fork, and continue to eat my meal. He allows this, even though I can tell he’d like to stay on the topic of conversation. He takes my plate once I’ve finished my meal and places it on a nearby tray. I thank him and watch his eyes land on me. My heart rate speeds up when he walks toward me, stopping only a few feet away.
“Are you up for taking a walk?” he asks quietly. Again, he throws me for a loop. He’s asking me to take a walk when he probably should be leading me to the bed and stripping me out of my dress. I mean, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?
I arch a brow in confusion. “You want to take a walk?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice night. I haven’t really gotten to explore the town since we went on our tour.”
I sit there and stare at him for a moment, wondering what’s going on in his head. Why would he lead me out of his hotel room when he has me conveniently here? His behavior doesn’t make sense, but rather than spend any more time trying to decipher what his motives might be, I agree to take a walk with him. We walk together out of the room, and I try not to tense or think too much about how my entire body tingles when he grabs my hand. He leads me onto the empty elevator, and though there’s plenty of room to spread out, he keeps me close. Very close.
A warm breeze blows the hair off my shoulder as we walk out into the clear night. The streets are unusually quiet, and he keeps hold of me as we stroll down the path, heading closer to the riverfront.
“You’ll be happy to know that your mother is getting along nicely. She’s fitting in and seems to be doing a good job. A definite improvement from the previous employee,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.
“Good. She really likes it; she’s happy.” It’s true. I haven't seen her this happy since before my dad died. Back when we didn’t have to worry so much about where the next mortgage payment was coming from. Things were a lot easier then, a lot simpler; it almost seems like a lifetime ago. It makes me sad to think about it now … Memories that should make me feel happy are just bittersweet.
“How’s the hotel coming along?” I ask trying to shake the hint of melancholy that has crept in. He gives my hand a squeeze and looks down at me with the faintest hint of a teasing smile.
“Miss Sims, am I actually supposed to believe that you care about my work?”
“Believe what you want,” I reply with more sass than normal.
“All right, then I believe you do care. Maybe just a little bit.”
Oh God, is he flirting with me? Would Oliver actually know how to flirt? I doubt the word even exists in his vocabulary.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, hoping that he can’t see the unwanted smile on my face.
“Right.” He gives me a gentle bump with his shoulder, and I wish he would stop being so unlike the Oliver I’ve come to know. More importantly, I wish he would stop touching me so maybe my body would stop betraying me every single time.
“Do you want to stop for a drink?” he asks, the cocky grin still on his face.
“I’m not really in a drinking mood.” Because I can barely keep my wits around him when I’m sober. Oliver and alcohol are absolutely not a good combination for me.
“Yeah. Me neither. I’m kind of in a dessert mood, I think.”
Yeah, I wonder what kind of “dessert” he has in mind. Is that his way of telling me he wants to take me back to his room and screw my brains out? I find myself starting to tense up again, while at the same time feeling stupid and mad at myself for buying into his nice act, when he breaks into my inner tirade.
“Riley?”
“What?” I clip, as we come to a stop because he’s come to stand in front of me.
“I asked if you wanted ice cream.”
And now, I feel like a jerk for jumping to conclusions when he actually did just want dessert. I do my best to school my features and to keep the blush of embarrassment from creeping up to my cheeks. Forcing my best
“Are you up for taking a walk?” he asks quietly. Again, he throws me for a loop. He’s asking me to take a walk when he probably should be leading me to the bed and stripping me out of my dress. I mean, that’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?
I arch a brow in confusion. “You want to take a walk?”
“Yeah, it’s a nice night. I haven’t really gotten to explore the town since we went on our tour.”
I sit there and stare at him for a moment, wondering what’s going on in his head. Why would he lead me out of his hotel room when he has me conveniently here? His behavior doesn’t make sense, but rather than spend any more time trying to decipher what his motives might be, I agree to take a walk with him. We walk together out of the room, and I try not to tense or think too much about how my entire body tingles when he grabs my hand. He leads me onto the empty elevator, and though there’s plenty of room to spread out, he keeps me close. Very close.
A warm breeze blows the hair off my shoulder as we walk out into the clear night. The streets are unusually quiet, and he keeps hold of me as we stroll down the path, heading closer to the riverfront.
“You’ll be happy to know that your mother is getting along nicely. She’s fitting in and seems to be doing a good job. A definite improvement from the previous employee,” he says, breaking into my thoughts.
“Good. She really likes it; she’s happy.” It’s true. I haven't seen her this happy since before my dad died. Back when we didn’t have to worry so much about where the next mortgage payment was coming from. Things were a lot easier then, a lot simpler; it almost seems like a lifetime ago. It makes me sad to think about it now … Memories that should make me feel happy are just bittersweet.
“How’s the hotel coming along?” I ask trying to shake the hint of melancholy that has crept in. He gives my hand a squeeze and looks down at me with the faintest hint of a teasing smile.
“Miss Sims, am I actually supposed to believe that you care about my work?”
“Believe what you want,” I reply with more sass than normal.
“All right, then I believe you do care. Maybe just a little bit.”
Oh God, is he flirting with me? Would Oliver actually know how to flirt? I doubt the word even exists in his vocabulary.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, hoping that he can’t see the unwanted smile on my face.
“Right.” He gives me a gentle bump with his shoulder, and I wish he would stop being so unlike the Oliver I’ve come to know. More importantly, I wish he would stop touching me so maybe my body would stop betraying me every single time.
“Do you want to stop for a drink?” he asks, the cocky grin still on his face.
“I’m not really in a drinking mood.” Because I can barely keep my wits around him when I’m sober. Oliver and alcohol are absolutely not a good combination for me.
“Yeah. Me neither. I’m kind of in a dessert mood, I think.”
Yeah, I wonder what kind of “dessert” he has in mind. Is that his way of telling me he wants to take me back to his room and screw my brains out? I find myself starting to tense up again, while at the same time feeling stupid and mad at myself for buying into his nice act, when he breaks into my inner tirade.
“Riley?”
“What?” I clip, as we come to a stop because he’s come to stand in front of me.
“I asked if you wanted ice cream.”
And now, I feel like a jerk for jumping to conclusions when he actually did just want dessert. I do my best to school my features and to keep the blush of embarrassment from creeping up to my cheeks. Forcing my best
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