Total pages in book: 31
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 151(@200wpm)___ 121(@250wpm)___ 101(@300wpm)
Something changed in Portland, and it wasn’t just me.
The elevator chimes at the ground floor, doors sliding open to let us out. Oliver falls into step beside me, and his silence is so loud it drowns out my heels on the marble.
I have only a few minutes left with him.
I’m not wasting them on silence.
The second we round the corner, I stop, plant my hands on my hips, and glare at him, days of hurt and confusion boiling over. “What is wrong with you?”
His steps falter. Slowly, he turns to face me, one hand dragging through his hair as if he’s the one with reason to be agitated. “Nothing.”
I bite my lip and breathe through the sting building behind my eyes. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a liar.”
He shakes his head. “If you wanted to argue, you should’ve started it when we had more time.”
I scoff. “When? At breakfast? Dinner? Should I have barged into your office and interrupted your work to ask why you went cold on me? You haven’t been yourself since we got back. Did I do something to upset you?”
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off, lets out a breath, and starts down the hall.
“Oliver!” I call after him. “Will you just talk to me?”
“There’s nothing to say. Our time is up.”
The words land like a slap, and the ache I’ve carried for days turns to lead.
“Well, I guess we shouldn’t keep Hugo waiting, then.” I pick up my pace and blow past him, the library door in my sight, the threshold into a new month acting as my safety net.
I hate leaving things unresolved, and yet it won’t be the first time I’ve been pushed into the next house with my questions unanswered and the coming days unknown, forced to walk in behind a show of bravado.
Now is no different.
I’m blinking back my frustration when he grabs my wrist, whirls me around, and yanks me close.
The air goes still.
“This is what’s wrong,” he says, right before he kisses me.
It’s the kind of kiss one doesn’t just fall into. No, it’s the kind that builds up, then tears free like a repressed thought. Oliver shoves me against the wall, and his lips devour mine, both hands tangled in my hair.
And he whimpers.
Not a moan or a growl—the sound he makes borders on painful.
Then, as fast as he grabbed me, he pulls away.
I tug him back by his tie. “Why did you kiss me…like that? Why now?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “I couldn’t let you go without you knowing…” He holds me by the nape, jaw clenched, as if he’s stopping himself from doing it again. “This is how I feel about you, and it’s driving me mad. One night a year will never be enough.”
I swallow hard at his confession, heat fluttering low in my belly. I tell myself it’s only my body acting up from weeks of delayed gratification and the humiliating fact that I can’t get myself off without a man watching.
It has nothing to do with all the things he made me feel this month, especially bound and edged for hours in his locked room.
Deep down, I know better.
“What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Nothing.” He lets me go. “I’ve been a dick, and it’s not fair to you. I apologize.”
He shoves off the wall, dark hair falling into his eyes as he nods toward the library. “You need to go in.”
Then he’s gone, his long strides carrying him down the corridor, leaving me staring after him with his confession still ringing in my ears.
Trying to gather my composure, I rake my fingers through my hair, coaxing the locks back into place. My exterior is the easy part, but whatever he cracked open inside me…
That’s more difficult to smooth down. Squaring my shoulders, I grip the door handle and ease it open.
But Hugo isn’t waiting for me.
Liam is.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s not the first time I’ve walked into this room and found someone unexpected.
Liam turns from the window, his devastating smile brighter than the rare winter sun that catches the copper of his hair. He gestures to the small table beside him, where a chess game awaits like an argument we never finished.
“Are you up for a match?” He pulls out a chair before I can speak, as if the answer to his invitation is a foregone conclusion.
I glance around the room, brows pulling together. “Where’s Hugo?”
“Mr. Alexander allowed me some time with you this afternoon.” A half smirk plays on his lips—an expression so foreign it makes me do a double take. “Lucky for me,” he says, fingers pressing into the chair he’s holding for me, “he’s not nearly as possessive as the rest of us.”
Us.
Plural.
It’s a small concession but completely true. As I make my way to the table, I recall the last time I saw him.