Instead of leaving, Bud mutters a goodbye to Oliver and walks back down the bar. I hate him a little bit for that, unable to fathom sitting and talking with Oliver, only to abandon him and go looking for someone else the moment he turns away. Oliver doesn’t seem to notice at all, humming and leaning into me like suddenly his knees are made of pudding.
“How are the chimkins?” he asks. “Chicklens. Chickens. I think I had one too many drinks.”
I think he actually had four or five too many, but I’m not about to split hairs. Pulling him along while he’s clinging to my hip like a barnacle, I push open the exit. I can only imagine what sort of talk is going to be circulating around Siren’s Point tomorrow. Everyone with a tongue is going to be wagging it. Glancing at Oliver—wavy hair slightly disarrayed, the tip of his ear pink with cold—I wonder if maybe being the topic of gossip won’t be so bad this time around.
When we get to my truck, I open the passenger door and wait for him to climb inside. He’s moving fine on his own. I think with enough water and pain medication before a good night of rest, he hopefully won’t be too hungover tomorrow. At least he’s not throwing up.
Oliver hums and taps his fingers on his knees as I drive. The radio is on, but not the song he’s singing to, so I turn it down a little bit. A couple of miles down the road, he stops hummingand switches to talking.
“What do you think of the Beatles? I’m not really a fan, to be honest. Some songs are good, but it’s not like I crave their music, you know? The Beach Boys are more my jam. Also, Santana.”
Smiling, I click on the blinker, turning onto our road.
“I think I might have drunk too much at the bar,” he says, switching topics and having a moment of apparent clarity. I nod. “But Bryce came on for their shift, and Ryan went into the back to do other stuff, and Bud started ordering me drinks, which was really nice of him.”
I just bet he did. Taking a deep breath, I glance over at Oliver, still tapping his fingers on his thighs. He doesn’t seem to be in any distress and hasn’t mentioned not feeling good. Maybe he’s not as much of a lightweight as Ryan feared. Either way, I wishBuddingtonhad let him stop and not continued pouring alcohol down his throat.
“That’s where I live,” he adds, pointing a finger out the passenger window as I pass his house. Leave it to Oliver to do the impossible and manage to be cute while plastered.
“We’re go-go-going to mine,” I tell him. He hums, a happy, warm little sound, like honey in a cup of tea or sunlight streaming through a window. I turn the radio all the way off.
When we get to my place, Oliver leaves the truck and heads toward the front door like he lives here. We get all the way upstairs to his room—the guest room, that is—before I remember my other houseguests. Oliver, sitting down on the bed with an audible sigh that sounds like relief, rubs his palmover the bedspread. It takes him a moment, but then he perks up, cocking his head to the side in an almost doglike manner.
“Are there chickens in my bathroom?”
“Come look,” I offer, pushing open the door and walking in. It’s warmer in here than the rest of the house, thanks to the heat lamps. Beside me, Oliver gasps. Peering down at the little fluff balls, he looks delighted. I’m not surprised. Baby chickens are adorable.
Partially questioning the sanity of handing a fragile thing to a drunk person, I scoop up the black-and-white one, holding it in my palm. Oliver moves closer, arm pressed against mine, making me wish it wasn’t winter and our skin wasn’t covered.
“Two fingers. Like this,” he says, repeating the exact words I used when showing him how to pet the chickens in the coop. This close, I can smell the bar on him—smoke and drink and too many people wearing too many different types of fragrance. When he was here during the snowstorm, he smelled like flowers.
“Where did you get them from? Did they hatch from an egg?” Hearing the slightly ridiculous nature of that question, he amends it to, “Did they hatch from one ofyoureggs?”
“Dumped at the vet.”
His mouth curls downward into a frown. Shifting, I place the chick in his hand, watching as he carefully curls his fingers around it. The bird cheeps at him, beak opening like she expects him to regurgitate food into her mouth.
“Can we name them?” I nod. “Are they all girls? Is it safe for them to be away from their mom? They seem awfully smalland helpless.”
Not wanting to keep it away from the heat lamps too long, I take the chick back and put it with the others. In a perfect world, they wouldn’t be separated from their mom this early, but as long as I take care of them, it’ll be safe enough. I don’t have the energy to try and explain all that to him, though, so I just answer the first question and leave it at that.
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He hums, swaying slightly as he bends over the bathtub to look at them again. I grasp his elbow, not wanting him to face-plant into the bedding. He needs to drink some water, take some meds, shower, and go to bed.
“Shower?” I offer.
“Yes, please. And more of your clothes.” I snort, which makes him smile at me, eyes crinkled and dimples on display.
When we step into my bathroom, he runs a palm along the counter and looks around. Reaching into the shower, he plucks out my shampoo bottle and opens the cap. Sniffing, he peeks at me through his lashes.
“Now I’ll smell like you,” he tells me, which is sexier than it has any right being.
My fingers tingle like my arm was asleep as I leave a folded pile of clothes on the vanity for him. Shutting the door on my way out, I lean against it for a moment, trying very hard not to think about Oliver naked, wet, and smelling like me.
Chapter Ten
OLIVER
