Barely even friends, p.11
Barely Even Friends, page 11
“Is it a dead body?” Oliver asked, taking a bite of his own sandwich once he confirmed I was nourishing myself.
“Excuse me?”
“Trying to think of things you would want to show me in particular.”
Honestly, I was tempted to show him something horrifying now. “Listen, if you don’t want to see it …”
“Show me.”
“Really, I don’t have to.” Truce didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy riling him up too.
“Show me,” he growled out.
“Always so grumbly.”
“I may not have been, uh …” Oliver’s nose wrinkled as his shoulders climbed somehow even higher.
“Kind? Welcoming? Offering basic human decency?” I filled in the blanks, as I led him to our destination.
“Well, I’m—”
“An emotionally constipated man confused by the thing thumping in your chest?” I took another bite of my sandwich, hiding my smile.
“Rude.”
“True,” announced Bl8z3, and I snorted. If Bl8z3 agreed, it must be accurate.
Dust clung to every inch of Oliver—his beard, a smudge across his cheek, and those thighs. Every day since the crew had first arrived, Oliver had bolted immediately into helping with the furniture removal and emptying the house. When Ambrose wasn’t nearby to lecture him, of course.
Oliver’s eyes narrowed, but his shoulders had lowered.
I put my hands on the door handles to what had immediately become my favorite room in the estate once I had discovered it, and glanced over my shoulder. “You aren’t appropriately excited about this,” I said, unable to stop myself from bouncing on my toes. “Is this not killing you? The anticipation?”
“Nope.”
“I am withering away in front of you. Take pity on my soul. Fake it if you must.” My toes were wiggling, hidden in my shoes. I needed him to appreciate this.
“Or what?” He met my gaze. He was no longer glaring, but I couldn’t call what was going on with his face a smile either. Neutrality. I could work with it that.
“Or Bl8z3 will ensure you hear my voice everywhere. I’ll haunt you.”
“I am capable of that, Ms. Price, if you would like me to set that up for you,” Bl8z3 offered.
“What happened to loyalty?” Oliver groaned.
The smartest being in the estate, Bl8z3, remained quiet.
“You want to guess?”
“No. I need you to step aside and let me in.” When I didn’t move, he kept going. “Oh, the anticipation is killing me.” He pressed his palm to his forehead as if he were overwhelmed, rolling his eyes at the same time. This mansion was home to the worst theater troupe I had ever seen.
“I will pretend you said that with actual enthusiasm.” I spun on my heel toward the doors.
“I’ll do whatever you want.” Oliver’s breath was warm against my ear.
A shiver built up my spine, picturing Oliver leaning in the rest of the way, pressing my body against the door. The anticipation getting to me. “Now I’m scared I’m going to disappoint you.”
“You could never disappoint me.”
Everything in me clenched for a minute, my knuckles squeezing. I pushed open the double doors in a sweeping gesture, because how could I not? I loved the effect.
Despite not owning a single physical book, I was a sucker for a library—and this estate had the most glorious home for tomes I’d ever seen. And this was before I’d gotten my hands on it.
More than wall-to-wall books, it was floor-to-ceiling, with bookcases wrapped around the curved walls. A spiral staircase led up to the second floor, where there were—ready for it?—more books.
Boxes covered the hardwood. It was taking a while to pack them all up—I was taking great care with each book, using tissue paper and housing them in a controlled climate. Construction had begun in other areas of the house, but I refused to allow the most beautiful collection of first editions I’d ever seen to be tossed into boxes. They deserved special care.
Even the shelves had me weak in the knees. Handcrafted built-ins with intricate detailing. Large, overstuffed chairs had been placed in small reading pockets and were the first to be carried out to the trucks. The Tiffany lamps, for when the overhead chandelier was too much, went after that.
It was a room built for knowledge, thought, quiet contemplation, and a care for the preservation of all these ideas.
“This is a book paradise. Do you smell that?” I took a big whiff.
