Page 56 of These Wicked Games
He turns to me in his living room. “With how fast you drop to your knees the second you see my cock, I’m not.”
My fingers ball into fists. Dick. “Are you done being a self-obsessed douche? I’m ready to be romanced.” Oli turns from me, walking into the kitchen, and the faint smell of tomato sauce hits me. I follow him and then stop, looking over what he’s set up. On his round table there’s a candle lit in the middle. Two glasses ofwine sit at either end with a bottle between. Both places have a plate of spaghetti with what looks like some sort of creamy tomato sauce. “It’s the fastest thing I could think to cook,” Oli grunts, walking to my side of the table and pulling my chair out. I bark out a laugh as he glares at me stone-faced.
I concede, sitting down and watching him take his seat. “This is better than I expected.”
“Well, your standards are pretty low.” He takes a swig from his wine glass. What I want to tell him is that this is fucking perfect. There’s not one thing I would change about this moment. Well, maybe if he were nude, but other than that it’s perfect. Soft music plays in the background and I nearly have to stop when I hear the lyrics. “Is this . . . One Direction?” His scowl hardens. “What! I’m just asking.”
“I like . . . their music. Shut the fuck up and eat.”
“I am surprised.”
Oli points his fork at me. “I am romantic as fuck.”
I laugh, taking a sip of wine. “I feel like I should go change back into my street clothes.”
He eats. “I like you wearing my clothes.”
The comment is soft and I want to pick at it. Instead, I eat, and my eyes widen. “You made this in twenty minutes?”
“It’s simple.” He shakes his head while he eats. “Tomato paste, butter, heavy cream, and olive oil.”
“It’s spicy.”
“Red pepper. A tablespoon, and basil.”
“Wow, this is so fucking good.”
Oli takes a swig of his drink. “My mother used to make it all the time. It was cheap to make. It was my favorite thing she made.” My fork pauses at my lips. Oli made me something very personal.
It means nothing. I mean nothing. It’s just what he had on hand. Don’t overthink.
“Well, if this is how it used to taste, she was an amazing cook.”
“She used to leave the red pepper out. I like the spice.” He eats, and I don’t know how much wine he’s drunk while he was making this, but I’m afraid to comment too much and spook him.
“It’s amazing.” He takes another drink, downing the rest, then filling himself another nearly full glass.
He cracks his neck, looking at his pasta. “When she got sick she didn’t have much of an appetite. The chemo just . . . ravages your body.” I freeze, cold washing over me. “When she had good days she spent her time making meals and freezing them for me. She had this freezer box she would put them in.”
“That’s really sweet.”
Oli swallows. “I found the chest when I was clearing out her house. She left a note. She’d been storing meals in there for after.” His knee begins to bounce under the table. I can feel the vibration of it. “I . . . I think that was worse than the day she died. I was upset that she’d spent so much of her time on me. Making sure I’d be okay.” He shakes his head. “I was always her first priority. So much so that she forgot to take care of herself.”
“Still, it’s nice that even after, she got to feed you.”
“I had meals for months. I’ve never cried so much while eating.” He laughs, his eyes lighten with it. “Embarrassing.”
I can’t believe he’s sharing this with me. I don’t know what’s happening or how much he had to drink before he got me to comedown here. We’d both sobered before we left Murray’s. “Oli . . .” I’m going to ruin it, but this my shot. “I didn’t do it.” Yup, ruined. He stiffens, fixing his hard blue eyes on me. “Just listen, I—”
“Why do you always have to open your fucking mouth?” He shakes his head, looking into his glass before taking another sip of his wine.
I’m not backing down. “No, listen to me! I don’t know why you thought I—”
“It was your fucking cup!” he roars, standing abruptly and knocking his chair back. “It was your fucking cup, Dre. With the fucking hearts, and my fucking name!” He swipes his large hand over the table smashing his plate against the floor. “You were my best fucking friend! You fucked everything up!”
He’s heaving, his eyes glassy. I slowly stand, trying to make sense of this. I’m not backing down. Not while we’re finally talking about this. “What are you talking about, my cup?”
“You drew those fucking hearts all over your cup while you were waiting for me, then when I got called into the office it was my label. On your cup. I gave the cup to you, but you didn’t give a shit about getting caught. You knew you would just switch the labels.”
