Page 75 of One and Only

Olive’s eyes brightened when she saw me. “We’re painting a garden,” she said, bouncing lightly on her toes. “A big one.”

“I see that.” I scooped her up in my arms and kissed her cheek. “What on earth happened in the kitchen?”

Olive looked back at Greer, who offered only a sheepish smile.

“Greer isn’t very good at cooking,” Olive whispered, cupping her hand over my ear. “But we don’t want to make her feel bad about it.”

Greer suppressed a grin. “I put a bit too much water, then overcompensated with the mix, it was a whole thing. Then we decided to paint instead.” She walked closer. “I’ll clean it up, I promise.”

“Please tell me you’re not going to be responsible for the pancakes, though,” I said.

She laughed. “I will happily cede that to you.”

Olive wiggled to get down, hopping over the paper and dipping her paintbrush into a bowl to clean it off. “Watch what she taught me,” she said, then swooped her brush over the paper, a proud grin on her face when she’d completed her stem.

“Amazing,” I told her. My chest was warm, heavy with happiness, and something else that I couldn’t quite name.

Greer lightly touched my arm and pulled me away from the painting. “I kinda stressed her out with the mess in the kitchen,” she said quietly. “When I remembered the rosin paper in my trunk, I figured this was the best distraction I could think of.”

I nodded. “Yeah, she doesn’t love a big mess.”

Greer studied my face. “She’s exactly like you.”

My eyes locked with hers.

She swallowed but didn’t pull her gaze away. “Olive—she’s exactly like you. No one’s ever really said it, but she’s quiet. Serious. A bit reserved when you meet her,” she continued, like she wasn’t yanking on some raw, exposed part of me that I’d never heard anyone verbalize before. “She doesn’t like a loud, crazy environment if she’s not expecting it. Makes it easier to think about how to fit in here,” she said. Then she smiled. “I’ve got two peas in a pod as my brand-new roommates, so it helps that she’s exactly like you, as long as you guys can make room for me while I’m here.”

Then she patted my arm and walked back toward Olive, leaving me in stunned silence, wondering what the hell Greer Wilder was going to do to my life—and my heart—while she was in it.

Chapter17

Greer

Until I moved into the Coleman house, I was a very deep sleeper.

My brothers used to joke that it would take a thundering hoard of angry men stomping into my bedroom to jar me awake. They tested that theory a few times too.

But upon sharing a bed with Beckett Coleman, I learned that I could be pried into consciousness with something far softer, far quieter, and far, far more complicated.

Namely, Beckett’s hand on my tits.

Because eight days after I started sharing a bed with my fake husband, I woke up to his hand sliding under my shirt, over my rib cage and his big, hot hand spread wide over my skin.

I woke with a shocked gust of air, awareness was foggy and muddled, and my back arched instinctively. My thighs pressed together, and I registered the skipping rhythm to my heart at the intimacy of our position, and how very, very badly I wanted it to continue.

Normally, the biggest hint to his presence in the mornings when we both worked was the waiting pot of coffee—hot and strong—to let me know that he’d been there at all.

But now the hot was him—his palm skating over my bare skin and his broad chest at my back. The strong was him too because the ropes of muscles in his arms banded tight around my waist.

I knew he was still sleeping because his movements were slow, like there was no thought or intention behind them. His breaths ruffled the hair on the back of my neck, deep and even and strong.

Goose bumps pulled up along my arms, and I breathed quietly through my nose, trying to stay still, stay calm.

The sun was just starting to peek through the sky, so I knew it was early.

What was a girl to do?

I had been sharing a bed with the hottest man I’d ever met in my life, who I’d traded vows with, and I’d kept my hands off.

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