His chin dropped to the top of my head, neither of us moving, living in the silence, the breath in between, the almost.
And then it broke. Oliver shifted me to sit up as he eased out from behind me, attempting to fluff up the remaining pillow that seemed only flattened further.
We both settled, him on the couch, legs hanging over the edge, me alone in his bed.
“Well, goodnight,” I called out, unable to not say anything.
Oliver grunted, the couch’s cushions creaking. I wasn’t in much better shape, flopping around, searching for the perfect pocket to fall asleep in, his body a burning flame too close and yet too far away.
All I wanted was to make the ache disappear, finish what I had started in the shower before I was so rudely interrupted. Bury my face into his pillow, hump his mattress—wild and electric and impossible with him only inches away, able to hear me. Why was that appealing?
“Stressing about the pipes?” His voice was low, testing if I was awake.
“Yes, uh, yes, can’t stop thinking about it.” I closed my eyes, trying not to groan.
“I slept … that night.”
“What?” My legs were restless against his cool sheets, the dark space making it seem like he was lying next to me.
“That’s why I was up so early. It was the first night of rest I’ve had in … a long time.” His voice tipped up at the end as if it still surprised him.
If I had to guess, he hadn’t been sleeping well since his parents’ death. “It was?”
“Yeah, I should have told you instead of standing there ogling you.”
“You weren’t—”
“I’ve avoided people for so long.” His words escaped in a rush. “Rue, Bl8z3, Ambrose, and Nick kind of forced themselves on me. But it’s different, having someone who—” He hesitated.
“Isn’t obligated to stay?”
“You want to be here, I recognize that, but it’s not for me. It’s for the house.” His voice ached with something that made me wish I could see him, or at least reach out and hold his hand, close the distance.
I scrunched my nose. The memory of that night, the drag of his dick, his voice in my ear as I came, it was all twisted up in the cold sheets of waking up alone.
“I should send Jeff an email. Figure out how extensive the damage to the pipes is. Gut my room so mold doesn’t set in. Bring fans in. And we should—”
“Tomorrow.” He interrupted my list, my mind racing. “There’s nothing you can do about it now.”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing.” There was that firm voice again, the one that haunted my dreams.
I was scared. The pipes, the damage to the rooms. But right now, I was petrified about what I was doing in this bed, tempted to ask this man to sleep next to me, let his body curl around mine, but it couldn’t only be for tonight. We were going to be stuck like this for the foreseeable future.
“They’re not going to be able to fix it tomorrow,” I pressed, my stomach sinking with the realization.
“If this is about the picture, Petal, I can—”
“No, they’re not going to be able to fix my room. All the mattresses have been tossed. The furniture delivery isn’t for months. I don’t have a room to stay in.” The words were rushing out faster and faster as my mouth was catching up with my brain. “My bedroom will have to have the carpet torn out, and the floors are being redone in all the other rooms too. I guess I can get an air mattress, but then I need to figure out—”
“Bell.” Oliver’s voice sounded like this wasn’t the first time he had said my name. “You’re not sleeping on an air mattress.”
“Been hiding another wing from me?” At this point I wouldn’t put it past him. He had seemed almost chipper lately—well, chipper for him—and it was disconcerting.
“Cute, Petal.”
“Explain yourself, Killington.”
“You’ll stay here.” It took a lot to stun me into silence, but here we were. “I’ll take that as your agreement.”
“Oh, that’s a great idea. What will you be proposing next—bunkbeds?”
“If that’s something you’d be into.”
My mouth suddenly went dry. “You’re going to get sick of me. Besides it’s just a bad idea.”
“Why?” Was he really going to make me be the one to say it? “You’re fixing up my favorite place in the entire world, and I was … not great in the beginning. I can give up my bed for a while.”
“You don’t owe me.” I licked my lips, searching for the words, trying to understand him, this thing between us, taking its own shape, delving into my chest and taking up residence there.
“If I can take this one thing off your shoulders, can you promise to let me?”
