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Wow. He has so many companies he forgets what’s what?
“Why are you helping me?” I ask, then out of the corner of my eyes I see the waitress approach with two plates holding shot glasses of what must be the aforementioned ceviche.
"Thanks," I tell her and she nods and leaves.
"So," I continue my question. "What's in it for you? And don't tell me it's because you want me to pay for your car, because we both know you can get it fixed in the blink of an eye if you wanted to."
He smirks at me. "Let's say I like to provide guidance to the less fortunate."
I don't know exactly what he's talking about but I don't like his condescending tone. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, I don't kick a dead horse when he's down," he says. "Sometimes I like to try to help him back up, even if I fail ultimately."
This one is a lot clearer and I know exactly what he means. Everything happening right now is because he feels sorry for me. And even though I knew it, it still hurts to hear him admit it.
And here I am, dreaming of him like a pathetic teen girl with a crush. No wonder he feels sorry for me.
Oblivious to my shifting mood, he picks up a fork and takes a bite of his ceviche. He frowns as he tastes it.
"Somehow, I remember this being better," he says.
I'm not sure I can eat much through the tightness in my throat, but I don't want to ruin the mood again. So, I force a fork through my lips.
"Mmm, it's tasty," I say, even though I couldn't tell you what it tastes like.
Oliver shakes his head, though.
"It's not as tasty as anything you've made," he says, and once again, my emotions are a cauldron, with an ember of hope being kept alive.
But I won't allow it to grow. This time, I will smush it firmly and never let it rekindle again.
Chapter Eight
Oliver
Bythetime,weget to the cottage, I'm starting to wonder if Delilah has some kind of mood disorder. Because the entire ride, I can sense a tension seeping in. It probably started with that pained smile she gave me after she tasted the ceviche. But now, as we drive in, she sits ramrod straight in the truck as if she doesn’t want to bend at all.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, and she glances at me wide-eyed.
“Nothing,” she says. “Nothing is wrong.”
“Then why do you look like a rat that swallowed a canary?” I pause after saying it and wonder if I’m misremembering that phrase. It doesn’t sound right. Then again, none of my dad’s phrases ever did.
She blushes and then she attempts a smile, but I can see the tightness in the corners of her eyes. “Nothing. I’m fine, just thinking about everything I have to do. And the, you know, not having a job thing."
“Still haven't gotten a call-back?’ I ask, and she shakes her head.
“Relax,” I tell her. “It’s only been a day. Just keep at it.”
“Right,” she says, appearing like she's going to say something else, but then she shuts her mouth. However, she must have changed her mind, because she continues, “In any case, I’ll be out of your hair at the end of the month, I can guarantee that.”
Ah, is that what’s bothering her?
Well, it's a good thing she's already thinking about leaving. It means she's probably not planning to take advantage of the situation.
At the same time, though, it shouldn't be something that stresses her out too much.
“Right,” I say, even though the thought of her leaving at the end of the month isn't as appealing as it should be. “Don’t sweat it. If you need more time, I can give it to you.”