“Dust?” He took a huff of his own, face screwing up as he let out a hacking cough.
“Yes, but also the pages, history, stories, escape, a world of adventure. And an epic romance section.” It was a joy to see so many of the books I only owned digitally. The crisp pages, the stepbacks—the touch of a physical book was a unique sensation an e-reader could never recreate.
I was giddy and couldn’t hide it.
“To be clear, you wanted to show me my library. You don’t think I’ve seen it before?”
“You are impossible.” I lightly punched his arm before yanking on it, ensuring he followed me; his short-sleeved T-shirt meant I was touching his skin. “No, I came across something when I was packing.”
I had discovered books on the history of the estate throughout the years—they were going to be endlessly informative on how to restore it accurately. Even with the black and white photos, I could figure out the colors somewhat, based on the shading. There was info on the art, the placement of various pieces. But that wasn’t what I wanted to show him.
I sat on the floor by the box I hadn’t yet finished loading, grabbing the book that was on top. Leather bound. They didn’t make notebooks like this anymore.
I waited another breath before handing it to him.
His brows knit together as I buried my face in my hands.
He slowly opened the book, staring at each page, fingers caressing, tracing the letters.
The longer it took for him to say something, the more I struggled to sit still. Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe this wouldn’t be a happy memento for him, but another piece of his broken heart I was reminding him of. Just because books were something that brought me comfort, that didn’t mean the memories associated with this book were good for him.
Every moment of silence became excruciatingly worse, my palms sweating, fingers wiggling. Until I couldn’t take it any longer.
I threw myself at him, grabbing for the book. “Well, I should get back to it. Thanks for the lunch break.”
His focus had been on the softcover, not me, and down we went, me falling on top of him, flat on the wooden floors. The notebook landed somewhere next to us, and Oliver’s hands clasped my hips as he huffed out a breath. We were much closer than I had calculated.
Every move I made to escape just made things worse, as I was unable to get my feet firmly on the ground. I was starfishing the man. My face heated in embarrassment.
“Just”—Oliver grunted as I elbowed him in the gut—“stay still for a minute. What are you doing?”
“Examining the floors,” I leveled. “You got in my way.”
Then he—wow—he chuckled, and it might have been my new favorite sound. I mean, it was pleasant and fine, a thing people did. But his laugh reverberated from his body to mine, and I wanted it to happen again. To be the one to make it happen again.
Oliver’s lips were at my ear, voice low, as if sharing a secret meant solely for me. “My mom loved that thing, insisted we fill it out every time we grabbed a book off the shelves.”
The moment he mentioned his mother, I stopped squirming, my face buried in his neck, realizing the rapid beat of his pulse was for a different reason. The notebook was a ledger keeping track of all the books loaned out of the library. Over a hundred years of entries. I’d flipped through the pages until I landed on Oliver’s childish handwriting tracking books for him and his sisters.
“If you couldn’t find her, she was here, lost in a book. My dad used to joke she married him for his library.”
I couldn’t blame her. This place was magnificent—if the ceiling didn’t cave in on you while you were reading. But the risk was worth it.
“Thank you, Petal. That was something I never wanted to lose.”
His hands glided from my hips to my lower back until I realized what he was doing. Hugging me.
He started to pull away, but I pushed my arms through his, tugging on his biceps, giving a form of a hug in our position, holding on. “You’re welcome.” Don’t let go. His arms wrapped around me, strong, comforting, holding me in a way I knew meant he wouldn’t let anything hurt me.
We lay there for a moment. My eyes closed, pressed to the space where his neck met the beginnings of his messy beard, and it made me smile, the hair brushing my forehead. I didn’t even mind the sweaty scent we both had from another long day of work, as the days had begun to grow warmer.
“You want to go ride on those ladders, don’t you?” he asked, releasing me slowly. I was reluctant to let him go but wouldn’t push whatever this strange moment was.