I twisted to lay on my back, staring into the darkness, unable to answer because I wasn’t sure if that was something I was capable of.
88 Days Until the Deadline
“Okay, all I need is a time machine, an understanding of string theory, and a way to make the day thirty hours long,” I announced to the room. We were seated at the folding card table in the skeleton of a kitchen that Rue could still operate like a Michelin-starred restaurant. What they could do with a hot plate alone was mind-boggling.
“Time is merely a social construct, but I’d be happy to explain string theory to you.” Nick smiled at me before taking a bite of her omelet.
“Well, this social construct is ruining my life.” Maybe Mr. Killington would accept “time is a social construct” as my explanation for why the restoration couldn’t be completed on time. Yeah, probably not.
“Here, have a muffin, baked fresh this morning.” Rue set the corn muffin on my plate, fresh from the oven of the cabin they lived in on the property with Nick and Ambrose as I offered them a grateful smile. I was well fed in my desperation.
Despite the varying levels of construction the kitchen was undergoing, it remained our gathering place in the mornings before the crew returned each day. Somehow, I had become part of the routine: Nick sharing what she was learning in school, her excitement for summer vacation; Ambrose occasionally allowed me to brew the coffee when he was otherwise occupied, only grumbling a few times about how I was almost as bad as Oliver; Rue had begun teaching me the secrets of their cooking—well, tried to in the few moments it took me to scarf down breakfast. The three of them listened raptly as I puzzled out whatever hiccup had popped up.
“Morning.”
My gaze shot up, egg falling out of Nick’s mouth as she stared over my shoulder.
Ambrose jumped out of his chair so rapidly he fell out of it, sprawling on the ground as he stared at the doorway. “Sir, you’re here. What can I do? What do you require? Have I forgotten something?” Distressed was an understatement.
Oliver was standing in the doorway, dressed in khaki pants, a black T-shirt from his collection, arms crossed protectively over his chest; and now that his beard was trimmed back, a slight blush highlighted his cheeks. In the months I’d spent at the estate, he’d never joined us once since that first morning for breakfast, always choosing to have it alone. With the destruction of my bedroom, we spent time together every evening before we fell asleep. Talking until we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore.
“I thought I might, uh, join you for breakfast?” He stood ramrod straight, fists shoved into his pockets, his muscles shifting, eyes switching between our faces. As if he assumed we would send him away.
“Nonsense.” Ambrose had never moved so quickly, almost throwing his half-eaten meal at the wall to get rid of it. “Please sit. I can make you a plate. What would you like, sir?”
Nick resumed chewing, cautiously, as if a bomb were about to go off.
“I have some muffins, an omelet, toast?” While not leaping out of their chair, Rue shifted back into action too, snatching a fresh mug to pour Oliver a cup of coffee.
“Whatever is easiest.” Oliver eyed the open door, shuffling his feet.
Ambrose jostled my cup and paperwork into a pile. “Please, leave some room for others at the table, Ms. Price.” I had to cover my mouth to stop myself from laughing.
I gathered my papers while Ambrose practically shoved Oliver into the seat beside me, his body colliding with mine from the momentum. My skin hummed from the slight contact, then Oliver’s palm gripped my thigh. “Don’t leave on my account.”
“No, I …” I could sense his effort to step out of his routine, to stop hiding away, even from the people who cared for him. I knew what this meant, though I was unsure how to vocalize it. I reached down and squeezed back.
Rue set toast and a muffin in front of Oliver. “I’m so glad you joined us. So many changes happening, all due to our new friend.”
I ignored the pointed look they sent in my direction, instead continuing to stare at the hand that remained on my leg, how right it looked, my fingers intertwined with his. He let go to tackle his breakfast, and I flexed my suddenly cold fingers.
“Sit.” Oliver gestured to the empty chair and Ambrose.
“I much prefer standing, sir.”
Nick raised her eyebrows at me. All I could do was shake my head and drink my required caffeine fix.
