Oliver’s eyes widened. So, the sound hadn’t just been in my imagination. I held my breath, stomach sinking, as he attempted to push down the door handle. But a girl could hope, especially if it meant that I wouldn’t be trapped in this room, which seemed to be shrinking by the moment, with my least favorite person. His shoulders bulged as he put some more force behind his efforts, but the doors stayed firm.
His right leg pulled back, and I dived forward, grabbing at his T-shirt. “Don’t you dare.”
“What?” His expression seemed to accuse me—as if any of this was my idea.
“Trust me, this is the last place I want to be, but that frame is solid wood and thicker than the door to your bedroom. All you’ll do is ding it, maybe, unless you want to kick through the glass and hope you don’t cut anything important before we can get out.” More likely, he’d dent his foot. “It was probably just an accident. Let’s ask Bl8z3 to get someone to come help.”
“An accident, huh?” Oliver nodded to the rest of the room. The rose petals, the candles. Rue and Ambrose were all about ambience, setting the scene, choosing an appropriate wine and place settings for every meal. Yeah, this was looking less and less like an accident by the moment, but I refused to accept it.
“Bl8z3?” Hopefully it would answer me this time.
“Yes, miss?” The reply was prompt. A conspiring AI, wonderful.
“We’re stuck in the atrium. Can you or someone else unlock the door?” I was not one to doubt Bl8z3’s abilities, including control over the locks.
“I cannot, miss.”
I waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. “And why not?”
“We all know how hard you have been working and thought you needed a break.”
We, huh? “The doors don’t have to be locked for that to happen.”
“Let us out,” Oliver demanded, still wriggling the handle.
“I have been programmed to ignore your orders for the next two hours, sir.”
“Two hours?” I rammed Oliver out of the way, shoving down on the door handle, regretting leaving my lock picking kit up in my bedroom. For my next project, the contract would include a clause that the house be unoccupied. I didn’t have time for this; my deadline to provide my sketches was only days away.
“Please enjoy dinner.” And with that, Bl8z3 piped soft, romantic instrumental music into the room. I had never felt so betrayed by technology in my life. Maybe those Terminator movies had been onto something.
Bl8z3 wasn’t exaggerating, I was preparing around the clock for my presentation with Mr. Killington to receive his approval for my plans. I could take a break once everything was confirmed in two days’ time. By then, this might even be romantic if I were locked in with anyone else.
Oliver gave the door a solid kick, the glass panels rattling, but nothing else. Not even a divot in the wood. Wonderful, this part of the house was holding up. His soft canvas sneakers couldn’t be much help.
The room permeated with the drool-worthy scent coming from the table, at least the part about a meal hadn’t been a lie too. “We might as well eat.” I sighed, not waiting for him as I ambled over to the table and lifted the dish covers. Two plates were filled with salad and chicken fettuccine alfredo.
I attempted to gracefully slide into the chair. I failed. Should have pulled it farther away from the table instead of trying to be dainty. Now I had to squeeze my way in, almost tipping the chair over. You know, typical, everyday hot girl shit.
The sun set as Oliver continued his assault on the door, fortunately missing me muck up being a human being. When I was at last sitting upright in my chair, he gave up his attempted escape, shoulders hunched as he limped over.
I pressed my lips together. Today’s T-shirt was navy, which somehow brought out the color of his eyes. I thrummed my fingers against the lace tablecloth. They had not skimped on a thing—fine china, wineglasses, a roll set on a separate smaller dish with a slab of butter.
Resigning myself to being stuck here for the next two hours, I could at least try to make the best of it. “So, what do you think everyone else is up to?” After planning this wonderful getaway, that I would in no way be plotting my revenge from.
“Let me activate their personal trackers.” His tone was as dry as his sense of humor, and his mere existence was a challenge to my patience. Would it be wrong to stab him with my knife? To prove he was in fact human and felt emotion? Maybe he was a robot, an offshoot of Bl8z3.
“None of this appears off to you?” I hissed.
“I’ve lived here a long time.” He studied me as he sipped his wine, his gaze shredding my suspenders. I enjoyed how much they bothered him. Let him squirm a little, for once. I would not change one hair on my head to make him more comfortable. He could join the long list of people who judged me because of my weight.
I couldn’t imagine what the staff had been picturing, setting up this “date,” thinking we would get along. “Well, it seems they’ve been watching too many romantic movies.” I pressed my fingers to the petals of the fresh flowers in the middle of the table. The bouquet was gorgeous, a vivid mix of pink and white lilies with red roses, the only color in the room.
Grunt.
Anger licked across my veins. Did he think I wanted this, to be set up with someone who detested me? I was here to do a job, nothing else.