With his help, we made it off the ground, neither of us able to meet the other’s gaze. I left him to his book because I did, in fact, want to take a ride on the ladders. Every dream I’d ever had of a home always involved a library that required ladders to access all the books. It was easy to dream of impossible things when you wouldn’t ever have them.
Pulling myself up, I shoved off with my foot, trying to read the spines as I slid by, enjoying the atmosphere more than anything. This was better than a bookstore; I could make my home in this very room.
I savored the ride, the way my hair lifted off my neck, not even attempting to hold the giggle in. It was a rush. I could sense his eyes on me, but I waited until the ladder stopped, before I glanced back at Oliver.
Because of the beard, the book, and his normal stoicism, I couldn’t judge his mood. But I was learning. “So, what’s the verdict?”
His gaze drifted down to the book in his hands. “I hadn’t let myself think of the positive memories for a long time. Mostly it was work not to think of the bad ones. I couldn’t let anything else in. But this—” He hugged the ledger to his chest, over his heart. “This is an excellent memory. Thank you.” His eyes glowed with emotion.
It was overwhelming to have his focus on me like this. The weight of it, the intensity, was too much. I stared at my feet. “You’re welcome.”
Every time I thought about the preceding eight years, him alone in this house, it hurt my soul. A man haunted by the past, stuck in it. And maybe furious with the world for moving on without him.
“This is my favorite room in the house,” I said.
His focus was still on me. “Mine too.”
“I’m glad.”
“Why?” Suspicion and interest mixed on his face.
“Because no matter how angry you pretend I make you, it’s more proof that we like and value the same things.”
He growled at the back of his throat as he sprung, the weight of his body propelling us until my spine pressed against the closest bookcase, his hands on either side of my shoulders, holding onto the wooden shelf.
“I am angry—you’re right.”
His chest was heaving as he ducked, bringing us almost to the same height. It was thrilling being this close to him, feeling the heat from his body, the temptation to touch him.
“My grandfather and his strong-arming us makes me angry.”
I couldn’t say a word, fascinated by this burst of emotion as he gazed at my lips. Conflicted, frustrated, and burning with something that my body felt too, I rubbed my thighs together in an effort to relieve whatever was building low in my stomach.
“But that’s not what’s driving me to distraction. I’m angry that you wear these stupid suspenders. I’m angry that you’re in every room, invading this house. And I’m furious at how much I think about kissing you.”
I was a bone-melting, knee-wobbling jumble of He said what now? with so much relief that it wasn’t only me experiencing these feelings. “Would it help if I told you your beard makes me angry?”
I scratched against the edge of his jaw. Despite its wild appearance, the hair itself was soft, as if to encourage my fingers to make their new home there.
“No.” His voice was strained. “I don’t think that helps at all.”
“Then maybe you should, uh”—I licked my lips, my gaze stuck on his—“kiss me.” A shiver broke out across my skin, and I couldn’t pretend it was from a breeze. Everything I was experiencing was due to my proximity to this man.
“That will make it better?”
This was a dangerous game. The project was in its early days, and he could return to being an ass tomorrow. Maybe his grandfather would even fire me if he found out? Kissing Oliver could ruin everything I had been working for. I never wanted anyone to say that I had gotten this job and succeeded at it because I was screwing the owner’s grandson. But it was getting harder and harder to remember the reasons not to as every deep rumble of his voice struck something in my chest, my breasts heaving as if I had run a mile instead of being frozen in his gaze. “Can’t make it worse, can it?” I asked. Just one kiss wouldn’t hurt anyone, right?
He leaned close enough that we were breathing each other in, the scruff of his beard brushing against my face. “Fucking suspenders,” he muttered before closing the distance.
If this was him angry, I’d encourage it with everything I had. Because he didn’t just kiss me, he owned me.
Sucking on my lower lip, he bit down for a moment, and I moaned. When he released, my tongue smoothed across my tender skin. But he took that as an opportunity to suck on my tongue, drawing it into his mouth. Kissing him felt like an illicit activity.
