Page 92 of Betting on the Brainiac

“But my room isn’t set up yet, so there’s nothing to show you. Been meaning to get around to it, but it’s been a busy week.”

“Mmhmm.” She takes a slow glance around the condo. “I’ll tell Mom and Dad what I saw.”

“Meaning what?” I ask her. “You’re convinced we’re sharing a residence?”

She gives me a look likenot even a littleand gets to her feet. “I’m convinced you both live at 1598 Lynn. I’ll tell them what I saw.”

Whatever softer feelings had tried to creep in toward her a moment ago evaporate. “Awesome.” It comes out cold and flat.

Kaitlyn walks to the door and turns. “I get that you’re annoyed, but you’re the one who decided to do this the hard way.”

I tilt my head. “I think of it more as doing things therightway.”

She leaves without saying anything else. I sigh when the door clicks behind her. I’d planned to spend the evening convincing Ruby to let me do a display at the library on fair-trade pieces, but I guess instead of doing actual good, I get to spend the evening making it look like I live at Oliver’s place instead.

Score another point for Gordon Freakin’ Armstrong.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Oliver

I walk into myplace at almost midnight and freeze.

Madison is conked out on my sofa, and I don’t think she meant to fall asleep. She would definitely not choose my sofa over her mattress. Two of my last three boxes are empty and collapsed on the ground. The last one is open and missing its copy ofInto the Wild, which is on her chest, her finger tucked inside it like she’s marking the place she fell asleep while reading.

Quietly, I set my laptop bag on the kitchen counter and walk to the coffee table, sitting across from her and taking a couple of moments to study her before I wake her. Her mouth looks soft in sleep, her lips barely parted, and I flash back to how they felt against mine.

Her hair is fanned around her in soft gold waves, and I want to touch it. I want to touch her. Whatever I’m getting from Madison in any given moment is never enough. If we’re talking, I wantus to be touching. If we’re touching, I want us to be kissing. I want to explore so much more about her. I love that she’s on my couch, soft and still in a way I rarely see her. I also hate how much I love it.

I want to show her how I feel, to see if she responds to low-key flirting, kicking it up a notch each time she does, letting it build with the hope that she’ll see me as more than a friend. Lately, I’ve wondered if the possibility has crossed her mind. Like when I could’ve sworn there was a flash of disappointment that we didn’t kiss at our wedding. Or the shirtless day when she studied my chest longer than any friend would.

It could also be wishful thinking.

I’m not a shy man. If I’m interested in a woman, I let her know. I’d already decided to do that with Madison when that stupid, incredible, mind-blowing kiss happened at the club and messed everything up.

I should have said something right then. Or the very next day. Told her it was me. But I’d been too worried about making her mad. Instead of giving her all the information and letting her decide how she wanted to feel about it, I . . . hadn’t. And then I’d compounded the problem with a freakingproposal.

It had seemed like a perfect solution for both of our problems. Had I let the need for money tip me over into not telling her about the kiss because I needed her to say yes? Because I feared she’d think it was too complicated if she knew it was me?

The answer makes my chest feel like I did the one time I cheated on a high school test because I couldn’t afford anything less than an A in that class. I’d gotten the A, but I’d never been proud of it.

The only saving grace in our situation is that even if the money might have prompted the proposal, it had nothing to do with why I married her. I’d wanted to help. She deserved the chance to throw herself into the good she wanted to do.

I still should have told her. I scrub my hands over my face. How unbelievably dumb to put myself in this situation.

Whatever else we are, we’re friends, and as a friend, I owe her the truth.

Madison stirs, her forehead furrowing slightly.

“Madi,” I say, quietly.

“Mmhmm.”

I get up and fetch a kitten, coming back with Little Stripey. I set him in the hollow formed by her elbow and the hand tucked beneath her head, and I wait.

Little Stripey mewls, displeased at being taken from his pile of siblings.

Madison stirs again, her eyes drifting open, and she tucks her chin in to examine the furball having a tantrum nearly on top of her. She smiles up at me.

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