“I can assure you I want to be here even less.” His words snapped my head up, and I slapped my hands over my mouth, realizing I had spoken aloud rather than kept my thoughts to myself. Oliver did not bring out the best in me. I’d barely gotten a few hours of sleep the last few nights, desperate to give Mr. Killington options in the restoration, to prove myself.
The lack of decor and the darkening sky meant there really wasn’t anywhere to look but at the person sitting across from me. The way his lips enveloped his fork with every bite, slowly chewing with determination. My presence probably made his food taste worse.
“Do you normally eat in here?” I cringed as my words broke the silence, heat crawling up my neck, but I couldn’t sit here feeling this uncomfortable. I wasn’t programmed that way.
“In my room.” Oliver’s fork stabbed into a tomato before he bit down, having no problem avoiding my gaze.
“Oh.” The wood of the chair creaked as I continued to shift. The crunch of each piece of lettuce echoed off the windows, frosted with age. I couldn’t help but cringe at every movement of my jaw, never more aware of how much noise I made chewing. I wished I could hide under the table. I didn’t do uncomfortable silences, didn’t do uncomfortable at all.
“How come you’re not eating there, then?” Even shoving food into my mouth could not stop the compulsion to ease this tension, at least temporarily.
Oliver rolled his shoulders, and I winced, realizing how rude my words had sounded.
“Nick asked,” he muttered.
“Ah.”
We had both been tricked. But they clearly cared about him, so I wasn’t sure why they’d thought it would be a good idea to lock us in a room together.
“Maybe when we finish eating, they’ll let us out?” I hypothesized.
They didn’t.
Bl8z3 ignored us, continuing to play what I could only assume was some sort of romantic music playlist. Any dream I’d ever have of being seduced via acoustic piano was dead, buried, forever ruined.
I ended up on the freezing tile floor, sitting cross-legged, as Oliver paced back and forth, checking on every pass to see if the door would magically open this time. The temperature had dropped significantly without the sun to warm the room. I did my best not to tremble, but I hadn’t exactly planned to be trapped in a cold room this evening.
I spun one lily between my fingers, the colors of the bouquet echoing the way I wanted to incorporate a few brighter choices into this room; they’d reflect off the light from the windows. The current design scheme was mostly drab, faded from age and sunlight.
Needing to be productive, I closed my eyes and imagined the sketch of the kitchen I had been working on, placing the appliances in a better configuration, a kitchen island, a breakfast nook with plush seating. The flooring needed to be ripped out and replaced with a nice maple, though oak could work too. Kitchens were always a struggle to modernize—it was hard to restore older kitchens to their original state without asking the owners to cook their food over an open flame.
Something—really someone—nudged my foot, and I exhaled before I slowly slid open my eyes. Oliver towered over me.
“Y-yes?” I tilted my head.
“You’re shivering.”
This was actual torture. “We’re tr-trapped in a not very well insulated room with no heat source, and it’s nighttime. Anything else you would like to point out?”
He pressed his palm to his brow, and I waited for him to start pacing again. I still needed to decide whether the kitchen island should have an additional sink. Instead, he sprawled next to me, back against the stone, which felt warmer than the glass, pressing his body to mine. I jerked, almost whacking him in the eye with my elbow.
He was touching me.
Intentionally.
Oliver didn’t have a sweater or anything else to offer me, but he had body heat. Body heat aplenty, apparently, with the warmth that was seeping into my skin.
And I hated it. Hated that I needed him for something as essential as not freezing to death. I was the person people relied on by my friends and Dad, especially right now. Worse, I was tempted to snuggle even closer, but I held back.
“Th-thank you.”
He grunted, his body stiff as a board, arm rigid as it pressed against mine. Every single moment I spent with him, he seemed to broadcast his distaste for me in any way he could.
“Do I smell or something?”
Oliver was silent for a minute before he snorted. “Or something, Price.” But then he lifted his arm, wrapping it around my shoulders, stuttering over the strap of my suspenders, pulling me against his chest. His palm rubbed up and down my upper arm, creating friction. He wasn’t exactly relaxed, but the tension thrumming through him had lessened fractionally. Then after a moment, he muttered, “It’s been a while.”
It was difficult not to react to his confession, my breath catching. “You have experience being locked in a room with someone you hate?” I eased a little bit more into him; the warmth was intoxicating.
The bark of a laugh he let out rumbled his body into mine, the sound vibrating throughout my chest.
I slid my legs out in front of me, our pants the only thing separating our skin from touching. The candle tapers were noticeably burned down, wax dripping on the floor, the rose petals. My palms were trapped in between my thighs, fingers twitchy. We were cuddling. For survival reasons solely, but it was happening.
“It’s strange seeing you without your tape measure.” His voice was gruff, and I was tempted to peek up at his expression, but I kept my gaze on the door, waiting for something to happen. They couldn’t keep us trapped in here forever. “No pencil here.” His finger didn’t touch my ear, but rather traced the air around it. Were goose bumps possible on ears?