His hands remained on the wood, which groaned under the pressure of his fists. I had no such control. I scratched my fingernails against his chest, moving down to his stomach to grab his belt and draw his hips closer to mine, our fronts almost touching. If this was my one chance, I was going to take advantage. Let every single inhibition go. He had dug himself under my skin; his attempts to keep the world at more than arm’s length only made me desire to get closer. No one had ever been consistently worried if I was eating enough, getting enough rest, staying hydrated while working on a project.
He brushed his lips against my jaw, down my neck, licking along the V of my shirt. Only his mouth touched me, but it was more than enough to light me on fire, my hips seeking his. It all made me dizzy with something that I could finally admit to myself was desire.
He allowed the single point of contact, as we learned each other, until his lips slowed, the creaking sound by my ears getting worse.
He breathed against me for a moment before pulling back, his gaze raking over me. I didn’t need a mirror to know I had been wrecked by his mouth, teeth, and that tongue.
Not that he had fared any better, hair tie long gone, hair down to his shoulders, lips puffy. What were he and this house doing to me?
“We have to stop.” Jaw clenched, his focus lowered to where my fingers were buried in his T-shirt. “I’m not a good man.” Slowly I released my grip, palm pressed to my lips, as if to preserve what had just happened. “You should run in the opposite direction.”
I was desperate to touch him again, for our bodies to be pressed together. “Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”
“Trust me.” His voice was a rasp. “You deserve so much better.”
My eyes closed as he brushed a last kiss against my forehead. A goodbye before we’d barely even started.
The moment had woken me up, offered me a bite of the apple, and then it had been plucked away. I had never felt more like Charlie Brown in my life, and I wanted that football.
Before I could respond, he snatched up the notebook and left the room, leaving me a quivering mess against the bookshelf. Kissing Oliver had not been on today’s to-do list and would never be on the agenda in the future—not with how easily he was able to walk away.
For the first time I was left wondering if it was really worth it to restore this crumbling wreck or if it wouldn’t be better to tear it all down.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
123 Days Until the Deadline
“I want to talk to you about the roof. Can you come outside with me?” Jeff asked with a face that promised it would not be a cheerful conversation. But maybe he wanted to tell me it was in better shape than it appeared. A girl could dream.
The project had been going smoothly, too good to be true. We’d emptied the house of every belonging except in the rooms where Oliver and I were sleeping. But with houses this old, it was impossible to predict everything. We were on deadline, meticulously checking off my list on schedule, but only just. The ridiculous budget helped, as did our continued dropping of the Killington name.
We stood at the west side of the mansion, the stables in our line of sight, as Jeff pointed out the obvious structural issues. Spoiler alert: old roofs warped and changed with age and weather, which was why they had to be replaced periodically. But in this case, I’d allowed myself to hope appearances were deceiving.
“It’s bad.” Jeff crossed his arms, still staring up as if the roof would give us divine answers, maybe magically repair itself. The biggest problem wasn’t the roof; replacing it would be relatively simple, and I had built it into the schedule. It was the rotten boards and black mold that had resulted from the water damage.
“Tell me there’s some sort of good news?” My tone was more hopeful than I felt, but I allowed myself one more moment of false belief. There had to be a but at the end of that sentence. Structural issues, mold—neither would help my timeline.
“No. It is that bad.” Jeff shook his head, meeting my gaze. Fuck. “It’s the worst roof I’ve seen that’s on a building not made of wood shingles.”
Double fuck. “No kinder way to break that news to me?” I was struggling to do the math on how to handle this without going beyond my deadline.
“That was the nice way. We haven’t gotten to the structural and water damage the roof caused. When do you think it was last updated? I mean, it can’t be the original roof, but it’s at least fifty years old. Honestly, I’m amazed this place is still standing.” This phrase was repeated daily—a few of the crew members had made a drinking game out of it.
