters. My heart would never survive. Sibling relationships fascinated me. Someone always there to play with, to share secrets.
“They gave me the roles they refused to play. And with only three of us, I had to be multiple characters, which involved a lot of wigs.”
I let out a snort. “I hope there’s photographic evidence.”
“It has been burned.”
“I demand to hear more about these wigs.”
“What if I promise to give you something you want more?” Oliver’s voice was low, palm cupping my cheek. Everything out of his mouth sounded sexual.
“What could I possibly want more?”
“Smallville.”
“A show you’ve actually seen?” I was impressed.
“Yes, but that was my fandom.”
Another piece of the Oliver puzzle fell into place. But each little nugget made me ache to know more. Which was dangerous because I had to slow down whatever was happening here (and also hunt his fanfic down immediately).
Nothing had changed between us other than the two orgasms. Two amazing, back-bowing, knee-crumbling orgasms.
I was in so much trouble.
“I’m still not telling you my pen name.”
There were a few tricks up my sleeve to get him to change his mind. I nuzzled my nose against his throat.
“I’m sorry.” We both jumped as Bl8z3’s voice filled the stables. I had forgotten for a moment it was wired even in here. “But Jeff is searching for you, Ms. Price. It seems urgent.”
“Crap. Crap.” There it was, reality setting in. Because this bubble wasn’t real, and here I was on the floor, having hooked up with the grandson of the man who had hired me. It was all anyone would talk about if it ever got out, not my work at the estate. I would be boiled down to an accessory. Oliver Killington, pictured, and his plus one. “I’m coming. Don’t tell him where I am. I’m on my way.”
“Of course, Ms. Price.” Bl8z3’s voice was soft, as if it was reluctant to have broken this up. “Take your time and be careful. It’s still raining out there. Should I send someone with an umbrella for you?”
“Unnecessary.” The last thing I needed was anyone discovering us, wondering what we’d been doing this whole time.
Oliver helped me up from the pile we had become, patiently removing his T-shirt so I could put my own clothes on quickly, soaked from the rain and wrinkled from the haphazard way they had been thrown on the ground.
He clipped my suspenders on, handing me my hair tie, which had somehow made it around his wrist. His thumbs wiped away at what I could only imagine was dirt on my face. His face was an unreadable mask, eyes searching mine for something, maybe the same thing I sought from his. But I had nothing to offer in this moment except a to-do list and a flood of reminders of how close I was to losing everything.
“We got caught out in the rain—nothing to worry about. If they say anything to you, send them my way.”
“That’ll help. You pummeling everyone who mentions it won’t be suspicious at all.” Heritage home restoration was a small community. When Dan rejected me, everybody had known what he had said and the circumstances, and made their own assumptions. This would be devastatingly worse.
“Who cares what they think?” He pulled my hair into a messy bun, the same way I wore it at the end of a long day. His fingers drifted down the back of my neck, massaging.
But I couldn’t relax into it, not this time. “My professional reputation cares what they think.”
“Petal …”
I shook my head and sent my wet hair flying. My life had been filled with too many fantasies, dreams of what other people’s lives were like, what my life could be like. It was time to live in reality. “Don’t worry—I know what this is.” I stepped away, shivering in my wet clothing. This was as good as it was going to get.
“This again.” The annoyance in his voice made my head snap up.
“Yes, this again.” Clearly, he had no desire to talk about it, which was fine with me.
“Should I be insulted that my tongue is not enough to make you want to stalk me?”
I narrowed my eyes as my body begged for a repeat. “It’s not a bad tongue.”
He clutched at his chest. “Oomph. What happened to not being able to walk?”
“You didn’t ask about your fingers.”
His eyebrows drove into his hairline. “Oh, these fingers?” He wiggled his digits at me, causing my insides to clench.
“So humble.”
“Maybe I just like the pretty flush on your cheeks?”
The gray of his eyes drew me in, bottomless pools of emotion, while his messy beard was evidence of what an effective seat he was. He cupped my face, and for a single breath I let him pull me into his depths as if this was a normal thing we did. No consequences, nothing to worry about, a moment filled with possibility.
But everything that happened between us was of consequence. We lived together, worked together. I had been burned too many times by leading with my heart. I wouldn’t give him the power to wreck me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I stepped back, turning away from him. “Well, I’m glad we got that out of our systems. Things can return to normal. No more tension. Banged. That. Out.” I clapped my hands in beat with my words, because if I could make something more awkward, I always would.
