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And she was absolutely fine with that.
He hadn't appeared drunk, hadn’t slurred his speech, or looked bleary-eyed like a lot of guys did when they were plastered, but then… oh dear, at breakfast he was like death warmed up, and after his hasty exit, he’d gone to ground. Clearly, Aaron and Alice’s wedding had pressed too many buttons and… yep,totallyunderstandable.
But she wasn’t going to be collateral damage either.
Because she laughed and made jokes and wore bright colours, sometimes people didn’t take her seriously… thought that nothing really got to her—and it didn’t—at least not in a life-shattering way. She knew what being shattered felt like, this was mere bumps and bruises.
But… okay, she had to admit it, there had been moments—the spider drama, the sympathetic way he’d dealt with her scar, how they’d chatted so easily last night under the stars—wherehehad buried a bit deeper into her heart than she should have let him.
“Really it’s only averymild crush,” she told Sheila. Sheila informed her she needed to turn right at the next intersection. “I’ve had a couple since Mitchell and they all fizzled very quickly and I have absolutely no regrets. None.”
Sheila said keep going straight for two kilometres.
Sheila was proving to be a very poor listener. Felicity debated whether to call Evie, get her take on it, but then remembered it was very early in the morning in England. And Evie’s exhibition was just round the corner, which meant she’d have been working into the wee small hours. It wouldn’t be fair to wake her up with her own dilemma.
“You have now arrived at your destination,” Sheila said.
“Why thank you kindly. Would you like to accompany me to Sydney, Sheila?”
Sheila didn’t answer.
Much like Oliver. Silent.
Feeling better, if only for talking it through with an app, Felicity let herself into the house with the key that Andrea had given her and breezed into the kitchen. Andrea was sitting having a cup of tea in the glass conservatory that butted up to the kitchen and reading a book. It was the first time Felicity had seen her put her feet up.
She pulled off her hat, placed it on the table and shook out her hair. “Andrea, have you seen Oliver by any chance?”
“Not since this morning.” Andrea frowned. “I have a hunch he’s not feeling well. Would you mind taking him up a cup of tea?”
“Sure,” said Felicity. “You stay there, and I’ll make it.”
“He takes it black. Like his coffee,” Andrea called out, and went back to her book.
Felicity made her way up the stairs, carefully carrying the cup of tea, and knocked on Oliver’s study door.
No answer. She knocked again.
When she still didn’t get a response, she clicked open the door and peeped inside.
The first thing that caught her eye was the desk. It was the neatest, most ordered desk she’d ever seen. Everything placed at neat, almost measured intervals. His laptop, colour coded notes, a pen holder with blue pens in it. Only blue. A strategically placed deep blue glass paperweight, a container of paperclips. Blue and green, neatly compartmentalised. A picture of his latest book cover above the desk with him signing it.
Nothing was out of place.
And then there were the bookshelves. The spines all organised by height and colour.
But no sign of Oliver. And where was she going to put the cup of tea down?
She turned and immediately stilled. Because what she hadn’t noticed as she came in was the alcove with the couch in it, and sprawled on that couch lay Oliver.
Sound asleep.
The breath hitched in her throat. Like this, rumpled and cheeks flushed, his hair mussed up, he was so endearingly vulnerable. One arm was thrown loosely above his head. His lips were slightly parted, the full lower one softened in sleep to an almost smile, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to expose one firm tanned pec muscle, the hint of a dark nipple, the little dust of black hair in the centre of his chest. Just then, he stirred, gave a little grunt, and curled onto his side, tucking one hand under his cheek.
It reminded her of how her kindy kids napped after lunch.
Felicity noticed an occasional table next to the sofa and put the cup down, barely taking her eyes off him. She’d never found a man so attractive that all she could do was gawk. She crept closer, mesmerised by the smoothness of his olive skin, the follicles of his barely-there beard, the warm scent of pure, unadorned male.
She had an overwhelming urge to feel his skin under her fingertips, run her hand around the angle of his jaw, trace his Adam’s apple and down lower to his collarbone. Her body quivered with anticipation. Then he moved again, and she straightened and stepped sharply back, banging the table in her usual clumsy way, and in the process of rescuing the cup of tea from falling, Scarlet gave a sharp dig into her thigh, and she let out an involuntary yelp.
