A shrug. “Not as you describe. ‘Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow.’”
“Tolstoy.”
If I wasn’t so attuned to his every facial expression, I might have missed the slight widening of his eyes. I’ve surprised him.
“Yes,” he says.
“You’re saying you’ve never loved.” I have to clarify.
“Is that so shocking?”
“Yes.”
His brows dip, the movement small enough to be nearly imperceptible. “Why?”
“Well, you’re not exactly a fluffy bunny, but you’re not quite Satan, either.”
His mouth twitches.
My heart leaps. Did he almost smile?
His head turns away.
I must have imagined it. Heat spreads up my face. I called him the devil to his face. “I’m sorry. That was rude.”
“I don’t know. ‘Not quite Satan’ is one of the kindest descriptions I’ve heard in a while.”
I laugh. His head swivels toward me, an expression flashing in his face that can only be described as yearning, but it’s gone before it can take root. My breath catches in my throat. It’s a heady feeling, being the object of Oliver’s intense focus. I wonder what it would be like to have all that concentration directed at me in bed.
My whole body heats. I haven’t felt lust in a long time, but around Oliver, it’s almost intrinsic. Which is why he would make the perfect rebound.
“The offer of personal security still stands.”
I blink at the abrupt change in subject. “No. Thanks.”
He frowns. “Are you sure? If Ben is here, following you, it could be an indication his behavior will escalate.”
I fold my arms over the growing ache spreading in my chest. “I know. I’ll be fine. My family has coddled me enough over the past months. I don’t need anyone to watch over me. I can’t let him dictate my life anymore.”
It’s even more than that, though. It’s about retaining control over my own life, over anything, after living so long under Ben’s thumb. I have to move on. I have to be able to take care of myself. I can’t let him pull the strings on my every decision. I can’t live my life in fear. Not anymore. Besides, Ben’s MO is emotional abuse. He never got physical.
Oliver doesn’t argue or try to convince me I’m wrong just to make a point. He nods. “I understand.”
My shoulders relax, my arms dropping to my sides. He can’t know how those two simple words, so easily uttered, loosen the ball of tension pressing against my ribs. For so long, I’ve been struggling for autonomy—for the simple ability to make choices about my own life without constant stress and anxiety.
“Thank you. I like you.” The words fall out of my mouth. I wish I could pluck them out of the air and swallow them before they reach his ears, but it’s too late.
His eyes widen, his mouth popping open slightly. The full-body flush condenses and then converges in my face. Why? Why do I do these things to myself?
His hand lifts. Slowly, the back of his fingers grazing my cheek while he stares at me like he’s never seen me before. His gaze dips to my mouth.
My heart riots in my chest. Is he going to kiss me?
I tip forward, unable to stop, slanting in his direction like a flower absorbing the rays of the sun. He steps back, a rush of cool air moving between us. I just stop myself from continuing the forward momentum and manage to sway back without falling over.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. Embarrassment pours over my head, dousing me in heat. “Is it because of Emma?”
I had to ask. I need to know.
He frowns at me, then his voice fills the space between us, cold and impersonal as ever. “It’s late. I’ll have Brienne take you home.”