by Olivia Hayle
As my mother often said—you can’t control what they think, but you can control whether you let it affect you or not. His opinion only defines me if I let it, and I won’t. Nothing can ruin how I feel now, how Claremont has made me feel. Jerks like him will always circle around this business like vultures.
But I won’t let them affect me anymore.
I shake off the encounter as I bike back up to the ranch that afternoon. My client is a woman from Claremont who my aunt drinks tea with on occasion. She gives me a nervous smile when I greet her and tells me about her issues with back pain. An hour later I've tried to give her both pain relief, muscle adjustment and a tiny bit of life advice.
“Using a heating pad at night, when you’re watching TV, will help a lot with pain management. I recommend that you see a chiropractor or your doctor and see what can be done long-term if the pain persists. Massaging out the knots in the area will help, but it won’t solve the underlying issue.”
She grabs my hand and squeezes it once, a smile on her face. “Thank you, honey. Your aunt told me I should try this and I’m not disappointed. I’ll get a heating pad.”
“Let me know if it helps.”
“I will.”
I’m folding towels when the door to the spa opens behind me. It’s exactly fifteen minutes past the end of my shift and I don’t even need to turn around to know who it is.
I smile. “You’re like clockwork.”
Strong arms wrap around my waist and the scent of man, grass, and leather overwhelms me. His hair tickles my temple. “Am I that predictable?”
I lean back against the hard chest, his closeness setting my heart off. I’ve longed for his touch. “Yes. You’re not mysterious at all, you know. An open book.”
“I should work on that.” His lips trace my neck, the scruff of his chin pleasurably rough against my skin. “Were the cookies in today’s delivery from you?”
“Mmm, maybe. Did you like them?”
“I’ve eaten about half.”
I grin. “High metabolic rate, huh?”
“Apparently.” His lips continue down my neck and make it hard for me to focus. “Have dinner with me at the farmhouse. We can cook, drink wine on the porch… I’ll be on my best behavior.”
I put my hand over his and trace the strength of his forearm. “Watch the sunset?”
“Yes.”
His hands are gentle, but I can feel the tension in his body as he waits for my reply. It's been over a week since the fair. We haven't touched like this since… I can't think of that night, or I'll combust.
“I’ll have dinner with you.”
Oliver’s arm tightens around my waist before he lets me go. “Good.”
He's a large and calm presence beside me as I finish up. He helps fold a few towels and waits patiently for me to get my things.
“This will be in full use when the wedding party is here next week.”
“I’ve already started working on the package for the bridesmaids,” I smile. “They can be in the hot tub, face masks on, while I give one-on-one massages.”
“You’re a natural at this.”
We walk close, closer than strictly necessary, all the way back up to the main house. His button-down is cuffed at the elbows and he’s not wearing a cap today. Thick, golden hair falls over his forehead. It’s truly ridiculous how attractive he is, how the rough-hewn aspects of his features only make him more so. He’s larger than any man I’ve ever been with—there’s just so much more of him.
I stop by the main house and glance at the reception. Oliver is still by my side, watching me. He can sense my hesitation.
“They don’t have to know.”
I nod. “I’d like that. Just let me fetch my bike.”
Oliver rolls his eyes at my precaution, but he doesn’t object, grabbing it for me. It rolls silently in the grass beside him as we walk towards his house. The house he lives in is smaller than the farmhouse, yes, but it has infinitely more charm. I love the wraparound porch.
“I’ll drive you home later.”
“I can bike, it’s not—“
“I’ll drive you home.”
Austin comes rushing out the back door and weaves between my legs. His coat is glossy under the blazing sun.
“Hi there, buddy. You’re a good boy. Yes… oh?” He flops down, belly up, and I grin. “Greedy, too.”
Oliver watches me, eyes unreadable. “I bought food from Ricky’s. Is that alright?”
“Of course. Am I finally going to get the Morris special?”
He snorts and heads into the kitchen. “Never.”
I hop onto one of the chairs by the kitchen counter. A vase of sunflowers stands in the middle and I smile. It has Sarah’s fingerprints all over. She does a lot to take care of him, I’ve realized.
“It must be exhausting, being such a figure in town.”
Oliver shuts the fridge and starts removing the tinfoil from two large platters with methodical precision. His shoulders are taut. "It can be."