Despite all his running away, I guess he’d noticed me. Well, not me but my tape measure and pencil. The man had a fascination with my accessories; I wasn’t sure what to think about that. “You know I’m not here to make you hide in your own home, right?”
His shoulders lifted, taking my head along for the ride. “I’m staying away, Price, like we agreed.”
It was probably for the best. I didn’t need any distractions, especially not ones that came in the form of the bicep under my cheek right now.
“We could plan our revenge.” I nudged his side with my elbow, squishing slightly.
He huffed, his breath warm against my cheek. “I’ll make dinner.”
I rolled my eyes. Still a privileged asshole. “You’re really cruel, Killington.”
“They didn’t tell you?” His eyebrows shot up.
A giggle erupted out of me. “Okay, explain.”
“Do I have to?” He gave my arm another squeeze, his fingertips soft, the motion causing my head to lean against his shoulder. His scent flooded my senses, a mix of clean and evergreen and something else I couldn’t name but was probably an expensive cologne designed to mess with my pheromones.
Neither of us said a word or shifted away. The room was only growing colder in the evening air, especially since we were sitting on the tile floor, but it was tolerable being with Oliver.
This was it: an olive branch.
But then his grip loosened, still close enough for warmth, but somehow creating a level of separation between us. “I don’t want to bore you.”
“Tell me.” I pulled a knee up, wrapping my arms around my leg.
He shook his head. “Trust me, I’m under no impressions that a gorgeous, smart woman like you would voluntarily eat a meal with me, let alone want to listen to me talk about all the things I’ve failed at.”
What now? I pressed my face into my knee, releasing a few shaky breaths. The situation was getting to both of us. We needed a reminder of why we were here.
“I’ve, uh, been working on my plans. I didn’t know if you wanted any input.” My voice was halting, awkward even to my ears.
“I gave my input.” His gruff tone had returned.
Lovely. Stay out of the west wing. We were back to this, were we? “I thought you might want some say about the changes being made.”
“I don’t have any money, if that’s why you’re being nice to me.” His fingers flexed, now only touching me along my clothes.
I shrugged out of his hold, the chill returning, but I’d rather freeze than let him touch me. “Notice I didn’t ask about money.” My initial impression of him had been spot on; it was silly to think otherwise.
The cords of his neck stood out as he glared at me. “Fine then, consider this to be a job interview.” Disdain dripped from his voice, his arms crossed, biceps bulging. “What made you pick this as a career?”
Fuck you. There was an alarm bell going off in my head, but I ignored it. We were trapped, and he was angry, but what else was new.
“Tell me, what makes you want to work on other people’s homes? Don’t you have one of your own?”
It was as if he was gazing directly into my heart, pressing along the fault line, the very thing that would shake me.
“Why do you have to be such a beast?” I scrambled to stand up, lips pressed together, fists clenched at my side. Turning away from him, I stomped straight for the door, not caring if it was fruitless. I needed to do something with this energy that had suddenly filled me. Our time had to be more than up.
Click.
Without so much as a goodbye, I stalked out. But I wasn’t headed for my room. Despite its size, it was too small for the feelings caged inside me. I began picking up speed as I escaped until I was full-on sprinting.
I ended up in front of a set of double doors on the opposite end of the house. The space was so different from when I had seen it earlier in the week, in the middle of the day, filled with sunlight. My lungs burst from the exertion.
Of course the Killington Estate had a ballroom. It was two stories, with a vaulted ceiling decorated with an Italian fresco. The paint was cracked and faded like everything else in the house. The back wall was lined with windows, observing the outside world, but not a part of it.
The full moon didn’t provide quite enough illumination, and I missed my step, slipped, and landed on my ass, groaning at the ache in my muscles. I lay there, half propped up against a marble pillar, legs sprawled on the dull and scratched floor.
Oliver was right—I didn’t have a home. You couldn’t grow up the way I had and not burn for one. All the hotels, the temporary rooms, surfaces that weren’t mine to decorate or paint. But a home was more than walls. It was the memories those walls contained, the stories they soaked up and remembered long after its people were gone. I could picture the people who’d danced in this very room, but I could never imagine myself being one of them.
This week I’d searched for those spots in the house that made it unique. The markings on doorways showing how the children had grown, a name carved into a baseboard, and paintings on the walls. One room had a burn mark on the ceiling from a magic trick gone wrong.
The moon crept higher in the sky. I was not in any rush to get back despite my nerves over my upcoming meeting.
It took another hour for me to dust myself off, battle down the emotion that wanted to erupt, my eyes no longer filling with tears. This had been a home. It wasn’t lost to the past; it had a future.
Not for him, but for me.