“I haven’t seen these suspenders yet,” Oliver observed aloud.
I jerked back, knocking my shoulder into his, jostling my cup. The moment Oliver spoke, everyone froze, staring at us as if we were a museum exhibit. I wanted to be absorbed into the ground and never be heard from again.
“Yup.” I needed the attention off me immediately, off us and the hearts Rue had in their eyes.
“They have little construction tools on them.” Oliver’s finger hovered over the curve of my shoulder, and I choked out a breath.
“Yup.”
“Should I be scared you’re not talking?” He gazed down at me, eye contact steady, pupils slightly blown. I wanted to stab him. And also lick his exposed collarbone. I was a woman of many mixed emotions.
“They were a present from my father. Anything else?”
The jerk chuckled, which made everyone else’s eyes go wide, like they’d never heard the sound before. Which only motivated me to have it happen more. He kept it up, his body bumping, leg staying pressed against mine, eyes shining. My heart clenched.
“Have another muffin. I’m making a fresh pot of coffee.” Rue rushed toward me. “Anything you want, anything you need.”
Ambrose met Rue’s gaze with a single raised eyebrow, an almost smile before refiling my cup of coffee himself.
“Oh my gosh.” Nick’s jaw was practically on the floor. “I never thought I’d see the day. He should have hired you years ago to restore this place.” Her eyebrows wriggled.
A sinkhole would be a blessing right now.
We survived the day, but breakfast haunted me. Ambrose had smiled at me; it was eerie.
I could still remember the whispers about me and Dan, the assumptions the crew had made. The hope it filled me with, that there was truly something there—there had to be if everyone else saw it. And how wrong I’d been.
Everything about Oliver was a weapon designed to wreck me, and my heart wouldn’t survive. How I’d caught him Googling his sisters, checking up on them in the middle of the night. Sometimes even looking up wallpaper restoration. No one cared more than him, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
“Ready for bed?” The ass was preening, running his fingers through his hair as he left his bathroom, gray sweatpants clinging to his body, making me sweat.
“Firm, eh, firmly ready.” The man’s thick thighs were distracting. I wondered for the millionth time what they would feel like, pressed to mine, with no clothes separating us. “Don’t you want to put a shirt on?”
His smirk put an indent in his cheek. “Nope.” Instead, he scratched at his left pec, my eyes following along for the ride.
I refused to let him distract me. “It goes without saying, but please don’t mention our sleeping arrangements to anyone.” Each night he slept on the couch, relaxed, falling asleep while I lay awake in a puddle of sexual frustration.
“Really, because I wanted to sit for a cup of tea with Ambrose and pour my heart and soul out to him.” The smirk grew wider, his eyes lighting up.
“I hate you.”
“Say it again. Maybe it’ll stick.” He stood there, all smug.
“Absolutely the worst.”
“Mmm.”
He was giving me a peek at those freckles on his shoulders again while he checked out my skin exposed by his oversized T-shirt. Every night we were playing a dangerous game, and I didn’t know how to stop it. Not with the fire building in my lower belly and the memory of the way his skin tasted on my tongue.
I couldn’t think, not while my skin was on fire, pure electricity, fingers clutching the sheets so I wouldn’t get up and do something stupid, like kiss him.
“Let’s get some sleep.” With his gaze on me, it was impossible not to notice how his tone softened more and more often, especially when we were alone. He looked at me as if he could see right through each defensive layer I had put up.
I exhaled, sliding fully underneath the covers, shoving at the flat pillow I hadn’t replaced yet.
He flicked off the light. Only a few feet separated us. The distance seemed to shrink every night, not that he’d made any indication he wanted to sleep anywhere else. I had considered establishing rules to ensure nothing further happened between us, but he didn’t seem to be suffering the way I was. The words caught in my throat any time I was inclined to bring it up.
“Can’t sleep?”
My foot twitched, kicking the empty space beside me. “You startled me.”
