Page 25 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I raise an eyebrow, motioning toward the dried paint on her arms and the splatter on her tank top. “You’re literally covered in paint from fixing this place by yourself instead of hiring someone. Or, I don’t know, waiting for me to help you as we agreed earlier.”
She scoffs. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
She chews her lip like she’s actually considering it.
Which is . . . interesting because Olivia doesn’t just say things. She doesn’t talk unless she absolutely has to. She hoards information with the precision of someone trained in covert ops and guilt-tripping.
Finally, she exhales.
“I don’t like owing people,” she admits.
I blink. That was . . . honest.
“Owing people?” I repeat, watching her carefully.
She shrugs, picking at a nonexistent spot on her shorts. “Nothing in life comes free, Lucian. If people help you, they expect something in return. I don’t like that leverage.”
Huh?
No, really, who the fuck hurt this woman?
Because I don’t understand, sure, some people take advantage. Some people disappoint you. Some people make you realize that certain things aren’t worth it. Relationships break, and even though you swear never to return, you don’t just shut out the whole world, right? I mean, not letting anyone help at all? That’s on another level.
“So, you think that if you let me help, I’ll hold it over you?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone did.”
I watch her for a long moment, taking that in.
And honestly? It pisses me off.
I don’t like the idea of Olivia—fiery, infuriating Olivia—having people in her life who make her feel like she can’t rely on anyone.
Which is probably why I do what I do next.
I step closer—her body tenses—not because she’s afraid. No, Olivia isn’t easily scared. It’s because she’s aware of my presence.
She tilts her chin up, bracing for whatever nonsense I’m about to say next.
I grin.
“Want to know a secret?” I murmur.
She doesn’t blink. “No.”
I ignore that.
“I don’t expect anything from you, Doc.” My voice lowers just enough to make her pulse visible in her throat. “No leverage. No hidden motives. I simply enjoy watching you lose your fucking mind when I’m around.”
She stares.
Her fingers twitch.
And I watch her process that—it seems to confuse her. The idea of someone just being there, without any strings attached, is entirely foreign to her.
So, of course, I make it worse.