“What?” His eyes narrowed as he attempted to close the distance between us.
“I should go, lots to do, but, um, thanks.”
“Thanks?” Now he sounded pissed. But I wasn’t here to keep growing his ego.
“Yeah, for the uh …” I waved vaguely at the ground where I had sat on his face.
“Oh no, you’re not—” He reached for me, but I was gone, fleeing into the rain, trying to pretend it could wash away any desire I had to repeat what we’d just done.
I was screwed. In more ways than one.
But the moment I stepped into the house, Oliver was there behind me, chest heaving. His hand wrapped around my wrist, guiding me into a corner, away from prying eyes.
“Petal, please, talk to me,” he begged.
“What else is there to talk about?” I was about as good an actress as Nick. Why couldn’t he let me—I mean this—go?
“This isn’t a hookup, Bellamy. This is—”
“It’s madness. I’m thrilled for you—truly I am. Getting back out into the world, finding your passion. But you shouldn’t settle for the first person who falls into your house.” I refused to be his practice for his forever person.
Oliver jumped away as if I’d slapped him, mouth gaping open. “I’m not settling. That’s not—”
“Sir, I’m so happy I found you.” Ambrose raced around the corner, towels in his hand that he thrust at me before beginning to wipe off Oliver. “You have visitors, and I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“Visitors?” Oliver acted as if Ambrose was speaking a foreign language. He gently but firmly pushed the butler away. It must be something important for Ambrose to not lecture us about the mess we were creating.
“Your sisters, sir, are—”
“We decided it was time for a visit with our big brother. Hey, Ollie.”
I would have recognized them anywhere, both from the media saturation, their faces gracing tabloid covers weekly, and by their resemblance to Oliver. The same sharp nose and heavy eyebrows. Remy shared her brother’s coloring, while Grace’s hair was almost a shocking shade of red. Both women were curvy, and Grace’s engagement ring was almost blindingly obscene.
“I—” Oliver stood frozen, jaw halfway to the floor. Ambrose backed out of the room with a bow, but I was trapped next to Oliver.
“Thought it might make sense to have the family reunion before the shindig Granddad is throwing.” Grace crossed her arms. Apparently the ability to be inscrutable was another shared trait.
My muscles tightened. It felt a bit like a gotcha moment, but I also knew if they had given Oliver a heads-up, he probably would have begged off from seeing them. Not that I would have blamed him, what with tarps everywhere and the strong scent of paint permeating the air. I should leave them to their reunion, but with a backward glance at Oliver, the desperation in his eyes screaming “Help me,” I had to stop myself from reaching out to hold his hand.
Which left only one other option. “Hi, I’m Bellamy Price. I was hired for the restoration. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” I thrust out my palm, towel swung around my neck, wishing I looked a bit more presentable.
Grace didn’t even blink. “A pleasure. This place needed the refresh.”
They both had firm handshakes and blank expressions, lacking the emotion the small space was fraught with.
“Bellamy, maybe you could give us a tour rather than all of us staring at each other uncomfortably while we ignore the elephant in the room.” Remy was blunt, but I appreciated it. Oliver hadn’t been in the same room as his siblings since their parents’ funeral, and I wasn’t sure how best to ease that gap between them.
I shook out my arms as I led a winding tour through the atrium, the library, and front hall, walking them through the process. This was the stage of the renovation where it was difficult to visualize the end result—the entire house was a construction zone—but at least it had lost the stale smell and was brightened up with the fresh coats of paint and refreshed wallpaper. The bones of it were there, the potential, and I could see it, close my eyes and picture the placement of a lounge chair, a restored art piece hanging on the wall, a fire warming the space.
We ambled into the dining room. Before I could explain the vision, Oliver’s sisters stalked toward Finn’s mural, hands hovering above the surface of the flower petals caught in the snow. It was his best piece yet: warm, with hope somehow blooming in an impossible moment. I wanted to live in it.
“This looks like something our mom would draw.” Grace darted a glance at Oliver before returning to the piece.
“Yes, we were lucky enough to find a sketch of your mother’s. An artist friend of mine was able to use it as an inspiration.” I rocked on my heels, unsure if this was a success or disaster.
“It’s perfect.” Remy breathed out, gaze glued to the various flowers that made up the piece.
“Oliver gave me the sketch.” There was no denying that the guy needed to win some points with his sisters, required a jumping-off point. They had made the effort to come and deserved to know how much he cared too.
