Page 45 of Sweet Escape
After one more lingering hug for her granddaughter, she sends us on our way with a large container of fried chicken and all thefixings. It’s way more food than either of us can eat.
I follow Olivia up to her apartment through the narrow staircase at the back of the diner. The open-plan living room is sparse and not at all what I pictured her apartment looking like. There isn't a single trace of Olivia’s bright personality here, just a collection of threadbare furnishings and the occasional family photo. It’s the home of someone suspended in a state of uncertainty, stuck between their old life and the new one they were forced into.
She places her container on the counter and leans back against the island. “You don’t have to stay on my account. I’ll be fine.”
She’s putting on a brave face, but I know the second I’m out that door, she’ll crumble. I won’t let that happen.
“Will you? Because it seems to me you could use a friend right now.”
She sighs. “I survived Jake. I’ll survive this, too.”
“You did. You’re strong as hell, and I know you think you don’t need me, but I’m staying anyway. That couldn’t have been easy, and I want to be here for you. Let me.”
She chews on the inside of her cheek, her face pulled down into a frown. “I don’t want to keep you from Emmy. You have a family to get back to.”
“You’re my family now, too.”
The tears begin to fall in earnest, and I don’t waste any time rounding the island and pulling her against me as violent sobs rack her body. She clings to me for support, and I let her cry out every ounce of pain. If I could take it all away, add it to the mountain of sorrow that lives inside me, I’d gladly do it. I hold her until her cries turn to slow, even breaths.
“I’m sorry. You’re always the one holding me together.” The words are muffled against my shirt, but the agony is unmistakable.
I wish I could fix things for her. I wish I had the words to reassure her it would be all right. I smooth a hand over her golden locks and dip down to place a chaste kiss on her forehead. “Don’t be sorry, honey. You’re allowed to feel. I don’t mind holding you while you fall apart. What are friends for?”
She lets out a small, humorless laugh. “You still want to be my friend after everything you’ve witnessed?”
“It’s going to take a helluva lot more than some tears and a showdown with your parents to convince me to let you go. Besides”—I palm her lower belly—“you’re kind of stuck with me.”
She opens her mouth to speak, but the loud rumbling of her stomach cuts her off.
I laugh. “Why don’t you go relax, and I’ll reheat dinner for us.”
“It’s my apartment. I can do it.”
“Let me take care of you.”
She takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest in defiance. I have to stop my eyes from wandering to her cleavage.
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she says.
“Are you always this argumentative?”
“Are you always this domineering?”
I cage her against the counter and lean in next to her ear. “Be a good girl and do as you're told.”
My breath fans over her neck, and she shivers.
“Fine. But only because I’m too hungry to argue with you.” She stalks out of the kitchen, and this time I do let my eyes wander—to the globes of her ass and the sway of her hips as she walks. Olivia Sullivan is under my skin, and I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to resist her.
My fingers play with the strands of her hair as she leans her head against my shoulder on the ragged sofa in her tiny apartment, our empty plates abandoned on the coffee table. It’s a shame the Sullivan family dinner went south. Rosie’s cooking is even better when it’s hot out of the oven.
“Do you know what happened between our families?” Olivia asks.
“Not much. I know they both bid on the same parcel of land, and my dad outbid yours. There was some kind of flood in one of your dad’s fields, and he needed to subsidize some of the income lost. Your dad and mine had words. They never spoke again after that.” A comfortable silence settles between us, and I rest my chin on the top of her head, my breath ruffling her hair. “Give them some time.”
Again, she doesn’t speak, her fingertips making swirling patterns on the throw pillow she placed on her lap. I wish I could see her face to know she’s okay.
“It’s getting late,” she murmurs. “Do you need to head home?”
