Page 170 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia: You’re exhausting.
Lucian: And you’re mine. See you soon, baby.
Chapter Fifty
Olivia
There’s a specific panic that hits when your phone buzzes during a rare, blissed-out moment of peace.
Do not panic over danger. It’s not an end-of-the-world panic. Just the kind that makes you pause mid-sip of tea and think, “Oh great, what fresh fuckery is this?” No one should blame me formy reaction. It’s been almost twelve weeks since I moved next door to start my dream, and, well . . . things haven’t gone as I expected, have they?
I’m curled up on Lucian’s couch, legs tucked beneath his ridiculously soft fleece blanket that smells like his laundry, fall weather, and the vague comfort of a dog who thinks she owns the place. Sarah’s snoring beside me, twitching like she’s chasing squirrels in her sleep, and I’m sipping chamomile like a fully functioning adult with her shit together.
Which is obviously when my phone rings.
I glance at the screen and groan loud enough to wake the dead—or at least make Sarah grunt in protest.
Lucian walks in shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, a towel around his neck, and enough smug athleticism to qualify as a personal crisis. He raises an eyebrow.
“Is that the sound of doom, or are you finally reacting to my abs the way I deserve?”
“It’s Mike,” I mutter, eyeing my phone as if it might bite. “He’s either about to tell me the inspection passed or that my clinic is now an unintentional indoor pool.”
Which is something I can’t handle. I’ve finally hired enough people to run the clinic. Aspen lent me some money to ensure the operation will run smoothly, and my boyfriend is giving me a little push with the marketing. His agent is complaining about it, but Lucian insists it’s an investment toward his retirement. The moment his body gives out, I’ll be the breadwinner of this house. Not that we’ve talked about forever or living together or . . . we’re still in a temporary situation because I freak out.
Lucian collapses onto the couch next to me, snatches the phone from my hand as if I’m some skittish intern he’s mentoring, and answers without a moment's hesitation.
“Hello? This is Dr. Halston’s emotional support human. She’s currently too neurotic to speak but has authorized me to receive all emotionally destabilizing updates.”
I smack his arm. “Lucian.”
He winks. “Relax. It’s Mike. He knows I’m authorized.”
He listens, nodding once. “Got it. Thanks, man. I’ll let her know.”
He hangs up.
I stare at him, suspicious. “Well? Are we floating away on a raft of liability paperwork or?—?”
“Inspection passed. Everything cleared. They’re starting final prep next week.”
I blink. “Wait. Really?”
“As real as these abs.” He leans back, arms folded behind his head as if he’s posing for Smug & Sexy: The Calendar Edition. “You’re about to open that clinic. . . and on time, Doc.”
I sit there like someone has just announced I’ve won the lottery but only in feelings. My mind stutters. “I’m really doing it.”
“You are. You’re about to become the boss of your own place. A woman with a nameplate. Perhaps even a small fridge for those weird health drinks you keep pretending are edible.”
“I don’t know what to do with that information.” My voice is tight. “I’ve been in limbo for so long that I started to think it was permanent.”
He reaches for my hand, threading his fingers with mine as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Want me to tackle you? Bring you down a little?”
I snort. “You always want to tackle me.”
He shrugs, totally unapologetic. “Yeah, but now it’d be celebratory. Think of it as victory foreplay.”
He tugs me closer until I’m sprawled halfway across his chest, my cheek resting against his bare skin, my fingers curledinto the blanket that still carries his scent. His hand drifts lazily through my hair. I could fall asleep like this. Or do decidedly non-sleep activities.
