heard from you. I haven’t seen you, and then when I finally do, some guy is talking about you giving him a blow job?” He doesn’t sound upset, just confused and maybe a little hurt, I think, which is ridiculous and impossible—because this is Oliver we’re talking about.
“And?”
“And I miss you.”
My heart trips a little at his admission and the way he says it, all smooth and low. Then I remember Wyatt and his “I miss you’s,” which weren’t said often, only when he was away on one of his many trips, and only after it’d been a couple of days since we’d spoken. I never questioned him or what he was doing. I never wondered if he’d been with another woman, and even the times Mia planted that seed in my head, nothing grew from it, because for some reason, I didn’t care. I always wondered if there was something wrong with me for not caring.
“You don’t miss me, Oliver. Besides, aren’t you dating someone?” I remind him with a glare.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a thing, I wouldn’t call it dating.”
“Just fucking,” I say, sounding more bitter than I intended. “Not that I care,” I add quickly. Oliver smirks, and I feel my face growing hot. “I have shit to do,” I say, finally coming to my senses and stepping forward, but he doesn’t move away from the door.
“Are you having fun with him?” he asks, nodding his head toward the outside. Having fun with him. It’s funny how I can straight-out ask him if he’s fucking somebody, but when he asks me, he uses the term having fun. It reminds me of when we were teenagers, and Mia’s mom would call her boyfriends her little friends. “Or is it the guy with the long hair that you like? I know you have a thing for that.”
I take a step back. I do have a thing for guys with long hair, probably because of him. I should hate guys with long hair because of him. I should, but of course, I don’t. Oliver’s hair isn’t long anymore, but it’s still long enough to run your hands through and tug on if his head is between your legs. He has a sandy brown scruff going on over his jaw that isn’t just a five o’clock shadow anymore. It would probably feel delicious against the inside of my thighs.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, the huskiness in his voice snapping me out of my fantasy.
“Huh?”
He takes a step forward so he’s right in front of me, my eyes at the level of the Dr. Hart ID on the pocket of his left pec.
“Elle. Look at me,” he says. A slow, curling desire winds its way around my belly. I have two options: push past him and leave, or look into his eyes and acknowledge the desire that heats the air between us like a blowtorch. I choose the latter because I’m a moron, and because clearly, I like to have my heart shredded repeatedly. “You want me. After all this time, you still want me.”
“I don’t have time for this right now. They’re waiting for me,” I whisper, trying to pull away from the electrical current that is his gaze.
“One date, Elle. One date. I’m keeping my word and not touching you, I promise.”
“You’re already fucking someone. Do you really need another?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “For your information, I’m not. Do you really think this is about fucking you?”
I don’t know, I want to say. History tends to repeat itself, but I hold my tongue on that part.
“I don’t know what it’s about,” I respond, dragging my eyes away. I feel like I’m suffocating in this tiny space with him. I try to brush past, but he grabs my arm.
“One date.”
I close my eyes and shake my head, regretting it when I feel tears start to prick them. “I’m not ready.”
He drops his hand, looking pained. He’ll live; he always finds things to fill his time with. As I open the door, I look at him over my shoulder.
“By the way, Dallas, the blow job guy, is gay. Micah, the guy with the hair, was one of Wyatt’s best friends, and he is so not my
“And?”
“And I miss you.”
My heart trips a little at his admission and the way he says it, all smooth and low. Then I remember Wyatt and his “I miss you’s,” which weren’t said often, only when he was away on one of his many trips, and only after it’d been a couple of days since we’d spoken. I never questioned him or what he was doing. I never wondered if he’d been with another woman, and even the times Mia planted that seed in my head, nothing grew from it, because for some reason, I didn’t care. I always wondered if there was something wrong with me for not caring.
“You don’t miss me, Oliver. Besides, aren’t you dating someone?” I remind him with a glare.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s just a thing, I wouldn’t call it dating.”
“Just fucking,” I say, sounding more bitter than I intended. “Not that I care,” I add quickly. Oliver smirks, and I feel my face growing hot. “I have shit to do,” I say, finally coming to my senses and stepping forward, but he doesn’t move away from the door.
“Are you having fun with him?” he asks, nodding his head toward the outside. Having fun with him. It’s funny how I can straight-out ask him if he’s fucking somebody, but when he asks me, he uses the term having fun. It reminds me of when we were teenagers, and Mia’s mom would call her boyfriends her little friends. “Or is it the guy with the long hair that you like? I know you have a thing for that.”
I take a step back. I do have a thing for guys with long hair, probably because of him. I should hate guys with long hair because of him. I should, but of course, I don’t. Oliver’s hair isn’t long anymore, but it’s still long enough to run your hands through and tug on if his head is between your legs. He has a sandy brown scruff going on over his jaw that isn’t just a five o’clock shadow anymore. It would probably feel delicious against the inside of my thighs.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, the huskiness in his voice snapping me out of my fantasy.
“Huh?”
He takes a step forward so he’s right in front of me, my eyes at the level of the Dr. Hart ID on the pocket of his left pec.
“Elle. Look at me,” he says. A slow, curling desire winds its way around my belly. I have two options: push past him and leave, or look into his eyes and acknowledge the desire that heats the air between us like a blowtorch. I choose the latter because I’m a moron, and because clearly, I like to have my heart shredded repeatedly. “You want me. After all this time, you still want me.”
“I don’t have time for this right now. They’re waiting for me,” I whisper, trying to pull away from the electrical current that is his gaze.
“One date, Elle. One date. I’m keeping my word and not touching you, I promise.”
“You’re already fucking someone. Do you really need another?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “For your information, I’m not. Do you really think this is about fucking you?”
I don’t know, I want to say. History tends to repeat itself, but I hold my tongue on that part.
“I don’t know what it’s about,” I respond, dragging my eyes away. I feel like I’m suffocating in this tiny space with him. I try to brush past, but he grabs my arm.
“One date.”
I close my eyes and shake my head, regretting it when I feel tears start to prick them. “I’m not ready.”
He drops his hand, looking pained. He’ll live; he always finds things to fill his time with. As I open the door, I look at him over my shoulder.
“By the way, Dallas, the blow job guy, is gay. Micah, the guy with the hair, was one of Wyatt’s best friends, and he is so not my
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