Olivia’s shoulders visibly tensed as Sammy stomped through the apartment and wrested the mop from her hands. “I’ll mop, you pack what you need for the night,” he said, tone curt. “If you keep going at this rate, you’ll pass out on the floor and drown.”
She rolled her eyes. “It was neverthatflooded.”
He simply stared at her.
“Fine, Sir Bossy McBosspants.” Olivia walked toward a pile of folded clothes on the coffee table. “I’ll pack.”
Half an hour later, Sammy had dried the floors as best he could, and Olivia had packed an overnight bag and changed into a T-shirt and leggings.
“Let’s go.” Sammy wiped his hands with a paper towel. “I’ll drive.”
“But I haven’t picked a hotel yet,” she protested.
“It’s past midnight. We don’t have time to go through your spreadsheets and figure out which hotel has a Michelin-starred restaurant or offers designer amenities.”
“A Michelin-starred restaurant isn’t a requirement,” Olivia muttered. She followed him into the hall, turning off the lights and locking the door behind her as she did so.
It wasn’t until they were ensconced in his car that she spoke again. “Where exactly are we going if not a hotel?”
“My house.”
Sammy would have smiled at the sputtering that filled the car if he weren’t so damn annoyed and uneasy. He shouldn’t be taking Olivia to his house. He shouldn’t be taking her anywhere. Yet here he was, playing knight in not-so-shining armor to the woman who’d smashed his heart into smithereens a lifetime ago.
Masochists had nothing on him.
“We are not going to your house,” Olivia said after she got her indignant sputters under control.
“According to the driver—AKA me—we are.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired, you’re tired, and I don’t want you murdered while searching for a shady hotel room in the middle of the night,” Sammy growled. “I don’t have any Michelin stars or a spa, but I have a clean bed and a bathroom. You’re using them. Tomorrow morning, we’ll figure out the mess with your apartment. And don’t tell me you don’t need help—you called me for a reason. So stop arguing and let’s have some peace, quiet, and rest for a few hours, okay?”
Olivia’s jaw unhinged. She blinked slowly, her long, dark lashes sweeping across her cheeks in a shocked flutter.
Sammy turned the ignition and ignored the voice chanting in his head.Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.
His whole night had been plagued with bad ideas. What was one more?
“Okay.” Olivia sounded subdued when she finally answered.
They didn’t speak again until they arrived at Sammy’s house. The two-bedroom, one-bathroom abode wasn’t fancy like Blake and Farrah’s condo in New York or Kris and Nate’s mansion in Beverly Hills, but it was home. Sammy had saved for years before he could afford the down payment, and it was finally all his. That made it the best damn place on the planet, in his opinion.
“This is your room.” He flipped on the light in the guest room, revealing a full-sized bed with a royal blue comforter, a matching blue rug, and a sleek white desk and chair. He always had friends or family staying over when they were in town, so he kept the place well-maintained. “My room’s next door, bathroom is across the hall. Guest towels are the green ones—if you need extra, they’re in the closet next to the bathroom. Feel free to grab anything in the kitchen if you get hungry. And, uh, I guess that’s it.”
Sammy rubbed the back of his neck, aware of how absurd this whole situation was. He and Olivia hadn’t spoken more than a dozen words to each other in eight years, and now she was staying in his house. In the room next to his.
It’s only for the night,he assured himself.
As much bad blood as there was between them, he couldn’t bring himself to turn away from a—well, not friend, exactly, but someone he knew who was in need.
Sammy couldn’t read her expression, but he thought he caught a glint of emotion in Olivia’s eyes before she shifted her gaze and focused on the bookcase next to the desk. He’d stuffed it with books from high school and college that he never read anymore but couldn’t bear to throw out. The collection contained everything from classic fiction likeThe Great Gatsbyto his favorite statistics textbook.
Was it weird that he had a favorite textbook? Probably. But in a world where people hoarded stranger’s toenails and plastered their houses with creepy dolls, it could be worse.
“Thank you.” Olivia tightened her grip on the strap of her duffel bag. “I appreciate it. Really.”
“Sure. Whatever,” Sammy said, embarrassed. “G’night.”
“Good night.”
Spoiler: it wasn’t a good nightormorning. Because as Sammy lay in bed, unable to sleep after hours of tossing and turning, all he could think about was the woman in the room next door.
Fuck.