The man glances over his shoulder as he tosses a handful of blueberries into his mouth. “Not very hospitable of you.”
“Not the hospitable type,” I tell him. “Especially if he doesn’t want you here.”
The man flashes a smile beneath that gnarly beard that makes the hair on my neck stand on end. It feels…vaguely familiar. “What’s he to you?” the man asks.
“Viggo,” Oliver says sharply. “This isn’t funny. Get out.”
The man shuts the fridge with his hip, glancing between us. “I take it I’m not needed, then.”
“Absofuckinglutely not,” I snap.
Oliver peers at me curiously, before he turns back to Viggo and glares. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s messed up. I told you I was going to figure this out on my own, and I did. Now go. Raid someone else’s fridge.”
Viggo sighs. “Fine.” Pushing off the fridge, he walks back through the living room, tugging on his shoes. He flashes another wide smile Oliver’s way, then at me. “Enjoy your evening, gents.”
With a salute, he swipes his keys off the table and slips out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.
I turn back toward Oliver. “What the hell was that?”
Oliver crumples onto a stool at his kitchen island and buries his face in his hands. “A man trying to make a horse wear swimming trunks.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Are you delirious? Dehydrated?”
His laugh echoes inside the space of his hands. “I’m going to throttle him,” he mutters.
“Oliver,” I growl, making his head snap up. “What was that? Who the hell was that?”
Silence hangs in the space between us. Too late do I realize how…intense I sounded. How much I’ve just revealed.
Slowly, Oliver spins on the stool and cocks his head. “What does it matter?”
I glance away, dragging a hand through my hair, wracking my brain for how to salvage this and cover my ass. “A man just…walked into your house and raided your fucking refrigerator.”
He stares at me, then finally says, “So?”
“So?” I throw up my hands. “That’s weird, invasive shit.”
Oliver snorts. “Viggo to a T.”
My jaw clenches. “Why…was he here, just, walking into your house like that…” I try to hold back the words, but they force their way out. “Touching you like that?”
His fingertips drum softly across the counter. He stares at me. “I’m going to ask you again, why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t,” I lie, anger and panic knotting inside me. I can’t stay. I can’t care. I try to find that place inside myself that I slip into every day—cold, contained, detached. But it’s like the lights are out inside me and I can’t find that familiar door, that escape I so desperately need as Oliver pushes off his stool and walks toward me, hands in his pockets.
“Fine, then,” he says, shrugging. “If it doesn’t matter, then you don’t need to know.”
“Goddammit, Bergman.”
He rolls his shoulders back, chin high and proud, holding my eyes. “What, Hayes?”
I hear the air sawing out of my lungs, feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, in my limbs. “Don’t push me.”
He takes another step closer. “Now you want answers. What happened to ‘We agreed we’d move on’？”
My hands are tight, aching fists. I don’t trust them not to wrap their hands around him, pin him against me, hold him tight while I give that tart mouth what it deserves: a deep, punishing kiss. Many of them.
“This is different,” I finally manage.
He tips his head. “How? You’ve made it clear you’re past what happened. What does it matter to you who’s in my house or what goes on with them?”
I don’t have an answer for that. I can’t explain myself. I can’t admit how the past three weeks have been the worst kind of torture.
Sighing, he scrubs his face. “I know I asked you for help tonight, that I very briefly transgressed the ‘strictly coworkers, only professional’ truce we’ve stuck with the past few weeks, but that was for my niece’s sake. You helped, and I appreciate it—” He closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath, then says, “And now I need you to go.”
It knocks the air out of me, hearing him say that. I’m the one who’s pushed back, created distance, ordered him to leave, booted his ass out my door. Oliver telling me to go, wishing me gone…fuck, it’s not right.
And that’s exactly what you’re avoiding, the voice inside me warns.
Correct. That’s exactly what I’m preemptively sparing myself—the pain of being unwanted when my allure fades with my career, when I’m nothing but a tired, sore, washed-up former athlete with more aches and pains than the poker guys combined, and his career takes off, drawing him to better clubs, luxurious places, the eager touch and attention given by those who’ll be even more drawn to his looks and charm as he becomes more accomplished, earns more fame.
But, another voice whispers. There’s still a way, isn’t there? To get what you want without risking any of that?
I stare at Oliver as he holds my eyes, a muscle in his jaw flexing, arms crossed. Fuck, he’s aggravating. And gorgeous. And I want him so damn much.
Could I do it? I have before—fucked and kept my feelings squarely out of it. With Elliot, I did it for years. When he reacted precisely how I knew he would to the news that I was leaving England, signing with the Galaxy, I felt nothing. Not disappointment, not loss, not surprise. I knew what I was to him—a means to the lifestyle he enjoyed, a famous guy to be seen with, a damn good lay with absolutely no emotional attachments required.
What if Oliver and I could have that, too? A mutually agreed upon “all fucks, no feels” understanding. I have no idea if he’d want that. And yet my desperation tells me I’m going to lose my fucking mind if I don’t at least try to find out.
“It matters,” I croak.
Oliver’s eyes widen. “What?”
I close the distance between us, clasp his face, my thumb sliding along his cheekbone, the very place that fucker kissed him. “I wanted to tear his limbs off when he touched you.”
Oliver’s arms fall to his sides, and now his hands are fists like mine were, like he’s struggling as much as I was a moment ago to keep them to himself. “Why?” he says quietly.
I lean in, our chests brushing, air rushing out of his lungs. “Because I want you like a sickness eating away at me, Oliver, and seeing him…” My jaw clenches. Words are lost.
“I want you, too,” he admits, shutting his eyes, like he can’t look at me and say it. “To the point of distraction. I’m so miserable. But…I told myself I’d never do this again. I can’t.”
I slide my thumb down to his jaw, slip my other hand through his hair, knead his scalp, making his eyes drift open. “What are you talking about?”
His eyes search mine for a long minute. He swallows roughly, his expression guarded. “I told myself I’m not getting involved with anyone I work with. It…blew up in my face badly when I was younger. And this—the team, my focus on the season and on my career—I can’t risk that again. I won’t let feelings complicate or compromise any of it.”