Why was he awake?
“You weren’t exactly subtle with all the rustling around.”
I was the worst platonic roommate of all time. “I’m sorry. I can go.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He huffed as the couch squeaked. “What’s keeping you up, Petal?”
The way I can’t tell if it means something whenever you call me Petal. “Nothing. The impossible project, the impossible timeline, how my career depends on something I am almost guaranteed to fail. So, planning out alternative careers.” The weight of the world pressed on my shoulders, and an ache throbbed between my legs.
“Come up with any viable ones yet?” His laugh was soft, curling around us. Like he understood.
“Nope. ‘I have a very particular set of skills.’ ” I held my breath, waiting.
“That’s from a movie, isn’t it?” It surprised me that he could at least distinguish that, because I had zero belief he’d actually seen the film.
“Recognizing that is half the battle.”
“Would watching it help you fall asleep?”
“A movie about a woman being kidnapped? Unless you’re looking for me to sleep on top of you, nope, don’t think so.” More, I was curious what he would be interested in. Taken, maybe a fantasy or a documentary? There had to be something.
He cleared his throat. “So, what will help?”
“Being hit in the head.” That seemed like a much better idea than continuing to fantasize about him and his sweatpants.
“That’s how you get a concussion, not sleep,” he deadpanned. I could picture the flicker of amusement across his features.
“Fine. Uh, talk to me?” I wanted to bite back the words the moment I uttered them, but somehow he didn’t make it weird. Didn’t mock my honesty.
“My voice puts you to sleep?”
“No, I like your voice.” The truth poured out of me, something I hadn’t even admitted to myself. I needed to fall asleep immediately before something worse popped out.
“I like your voice too.”
I yanked the sheet up to cover my mouth, hide the smile that lit my entire being. “Fine. Uh … What about you? Any progress on making your decision?”
His growl held no bite.
“It looked like things were going well with the carpenters?” Or the ‘floor nerd crew,’ as I enjoyed referring to them. It had been his latest attempt at finding a new skill the past few days, leaving his hands red and raw and his whole body covered in wood shavings and stain.
“I think we found the one thing that not even you can overcome.”
That was becoming the general consensus of the crew after Oliver almost demolished a load-bearing wall, while his painting and staining skills were such that someone else would have to redo his work. He put his heart into everything he tried, but somehow, he failed each and every time, and I was determined to help, if only to avoid having to see that look of devastation flash across his face ever again. It was a stab to my chest every time.
“All right, pretend you aren’t a Killington—what would you do if you could be anything? No responsibilities, entirely selfish.” CEO of a massive corporation didn’t seem to be on his employment wish list. From what I could surmise from his grandfather, that involved a lot of travel and a holier-than-thou attitude.
“That’s a pretty out-there fantasy,” he said.
“You asked what would make me fall asleep. If you don’t want to help …” I was being manipulative, and I didn’t care. I wasn’t sure I had ever met anyone more in need of someone to talk to.
“Fine.” With his grunt, I knew I was forgiven. “I went to school for computer science and graphic design.”
I bit my lip hard, holding back the question I was desperate to ask. Almost since I had entered this place, I’d wondered how Bl8z3 came to be in this crumbling mess of an estate. My current theory was that the reclusive Killington was the architect of the beyond advanced AI. But I wanted him to admit it to me when he was ready.
“Like coding?” I would fail at any test of subtlety, but I was also dying to know. To peel back another layer.
“Somewhat. I enjoyed designing websites the most, and sometimes I do freelance work. Something to fill my days with.”
“Hey.” I hated the defeated tone of his voice. “Lean into the joy. If you have something you love, do it. I personally am aware of a website that could use some help.”
I was only half kidding. Price Restoration’s website was a mess. We mostly relied on word of mouth.
“Yeah?” His excitement sent a thrill down my spine, curling my toes. I clenched everything I could, including my self-control. “Sounds like a great idea.”
The drawl in his voice made me wonder if we were talking about something else.