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I know Oliver isn’t perfect. He’s grouchy and unpleasant without his morning coffee. He’s prone to glaring, growling, and snarling. But underneath all that, he has a soft heart, a sense of justice, a kindness he tries to hide, but isn’t entirely able to. He occasionally has a protective streak I’ve glimpsed. I’ve seen it in the way he treats Elise, making sure to ask after her every day, in the way he treated me today.
He’s an enigma, a puzzle I can’t solve.
I return the photograph to the dresser, then, without a second thought, I turn it face-down, not wanting to see the face of the woman who had ripped Oliver’s heart to tatters
It seems Oliver isn’t the only one with a protective streak.
* * *
“I could have taken a cab,” I say through a yawn to the man next to me. He’s focused on the road, his hands on the steering wheel.
He avoids my statement. “Have you had breakfast?”
I shoot him a venomous look. “I would have if someone hadn’t insisted on waking me up so damned early.”
The man doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. He just shrugs.
“There’s a few things I had to discuss with you about a project that was undertaken just before Crawford left.”
I stretch my legs, ignoring the way Oliver’s eyes dart toward them with unhidden interest.
“Eyes on the road, perv,” I mutter, wishing I had listened to my first instinct and let him bang on the door until my alarm had gone off.
He’s oddly cheerful for six in the morning.
“It’s too early for work, Oliver,” I complain loudly. Hopefully, he’ll get so annoyed by my whining he’ll stop the car, toss me out, and let me take a cab back to the penthouse and sink into that soft mattress.
But he’s back to playing his new game of ‘I’m going to ignore this unprofessional colleague of mine’.
Most of my frustration is to conceal my embarrassment at the man in question having seen me in my sleepwear.
A long T-shirt and Bambi pajama pants with my hair sticking up at every odd angle as I had gaped, barefooted.
The bastard had chosen to smirk, raking his eyes over my form in a deliberately provocative way.
When he doesn’t say anything, I scowl. “This isn’t even the way to the office. You missed the first exit.”
“We’re not going to the office,” he says shortly.
I settle into my seat, crossing my arms over my chest. “Well, if this is a kidnapping attempt, you should have told me beforehand. I wouldn’t have changed into office wear.”
That garners a reply, apparently.
“As charming as your attire was,” Oliver says with relish. “I doubt it would have been appropriate for where we’re going.”
I pounce on that. “You still haven’t said where we’re going.”
“You’ll see,” he replies mysteriously.
“I don’t even have enough savings to pay ransom,” I mutter in protest, still going along with my kidnapping theory to his obvious amusement.
When he doesn’t deign to say anything, I curl up as best as I can with a seat belt around me and close my eyes, attempting to catch a few more minutes of sleep with a last warning, “I expect my own bathroom.”
Oliver isn’t the only one who isn’t an early riser.
It’s a beautiful house with a sprawling lawn, the entire place having been converted into a restaurant or breakfast place of sorts, with elegant tables and chairs and shrubbery that is adorned with spring flowers.
It’s like walking into a fairy tale, so much dazzling color I’m left speechless as the host guides us to an empty table. A few are occupied, but the place is mostly empty.