The four of us stood in silence as I tucked myself into the corner to allow them some semblance of privacy, wishing I was closer to the door that led to the butler’s pantry.
“Eight years is a long time.” Remy turned toward her brother. “Barely a text, phone call, message by pigeon, or edible arrangement.”
I clenched my fingers, torn between wanting to defend him and the knowledge that this was between the siblings to solve.
“There’s no excuse,” Oliver said, his voice raw. “I thought about it, thought about you both more times than I can count. But the accident, the recovery for my leg, dealing with it all, it was—” Oliver’s hands gestured to the house that was still being repaired. The back of my palm brushed against his before I pulled away.
“The phone works both ways.” Grace bumped her fraternal twin’s shoulder. “But every time I thought to pick it up, I remembered the last thing you said.”
Oliver hung his head.
“You told us you killed our parents, Ollie. And then we never saw you again.”
I rubbed at my breastbone, my gaze drifting back to Oliver.
“Is that what you really think?” Remy scraped a hand through her hair.
Oliver’s silence spoke volumes, his shoulders slumped, as he scrubbed at the back of his neck, unable to meet anyone’s eyes. A lonely island cast in the middle of the ocean.
“We don’t blame you—we were just angry with you for taking our only brother, away too,” Grace confessed, voice wavering, fingers picking at the silver bracelet on her wrist.
Oliver’s head popped up, and I watched as more of the pain that had been so familiar when I had first arrived at the estate eased. It wasn’t magically better, but it was a start. As much as I was tempted to stay for Oliver, he deserved this moment to reconnect with his family.
Mending his relationship with his sisters was important. He wanted a connection with his family, whether he wanted to admit it out loud or not, which meant returning to being heir to the Killington fortune at the end of the summer. Hopefully, I would have my future in front of me too. This was reality smacking us in the face.
And it hurt.
* * *
41 Days Until the Deadline
It had been a week.
A week since Oliver’s sisters visited. They’d spent the rest of the day with him but had their driver bring them back to the city after they had shared dinner, promising to return for the banquet that was barely a month away.
A week since the barn, when every feeling I’d had about him had washed over me. It hadn’t made things easier or gotten him out of my system.
Now, Oliver curled inward and kept to himself. Even when he helped with renovations, he was silent. I’d known reuniting with his sisters would bring back the ghosts of his past, but I hadn’t accounted for how much I would miss him. I missed talking to him about whatever romance book I was reading, him offering to help me put on my suspenders, laughing whenever I stroked wallpaper. He’d become the person I went to for the little things, without me even realizing it—every victory, every misstep.
How lonely it was, even with him sleeping a few feet away; he was back to keeping every thought to himself, and I was too cowardly to bridge that gap, to find out what he had chased after me to say. It was pointless. With my deadline approaching, so was the date of my departure.
But as I left Ambrose’s updated and fully furnished tailoring room, one of the first rooms to be finished, and after Ambrose pinned me for the dress he had insisted on designing for me, I discovered Oliver leaning against the half-painted wall, waiting.
“Hi.” He clutched a few flattened boxes, bouncing them against his right leg.
“Hi.” I wished I had something to fiddle with as I snapped my suspenders.
His eyes widened, gaze drawn to the movement. “There’s, uh, this thing I realized I needed to do ever since I saw my sisters. I’ve been building up my courage, but I thought that maybe …” He gnawed on his lip.
“What?” I had to stop myself from reaching out and tugging on his mouth to stop his hurt.
He raised the boxes toward me. “The west wing.”
We’d been stalling the west wing for as long as possible—it hadn’t been the most practical system, and as Jeff liked to remind me constantly, it in no way helped our impossible deadline. But it had been the plan designed to cause Oliver the least amount of heartache. But there was no more delaying, not if we wanted to finish on time.
“That’s a great idea.” I couldn’t help the slow smile that erupted as he quirked an eyebrow at me.
“Thanks.”
“I’ll tell everyone to stay away—take your time. There are plenty of other things.” I had a list a mile long, detailed down to the minute. Was I lying awake at night scared we wouldn’t finish? Of course, but while I was awake, I might as well make more lists.
“I was wondering …” Oliver’s gaze shifted to the space between our feet. “If you would help me?”
My answer was an immediate “Yes.” I relieved him of two boxes, fingers brushing with his. Warmth filled my chest. He’d taken another step toward healing, and he’d taken it on his own—well, with the help of the weekly therapy appointments he maintained.
