Dark Wild Night (Wild Seasons #3)(95)
Author: Christina Lauren

My skin grows hot, my eyes moving to the door. “He’s what?”

“That boy is a lightweight, too. A couple beers and three episodes into a Walking Dead marathon and he was out. Still is.” She points over her shoulder toward the loft. “On the couch.”

I look down to the keys in my hand. I’d planned on calling Oliver when I got home, or maybe even stopping by the store, but thought I’d have a little more time to think first. “Thanks for keeping him company.”

“No problem. He’s a lot of fun. If he wasn’t yours and I hadn’t sworn off men until menopause . . .” she says, giggling as she pushes off the wall. “Anyway, I’m off.”

“Beach?”

“High tide in forty-five minutes. I’ll be back around dinner, though, if you want to hang out?”

I nod and turn to watch her go. “Yeah, I’ll have to work tonight but I’ll be here.”

London takes the stairs and I wait until she’s gone before I turn back to the door, finally fitting my key into the lock.

It’s quiet inside, still early enough that with the curtains closed the apartment is cool and dark. I slide the door shut as quietly as I can and wait, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light. There’s the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing from the couch, and I set down my things before stepping into the kitchen for a glass of water, and maybe a shot of vodka.

The recycling bin is full of empty beer bottles, and my stomach warms with a familiar longing: tipsy Oliver is too adorable, all goofy smiles and happy blue eyes. I’m actually sad I missed it. But then I remember why he was here—because he needed company—and any warm fuzzies evaporate immediately, replaced by the same twisty sensation I’ve had for days.

I reach for a glass and fill it with water, swallowing it down in a few icy gulps.

It’s strange how familiar this feels. Oliver is on the couch again, one foot hanging off the edge, the other bent at an odd angle and tucked beneath his opposite leg. He’s on his back, one arm stretched high above his head, the other resting on his chest. His shirt is askew, the thin blue fabric twisted up around his torso, leaving the majority of his lower stomach and hip bones uncovered. His glasses are on the table next to his phone, and there’s a discarded blanket on the floor.

A night on the couch means he’ll definitely be sore when he wakes up, and I’m not sure if I should wake him or keep staring at him. Staring is definitely easier and my eyes are hungry after days without him.

I miss his hands, how strong and greedy they are. I miss his stomach, the firm skin, soft hair. I miss his forever-long legs, his hips, his—

“Lola?” he says, and I jump, quickly blinking back up to his face.

“Hi.”

He pushes a hand through his hair and looks around the apartment. “Hey . . . sorry, I crashed here. I didn’t even hear you come in.”

“I’m a ninja,” I say, and he gives me a wan smile. “You know you can stay over anytime.”

The offer ticks between us heavily, meaning something different the longer we’re silent. He rubs his eyes before bending to pick up his glasses and slide them on. Things have never been so awkward with me and Oliver until recently. It hurts. I mean, it twists something inside my ribs to have it be this stilted.

“London saw me at Fred’s,” he explains, bending to pull the blanket off the floor. “She asked if I wanted to hang out—just hanging out, drinks and whatnot—she was sort of insistent, actually—”

“It’s okay,” I cut in, fighting a smile. The sensation is like warm water in my veins: relief from hearing him needing to explain why he went home with another woman, even if it was with my roommate. “I caught her on her way to the beach. She told me that she ran into you.”

He nods slowly. “You didn’t come home last night.”

Oh. Did he forget . . . ?

“I was at Greg’s.”

He winces, pinching his forehead. “Fuck, that’s right.”

The relief in his voice is everything to me. “He and Ellen split.”

Looking up at me, he asks, “Is he okay?”

I nod. “He seems fine, actually. I think she was just a very available pair of fake boobs.”

He laughs and scratches the back of his head, asking with more care, “Are you okay?”

God, that is a huge question. “Yes and no.”

The silence stretches between us and I wonder if he’s done holding my hand, if this is his way of forcing me to talk. “I told Austin yesterday that there were some things he couldn’t change, and the romance angle was one of them.”