Finley sounded so much like Margaret, I felt my blood boil. “Once again, I hate to disappoint you, but that’s never happened.”

She nodded like she understood. “Well, I figured as much after I saw your picture at the top of the Lavish website on Saturday morning. If there’s one thing Oliver doesn’t do, it’s a taken woman.”

I froze. “What are you talking about?” I demanded breathlessly.

Her hazel eyes widened in surprise. “There was a picture of you out clubbing. Some Oliver-happy photographer snapped it after she recognized you as the woman he was with at the party last week.” Lifting her Vuitton bag a little higher, she sauntered to the door, offering me a flash of straight white teeth as I let go of the handle to let her pass. “Like I told you before, I’m sorry about the little joke. It was hasty of me considering the circumstances. Nice to see you again, Lizzie.”

With all my limbs trembling violently, I waited until the Jaguar coupe was out of sight before I slipped on gloves and returned Margaret’s documents to the upstairs office. Then, the moment I was behind the wheel of my car, I Googled Lavish.

I had to scroll through several pictures that were taken of the L.A. social scene over the weekend, but finally I found what Finley was referring to, and my heart seized from within my chest. There I was, with my platinum hair flying around my face and the blond guy’s hand gripping my hip as we danced to “I Want You.” With our bodies pressed close, the photo looked so much more intimate than it had been, and the caption below was especially damning.

Oliver’s Newest Flavor Moves On with Heir to Food Empire.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I hissed. I didn’t even bother Googling my partner’s name. It wasn’t important to me because we hadn’t exchanged anything—no phone numbers, no information, and certainly no bodily fluids. Instead, I pulled up my text history.

Oliver hadn’t texted me since yesterday morning, but I’d attributed that to his busy work schedule. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I had a feeling Finley would have messaged him right away, and the thought turned my stomach.

Even though I knew it was stupid—even though I knew I should let him think whatever so I could stop worrying over him—I couldn’t. My breathing harsh, I composed an innocent text.

How many episodes of Vikings are you up to now? Hope you managed to get some rest yesterday.

I felt like I waited eons for him to respond—even though I knew he likely wouldn’t—before I gave up and started my car, squeaking into work with only four minutes to spare.

*

I could count on one hand the number of times I’d stressed over a man getting in touch with me. The first had been the varsity lacrosse player I’d fallen all over myself for as soon as Mom and I had moved to Vegas. Although we’d eventually dated, we’d only lasted a very chaste eight months—a sad relationship record for me.

The most recent was now, with Oliver. He still hadn’t texted me back by the time I turned the key to open my apartment. I’d stayed late at work tonight after Margaret tasked me with transcribing several hours of board meetings, and since it was close to eleven in New York, I was certain he wasn’t going to reply tonight.

But maybe it was for the best.

What did I expect from the man? As soon as I accomplished what I came to California to do, it wasn’t like I could be with him.

And yet, my chest ached.

“I’m home.” Locking the door, I rested my forehead on the wood. Damn, I was a mess. “Are you home? We really need to talk.” If I couldn’t get an answer from Oliver, I could at least confront my best friend about what was going on with her.

“In the kitchen, Lizzie,” she shouted.

“Who—” I started, but then my head snapped up. She absolutely refused to call me Lizzie when we were alone in the apartment, reserving the name for when we were out in public where someone might hear us, so for her to do so now told me two things: she wasn’t alone and she was with someone whom she absolutely had to hide my identity from.

Tiptoeing through the foyer and the dining room, I turned into the kitchen to find Pen sitting on the counter with a beer in her hand. Across from her, leaning against the wall by the fridge, stood Oliver.

“You didn’t tell me you had a date,” she said, the corners of her mouth quivering as she tried to fight a smile.

Stunned, I tossed my purse in the dining room chair closest to me and walked inside the narrow space, looking back and forth between them. “I didn’t realize it either.” Focusing solely on the disheveled and distant man with more than a day’s worth of facial hair, I struggled to maintain my composure. “Oliver.”

“Lizzie,” he replied, but I couldn’t deny the chill in his voice.

“I’ve—” Pen scratched her fingers into her dark hair and made a face. “—I’m going to go grab some dinner.” She hopped off the counter, her smile so wide I thought her face might crack. “I’ll see you later, Liz.”

Oliver’s blue eyes continued to paralyze me, even as he said goodbye to my best friend. “It was good to meet you, Grace,” he said, using her middle name, and I grabbed her arm as she moved past me.

“We need to talk,” I said, and she nodded quickly.

“Oh yeah, but tomorrow. Definitely tomorrow.” Then, before I could say anything else, she grabbed her computer bag from the dining room and practically ran out the front door.

Leaving me alone with Oliver.

Oliver who, in classic straight leg jeans, a gray tee, and Red Wing boots, looked the sexiest—the most irresistible—I’d ever seen him.

Oliver, whose tattoo—the one that had peeked out from beneath his rolled-up cuffs—was finally visible. It was a quote I recognized from Frank Herbert’s Dune novels: Fear Is The Mind-Killer.

Oliver who was pushing away from the wall and walking toward me.

Licking my lips, I peered down at the tile floor. “I thought you’d be gone until Friday.”

He stopped a couple inches in front of me, the spicy scent of his cologne an invitation that made me angle my body closer to his.  “I wrapped everything up quickly.”

“I guess you’re—”

His thumb covered my mouth, his touch a complicated medley of frustration and desire that took my breath away. “Are you fucking someone else, Lizzie?”

“No.”

His other hand cupped my face, his fingers threading in the soft strands along my hairline. He tilted my attention to his blue eyes. “Do you want to fuck someone else?”

“No,” I answered, and this time my voice was firm.

He dropped his hands to my ass, and I barely had time to react before I was in his arms, gasping as he pinned my back to the fridge. He urged my legs apart to wrap around his waist, and I could hear my plaid Rag & Bone pencil skirt tearing at the split, but I didn’t care.

I didn’t care that it was wrong of me to want Oliver.

Or that his mother—my stepmother—had forbidden me from being around him.

I. Didn’t. Give. One. Single. Fuck.

His mouth skimmed mine, his tongue branding a hot path along the outline of my lips. Tightening my arms around his broad shoulders, I moved my hips against him, watching as his blue eyes darkened. “If I asked you if you still wanted me?” Crashing his lips to mine, he kissed me until my head spun. Until the electricity thundered through my body and tightened everything—my chest, my nipples, my sex.  At my silence, he tested the weight of my breast, rolling the sensitive bud between his thumb and forefinger until a hoarse noise pushed from the back of my throat. “Do you want me, Lizzie?”

“If you asked me, then I’d say yes!” I half-shouted. “Yes, I want you. Are you happy?”

“Good,” he growled. “That was all I needed to hear.”

Chapter 14

Setting me on my feet, Oliver’s palms flared over my flat stomach. I shivered—a combination of his touch and the cold metal of the refrigerator against my calves—and he skimmed his teeth over his bottom lip. Stopping at the waist of my skirt, he tugged my white pintuck top free.