Page 31 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia emits a sound that straddles a scoff and a “God, why do I know you?”sigh, snatching the coffee from my hand. “Don’t start, Lucian Crawford.”
“Hey, I’m just being . . . honest. You like everythingbig. That’s why I brought you a big muffin. If you want everything big, I can deliver—big, thick, maybe even loaded, if that’s what you prefer.”
She ignores me, ripping off the lid and taking a long sip as if she needs caffeine to survive this conversation.
She glances around. “Where’s Sarah?”
“At puppy daycare.” I shrug. “She likes to socialize once a week.”
She blinks. “I—wait, puppy daycare?”
I nod, completely unfazed.
She stares. “Your dog goes to daycare?”
“Yes, Liv,” I reply dryly. “My girl enjoys a thoughtfully curated day of play, socialization, and enrichment activities.”
She glares at me. “That is the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard.”
I take my coffee and sip from it, unmoved. “She loves it.”
Liv shakes her head, reaching into the bag for her muffin. “Alright, Lucian. Let’s get to work.”
“So, are we talking about last night?” I need to mention it because I prefer my coffee black and my Olivia flustered.
Her eyes snap up—fire in them. “Do not?—”
“What?” I lean in slightly, lowering my voice to a near whisper. “Are we not bringing up last night?”
Her entire body tenses like she’s bracing for impact.
I chuckle as I reach into the bag and take one of the pastries, making a show of tearing off a slow bite just to piss her off. “How fun would it be if we don’t discuss hard limits—or needs? You never mentioned what’s your favorite.”
She groans, tossing her clipboard onto the counter before yanking open a can of paint with more force than necessary. “If you’re going to be annoying, maybe leave because I can’t handle your dirty mouth.”
“Oh, but you would love it, baby. My mouth, your cunt—that’s a great combination.”
The muffin in her hand hovers mid-air. It’s subtle, but I notice it. The hesitation, the half-second when her brain short-circuits before she slaps a layer of ‘unbothered professional’ back over her face.
She points toward the wall. “Focus. On. This.”
I glance around the room, noting the patchy wall job, the abandoned roller in the corner, and the general atmosphere of a woman slowly losing her grip on reality.
“Jesus, Doc.” I grab a roller. “You sure you don’t need professional help?”
She pierces me with a deadly glare. “Professional help costs money, and as we both know, I can’t afford them.”
I grin. “Lucky for you, my labor is free.”
“Woohoo, lucky me,” she mutters, setting the muffin next to the cup of coffee and her clipboard. She carefully grabs a brush and stabs it into the paint tray like she’s visualizing my face at the bottom.
I step back, eyeing the wall critically. At first glance, it simply looks like a questionable paint job—one of those rushed, middle-of-the-night efforts fueled by frustration and poor decisions. But as I squint, the details sharpen. Damp spots creep along the edges of the trim, and the drywall is slightly warped in places, as if it has been holding its breath for too long.
I move closer, pressing my fingers against the surface. Soft. A little too soft.
Liv is still painting aggressively when I scrape my nail against one of the suspicious patches and discover black mold.
Oh, fuck, this is not good. Not good at all.
