Dark Wild Night (Wild Seasons #3)(81)
Author: Christina Lauren

“Sort of,” London says, smiling gently.

Harlow replies, Lola: we’re meeting at the Regal Beagle tonight.

I stare at my phone and then put it down on the coffee table, picking up my mug instead. I can’t deal with Harlow quite yet.

London walks around the counter and into the living room. “Are you going to come?”

I sit down. “I don’t think so.”

“That means yes?”

“It means probably not.” I wince apologetically. “I have to work.”

She sits down next to me on the couch, and for the first time since I’ve known her, London’s eyes aren’t smiling. “You’ve been out of that room for a grand total of an hour and a half since Saturday night. It’s Thursday.”

I nod, taking a sip of coffee. “I’m getting caught up. It’s good.”

“Look,” she begins, “you don’t get to pretend you’re just fine and also not talk to anyone. If you’re sad, tell me to stay home with you so you can talk my ear off. If you won’t talk to us, just keep pretending that being a crazy, work-obsessed hermit is normal, but get your ass to the bar for one fucking evening.”

“Is Oliver going?”

“Yes,” she says. “Your friend Oliver is going.”

I lean back against the couch and close my eyes. My heart is already racing two hundred beats per second.

* * *

TONIGHT IT TAKES me forever to get ready. Am I furious or guilty? I have no idea.

I do know that I have a closet full of new clothes I’ve bought for book signings and appearances and who knows what but I hate them all. One dress is too short, another is too long, another is too tight. Do I show off cleavage or keep it all hidden? Do I look grubby to show him I don’t give a crap who else he goes out with, or do I put in the effort to look amazing?

Finally I pull on a black V-neck sweater (some cleavage) and my favorite jeans with boots. My hair is longer than it’s ever been—halfway down my back—and instead of a ponytail or easy bun, I leave it long and straight. I keep it tucked behind my ears, but at least it gives me something to hide behind if I need it. I’ve never worn much makeup—never had need for foundation or powder—and tonight all I put on is lip gloss.

I hate kissing with it on; it’s the chastity belt for innocent drunk kisses with men I desperately love but who maybe went on a maybe-date with someone else last night.

The gang is situated in the regular booth toward the back when I arrive. I see Ansel, Mia, Finn, Not-Joe, London, and Oliver, whose back is to me and whose broad shoulders I assume are blocking Harlow from my view, because I can hear her laugh from clear across the bar.

My stomach crawls up my throat. I wave hello to Fred and stand at the side of the booth, waiting for Oliver to notice and let me in. It’s a bit like watching dominoes fall as everyone sees me in succession, smiling instinctively before the smiles crumple as they remember, and they turn to look at Oliver.

I swear my heart is going to beat its way out of my chest.

For the love of God. His breath catches when he sees me standing there, and he just stares right at my face for what feels like a million, pounding heartbeats.

And, just like that, I feel like I’ve been slapped across the face. I don’t just miss him, I need him. I don’t want this distance. I don’t want it to be over. I don’t want to lose him. For fuck’s sake, how do I take care of everything?

Finally, he moves over to let me in, smiling a little down at the bench. “Come on in.”

He’s wearing a dark green Preacher T-shirt and the same dark jeans he wore the other night when I undressed him, went down on him for the first time.

I can still feel his skin on my lips, his trembling hands in my hair.

I can still remember the way he sounded in the shower. What we did.

The panel shows the girl standing in front of the mirror, the words I AM NOT READY FOR THIS. I AM NOT EVEN A LITTLE READY FOR THIS corkscrewing around her body.

“Hey,” I manage.

“Hey.” He swallows, eyes on my mouth for only a breath before he puts his expression in order, poker-facing it as only Oliver can. This is the first time I’ve seen him since Sunday afternoon, and it feels like my heart was put back together inside out.

God, if this is hard for me, I can’t imagine how this must be for him. Terrible. And look at him, calm and poised, always composed. I don’t think I’ve ever admired anyone the way I admire him.

“Hey, Lola,” Ansel says, smiling so wide his dimples dip all the way to Mars.

I smile back.

“So, how’s the book coming?” Harlow asks a little too loudly.