Page 51 of On the Line

It feels like a silly thing to suddenly realize.

Of course, Ozzy isn’t my ex. They’re nothing alike.

But there’s a gaping, aching part of me that doesn’t understand that yet.

My brain still reacts the same to Ozzy as it did with Zachary.

I’m having to undo years of learned behavior from my time with him. Years of walking on eggshells. Years of being on constant defense, no matter my innocence. Myimpulses—those knee-jerk reactions that still seem to have control over my decisions—don’t seem to care that I’m no longer with Zachary. I’m like a well-trained pony, eager to please, eager to do as I’m told for fear of getting punished.

I don’t want to finish my sentence, unwilling to admit my entire train of thought. Why do I always have to get so damn depressing?

My gaze lands on his book. “What are you reading?”

Ozzy blinks, looking slightly surprised at the change of subject but indulges me.

“Just a memoir,” he says, chucking the book on the bedside table. His demeanor has shifted, almost looking shy now that I’ve moved the attention to him.

I let out a small disbelieving laugh. By the state of it, it doesn’t look like just a book. Reading the name on the cover, I ask, “Marco Pierre White? Who’s that?”

When he peers down at me, there’s a shine to his eyes as if he’s about to talk about a subject he’s really passionate about. “He’s kind of a badass in the cooking world. Was the youngest and first British chef to ever receive three Michelin stars.” Ozzy twists himself towards me, his face lighting up, and my heart warms at the sight. “But what’s so cool about him is that when he retired he gave those stars back. That was unheard of—said that if he wasn’t behind the stove there was no point in keeping them. What mattered most to him was the judgment of his peers. The ones who knew what it meant to give yourself entirely to the kitchen.”

He’s beaming. And I fight the urge to kiss him.

“So Orso is more than just a job for you?”

“Sometimes it feels like it’s my entire life,” he says with a dry chuckle. “But yeah, I mean …” He drags a hand through his messy curls. “I started as a dishwasher. I didn’t have any dreams back then. I just needed the money. But now, I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.”

“Would you want to open your own restaurant one day?”

“Wouldn’t that be the dream,” he says as he rolls out of bed, a pair of briefs hanging low on his hips. It’s subtle, but there’s bitterness to his tone. He’s quick to change the subject while stepping into some jeans and a cut-off t-shirt. “You feel like going out for lunch? I know a great diner over on Dunford.”

I can’t help but feel like I’ve said something wrong, and I immediately start to feel guilty. There’s a large part of me that wants to apologize, but I force myself not to.

Instead, I smile and nod. “I just need to get dressed?—”

His phone rings beside me in bed, and without much thought, I reach for it. The nameSophiaflashes on the screen while he reaches over to take it out of my hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” But I stop in my tracks not sure what to say.

“It’s fine.” He flashes me a grin and points to his phone. “Do you mind if I take this?”

“Of course not,” I say hurriedly, hoping my voice didn’t come out squeaky.

“I’ll wait for you outside.”

I stare at the wall for a few seconds, chastising myself for having jealous feelings about whoever this Sophia is. They must be close if she calls him out of the blue like that. Shaking my head, I refuse to sit with whatever theories my mind is trying to come up with.

Ozzy’s a free man. And me being naked in his bed doesn’t change that fact.

I find my dress rumpled on the floor, my panties nowhere to be found. I decide to wear Ozzy’s t-shirtovertop my dress, twisting a small knot so it hugs my waist. I don’t dwell on the fact that wearing his shirt out might be a small show of claiming him as mine. And how his shirt smells like fresh laundry but his cologne lingers, hints of blackcurrant and tea. It’s warm and cozy and I hate how it makes me feel. But I don’t hate it nearly enough to take it off.

Leaving the bedroom, I spot Ozzy on the balcony, having a cigarette and talking animatedly on the phone with a large grin on his face. I stand awkwardly in the living room waiting for him to finish.

“Hey, new girl,” someone says behind me.

I jump, swiveling around, mortification burning my cheeks.

“Alec!” I say way too loudly. “I didn’t know you were here.”

I don’t know what to do with my hands, crossing my arms but then immediately dropping them to my sides.

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