Chapter Three
Olivia woke to the sound of her phone alarm blaring and the smell of eggs and bacon.
Her stomach rumbled in anticipation even as her eyes remained closed, desperate for a few extra minutes of shuteye.
She hadn’t fallen asleep until two in the morning, and she’d set her alarm for seven-thirty—her landlord had said he’d come by her apartment at nine—which meant she was way behind on her usual eight hours of sleep.
You’ll stay in bed for five more seconds. That’s it.
One...two...three...four...five.
When she hit the mental count of “five,” she threw off the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and turned off her alarm before she could be lulled back into La La Land.
Olivia had learned the mental count strategy from a podcast she’d listened to a few years ago and had been using it since for things she didn’t want to do. The trick was to set a defined period of time (i.e. the count of five) and take action the second you hit the last count so your body didn’t have time to protest. Olivia had done it so many times she’d conditioned herself to react without thinking much about it.
She blinked the sleep from her eyes and took in her surroundings. She’d been so tired she hadn’t taken a good look at Sammy’s guest room last night, but in the light of day, she could fully appreciate the soothing decor. The blues and whites were a balm to her soul, and everything was neat but nottooneat. Plus, the bed felt like a giant cloud—or maybe that was her exhaustion talking.
After Olivia freshened up in the bathroom and changed into street clothes, she padded into the gourmet kitchen. Other than the bedrooms and bathroom, Sammy’s house was open plan, with nothing but a marble counter and three cushioned bar stools separating the kitchen from the dining nook and living room. Instead of the dark colors you typically found in a bachelor pad, Sammy’s house boasted cheerful yellows, whites, and blues. Light streamed through the giant windows in the living room and bathed the furniture in sunshine, while framed prints of food puns decorated an entire wall of the kitchen.
Olivia smirked when she spotted a picture of a smiling lemon and orange duo with the words “Squeeze the day!” printed beneath them. It was so corny and cute at the same time.
The sizzle of oil in a pan drew her gaze away from a dancing radish that proclaimed, “You’re radishing!” and toward the man standing in front of the stove. Shirtless. Barefoot. Cooking.
Her throat went bone-dry.
Hot. Damn.
She hadn’t seen Sammy sans shirt in aloooongtime, and damn if he hadn’t filled out since their college years. Not that his body had been anything to sneeze at back in the day, but—once again for the people in the back—hot. Damn.
Bronzed skin stretched over broad shoulders and a lean, muscular back that rippled with strength. His arms were corded with thick muscles that flexed every time he flipped a piece of bacon or reached across the counter, and his gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, revealing a sliver more skin than was decent.
Olivia wheezed.
Sammy glanced up, his handsome face calm and unreadable, his hair tousled from sleep. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” She slid onto one of the counter stools and tried to keep her eyes above his neck. The last thing she needed was to get caught ogling her ex-boyfriend. She was embarrassed enough, calling him for help yesterday.
“How did you sleep?”
“Pretty good.”
An awkward silence filled the air, punctuated by the continued sizzle in the pan until Sammy shut off the stove.
Olivia remembered the days when they couldn’tstoptalking to each other—about their hopes and dreams, and funny YouTube videos and articles they’d read online, and the merits of pie vs. cake. Anything and everything they could think of. She also remembered the days when they didn’t speak at all—endless hours of silence laden with unspoken accusations and broken promises until those, too, exploded in anger. Then there were the years when they’d been as far apart physically as they were emotionally, separated by time and distance and heartbreak.
Now here they were, eight years later. So different from who they used to be and yet still the same. A little older, hopefully a little wiser, but still holding on to regrets from the past.
“You want breakfast? I made enough for two.” Sammy slid a plate heaped with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast across the counter before Olivia could answer.
Her mouth watered at the sight and smell. He’d made the bacon chewy and tender, the way she liked it. A lot of people preferred it crispy, but she thought crispy bacon tasted like charred smoke.
“I’m always down for abs—eggs!” Olivia corrected herself, her cheeks flaming as she forced herself not to stare at the chiseled six-pack in front of her. “I’m always down foreggs.”
A tiny smile with a hint of smugness hovered on the corners of Sammy’s lips like he was well-aware of her slip-up but was too much of a gentleman to call her out on it—which he was.
Damn him.
Olivia spooned some eggs in her mouth and evaded Sammy’s gaze by examining the kitchen. Sammy was a baker by trade, but he loved cooking as much as baking, and he’d clearly spared no expense in outfitting his favorite room of the house. Sleek, pale wood cabinets lined the walls above gleaming counters that boasted glass containers of flour and sugar, a stand mixer, a state-of-the-art espresso machine, and a three-tier ceramic cake stand. An eight-burner stove and Sub-Zero fridge stood sentry to the right of the sink; a glass-fronted cabinet filled with plates and glasses shone on the left. Copper pots and pans hung from hooks on the ceiling above the wood-topped center island, and a vase of beautiful sunflowers added a touch of homey cheer to what would’ve otherwise been a too-magazine-perfect scene.