ChapterTwenty-Two
Oliver
I glance at the clock for the thirtieth time in as many minutes. It’s nearly six. Stirring the simmering sauce on the stove, I force myself to take a deep breath, hold it, and then let it out slowly. Anticipation riots in my pulse, and nerves buzz in my chest.
It’s been a long time since I’ve cooked, though my current effort is hardly difficult since I had my chef prep all the necessary ingredients. Once I could afford someone to cook all my meals, I delegated the task. It was what made the most sense, saving me time, but it was also a symbol, a stepping stone to propel me that much farther from my past, moving me beyond a time when I was a feral child who had to scavenge for meals.
I ram those memories into a box that’s shoved into a dark corner of my mind. I can’t think of that now. Tonight has to be perfect.
I tug at the sleeve of my shirt. I’m not used to being dressed casually unless I’m going to sleep or something. My suit has become like a uniform, but more than that, it’s like armor or a costume. It’s what I put on to remind myself of who I’ve become and who I will never be again.
I found my current outfit tucked into a drawer in the recesses of my closet: jeans and a dark long-sleeved Henley, thin and soft. She wanted me in jeans. I hope she likes it.
I check the clock again. A minute hasn’t even gone by since I last looked. Sighing, I pick up my phone and scroll through emails to distract myself.
I archive a few messages from Carson that outline issues with a property deal. He briefed me before he left today. His work was impeccable as always, but his normal enthusiasm was muted, and then he left early. He never leaves early.
The phone rings, vibrating in my hand. Brienne. I told the staff to keep me apprised of Piper’s movements while she worked today in her studio. I answer immediately.
“Miss Fox is on her way up in the elevator.”
“Thank you. That should be all for the night. Please make sure there are no interruptions,” I say.
“Yes, sir.”
The urge to stand by the elevator doors, tapping a foot in impatience is nearly overwhelming, but I manage to restrain myself, staying at the stove, stirring the sauce so it doesn’t burn.
The elevator dings, and I call, “In here!”
There’s a pause, and then her heels click in the tiled entry, the beat echoing in time with my accelerating pulse. Her gaze behind me is a palpable brush on the side of my face.
“It smells amazing,” she says.
I turn. She’s wearing a dress, a bright, frilly thing, all whites and yellows in a floral pattern. The hem flirts with her knees. A black bag, larger than a purse but smaller than a backpack, is slung over her shoulder.
“You look—” Words fail me. She’s utterly perfect.
She approaches me slowly, as if I might spook, stopping for a second to slide the bag from her shoulder and set it on the counter. When she reaches me, her eyes dip down my frame and then take their time back up. “You look as good as I thought you would in jeans.”
I stare at her. She means it.
She grins at me. “I dressed up, and you dressed down.”
I still can’t speak. Her smile dips a little. I feel like I’m being rude, but I can’t help it. I’m too amazed that she’s here. That she came. That she wore a dress for me. I want to touch her again so badly it’s almost painful.
She steps closer, her perfume tickling my nose. “Will that keep for a bit?” She tilts her head toward the stove.
I reach over, turn the burner down to the lowest setting, and then find my voice. “The longer it simmers, the better the flavors are. Did you need to do something before dinner?”
Her hands run up my forearms, sliding along the fabric. They slow down over my biceps and squeeze a little before settling on my shoulders. Tingles rush through me everywhere she touches.
What is she doing? Whatever it is, I don’t want her to stop.
“There is something I need to do.” Her voice is hushed. Her hands draw me closer and closer. “Something very important.” And then her mouth is on mine. Soft, sweet, insistent, and overwhelming.
My mind, normally racing at a thousand miles a second, jumping from one to-do item to another, goes opaque. Only one thought consumes every fiber of my being: Piper.
Her lips. Her tongue brushing mine. Her hands moving from my shoulders to my neck. Her scent filling my lungs. The smoothness of her dress when I run my hands down her spine.