Page 155 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
I raise an eyebrow. “In what? ‘Did not bite her equine acquaintances’? A participation award for not being a menace?”
Olivia grins, then flops onto my bed like it’s hers. Which, at this point, it sort of is. “You laugh, but it was a big day. She even shared her treat.”
“With the horse?”
“With another dog. Small. Judgy. Name was Lancelot. It was a whole vibe.”
I sit beside her, careful not to close the distance too quickly. She smells like hay and sunshine and the complete ruin ofmy emotional self-control. “Now I know you’re making shit up. There are no other dogs here.”
She shrugs, half-yawning. “Did I miss anything?”
“Scottie tried to blackmail Kade, Papa made everyone do toasts for no reason, and I was called soft four times. Once by a seven-year-old.”
She arches a brow.
“Okay, Greyson’s twenty-one. But emotionally? He’s seven and a half, max.”
Her laugh is lazy. She’s pretty tired. “And did you cry?”
“Almost,” I admit. “Mostly because you weren’t there.”
She falls silent, and I gaze at her. Truly gaze. At the way one leg is tucked beneath her as if she’s trying not to occupy too much space. At the faint mark on her temple where her braid has been pulled too tightly. At the crease between her brows that she believes no one notices when she’s pretending everything’s fine.
“You okay?” she asks, suspicion bleeding into her voice.
“No,” I say. “Not really.”
She straightens a little. “Did something happen?”
“Yes.” I look at her. “You. You entered my life and knocked me upside down and downside up.”
Her throat moves around a swallow, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decode me. “Lucian . . .”
“I’m not saying it to be dramatic,” I cut in before she spirals. “And I’m not trying to make a move. I just . . .” I drag a hand through my hair, and exhale. “I don’t know how to do this when it’s not a joke. When I’m not hiding behind innuendo or sarcasm. When it’s actually real.”
She looks down.
And I fucking hate that.
I reach over and tap her knee. “Hey. Look at me.”
She does. Slowly. Like it costs her something.
“Earlier, when I was surrounded by family, I still felt like something was missing. It wasn’t about who got the last brownie or who brought up who cheated on who. It was you. Not being there.”
Her eyes are wide, uncertain. “Lucian, we said?—”
“I know what we said. I know the deal. Hell, I wrote that ridiculous agreement, remember?” My smile is crooked. Small. Honest. “But now . . .”
Her silence stretches between us like barbed wire.
She leans forward, elbows resting on her knees, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “I’ve never been good at this,” she says at last. “The feelings thing. Letting people in. I usually get close enough to joke about it and then bail before anyone notices I was even there.”
“I noticed,” I say, my voice low. “I always notice.”
She swallows hard.
“I used to think I’d end up alone,” she murmurs. “By choice. Because it was easier.”
