Page 45 of Little Did You Know

"Absolutely."

"Thanks. Now go home, Hannah."

Chapter Twenty-One

The steering wheel's leather creaked under my grip as I turned into the driveway. Three times, I'd rehearsed this conversation on the drive home, and three times, the words had tangled themselves into knots. My chest tightened at the sight of the porch light as I slid the car into park and stared at the front door. Each evening, it felt more like coming home to something, and that thought alone made my pulse skip. I needed to set boundaries before they disappeared entirely, but the very idea of pushing her away made my stomach twist with an unfamiliar ache.

Strolling into the kitchen, I expected to see Olivia. Instead, Arlena stood at the counter.

"Good evening, Mr. Pearson." Arlena wiped her hands on her apron, her usual reserve softening at the edges.

I eyed the untouched plates on the counter. "Good evening. Has Olivia eaten?"

"Dinner, no. However, she did help me prepare the food for Saturday, and I think she ate more than she made."

"I'm sorry, Arlena. She won't be here long. Only until a dorm room opens at the college."

Arlena paused in her methodical wiping of the counter, her cloth freezing mid-circle. "Why are you sorry?"

"I know you don't like people in your kitchen, especially when you are cooking."

I gestured at the kitchen, where evidence of Olivia and Arlena's shared cooking session still lingered—a dusting of flour on the counter, measuring cups drying by the sink, the lingering scent of vanilla.

"You know, Mr. Pearson, for such a smart man, you can be stupid sometimes." Arlena's hands never stopped moving as she arranged dishes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward.

I gripped the edge of the counter. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me correctly." She lined up the spice jars with military precision. "It's not that I don't like people in my kitchen. I don't like the snobby trash you bring home in my kitchen."

The wooden spoon I'd been fidgeting with clattered to the counter.

My mouth dropped. "Those women treat me like I'm a slave. I'm no one's slave, not even yours. You've always treated me with respect. Those girls don't, and that's why I don't want them in this kitchen or your house. But Olivia, she's a breath of fresh air. She talks to me like I'm a real person. She expects nothing from me, a friendship. I like her very much, and she is welcome in this kitchen with me any time."

I smiled. "Where is she?"

Arlena's wooden spoon gestured toward the French doors. "She's out on the patio."

"Thanks."

The clinking of dishes followed me as I headed for the door. Arlena's voice caught me at the threshold. "Should I bring dinner out to you on the patio?"

I glanced at the clock—nearly nine. "No, put it up for the night and go home." The kitchen light cast my shadow long across the floor. "You're already here late." I paused, remembering what she said about preparing food for Saturday. I had no idea what Saturday she would have to prepare food for. "Arlena?"

"Yes."

"What's Saturday?"

"It's your annual Labor Day Party."Fuck, I forgot all about that.I threw a huge party every year; I didn't know how I could have forgotten. Throwing that to the side for now, I headed outside to find Olivia.

She was exactly where Arlena said she’d be. Moonlight painted silver edges along her silhouette as she turned another page of her book, oblivious to my presence. Her bare feet were tucked beneath her, one ankle exposed where her skirt had risen slightly. A breeze stirred loose strands of dark hair across her collarbone, and my fingers twitched with the urge to brush them back. The space between us crackled with the same electric tension as the approaching storm.

I didn't want to ruin the night—didn't want to watch her easy smile fade into something guarded and distant. But the weight of unspoken words sat heavy in my chest, pressing against my ribs with each breath. We had to lay our cards on the table, or someone would get hurt. Kathryn's words echoed in my head.Now or never,I told myself, before I could talk myself out of it again. Before I could convince myself that one more night of pretending wouldn't hurt.

I'd watched her stare at the same page for five minutes, her finger tracing the edge of the paper in an unconscious rhythm that drew my attention more than it should. "Good book?" The words came out lower than intended as I approached her, my shadow falling across the pages she wasn't really reading.

Her blue eyes met mine, lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary before dropping back to her book. The smile that curved her lips wasn't her usual bright greeting, but something softer, more tentative. Something that made my pulse skip.

"It's alright," she murmured, shifting slightly as I settled at the end of her deck chair. The casual movement closed the distance between us by mere inches, yet the space suddenly felt charged with possibility. "Did you just get home?"

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