“Will you tell me more about yourself tonight?”
“What do you want to know?”
“This house. Is this where you lived with your parents?”
“No, we lived in the farmhouse.”
The big house, which is now the reception and the main hotel for the retreat. I can’t imagine what growing up in a house like that must have been like. Maybe he hears the question in my voice, because he continues, unprompted.
"My father died some years back. When Sarah and I looked through the books, it turned out the place was more or less insolvent. Turns out the ranch hadn't been profitable for decades."
“I’m sorry.”
He grabs the plates and nods to the porch. “Shall we?”
“Let’s. Should I get anything?”
“There’s a pitcher of tea in the fridge and glasses in the top left cabinet.”
The table on the porch overlooks the meadow, and the evening sun makes the high grass gleam golden. I could stay here forever.
“Was it your idea to convert the ranch to a bed and breakfast?”
“Yes. We didn’t have an option, really. It was either that or sell it.”
I think of the heavy, silver-plated letters hanging by the gates to the Ranch. Morris. Selling it would have broken his heart.
“It’s a success now.”
“Well, I’m not sure if I’d call it that just yet.”
I smile. “It’s fully booked all of July. It’s given the town jobs and tourism. You’ve given me a job. All of that has to be worth something?”
Oliver’s eyes soften. “It is,” he says. “What did you do in Dallas?”
“I worked at a massage clinic and spa. One of the largest in the city, actually.” And one of the shittiest. I pour myself a glass of ice tea and try to sort through the jumble of memories and emotions. I want to learn more about him, but I’d rather skip talking about myself.
He waits for me to find my words.
“It didn’t end well,” I say finally. “My employment.”
There's no judgment in his silence. "It didn't?"
“No. And at the same time as that happened, my ex turned out to be a creep and my best friend a liar. I stayed in Dallas for a while after that, but the city quickly lost its charm.”
“And then you came here.”
“Yes, then I came here,” I repeat. “And I’m so happy I did.”
He’s easy to talk to, every part of him radiating safety and comfort. I don’t want to go anywhere else. We sit in comfortable silence as the sun begins its slow descent across the horizon. No words are needed, not for that beauty. Oliver runs a hand through his hair and motions to me.
“Come here.”
I sit down next to him on the porch swing. A strong arm wraps around my shoulders and pulls me close.
“Look at that,” he murmurs.
The sunset is a blaze of glory, orange and pinks and purples, all across the field. It’s summer, it’s warm, and I�
��ve never been more content.
“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.
He traces a rough finger down my shoulder. “Are you cold?”
“No.” I put a hand on his chest. I know what it looks like, the tan skin and the taut muscles. Oliver’s arm tightens, as if he can sense my mood.
“You drive me mad, Luce.”
“I do?” I slide my hand down the hard planes of his stomach.
Oliver’s groan is barely audible. “Yes. You have since the first time I met you.”
“That long?”
“You’ve been driving me insane since the first time you biked up here in those tiny shorts, your hair undone…”
I reach up and kiss his neck. “It’s the same for me,” I tell him. “I see you stride across the ranch and I think I might die from wanting you.”
He catches my hand as it traces his belt buckle, and when he speaks, his voice is tight. “Don’t. I can’t stop thinking about the night we spent at yours.”
“It haunts me, too. I wake up wanting you, and I go to bed longing,” I say. “It’s been too long.”
His voice is rough. “Not for a lack of wanting.”
I’m not sure who moves first, because when we collide, it overwhelms me completely. I’m tugged forward and atop him, straddled across his hard belt buckle. His hands are bruising in their intensity. It’s like he can’t decide if he wants to pull me closer or push me away, to surrender or to keep fighting.
I plunge my hands into his thick hair. Surrender, I think. I want him to be as lost to this as I am. With a groan, he stands, my legs wrapped around his waist. I’m vaguely aware of being airborne. The screen door closes behind us with a soft click, but I don’t stop kissing him. I couldn’t even if I tried.
His lips taste of sweet ice tea and barbecue sauce and intensity. They’re firm and demanding on mine. The touch sends heat through my limbs, twined around him, and warmth pools in my stomach. Yes, I think. Yes, yes, yes.
Oliver stops at the bottom of a staircase. I slide down his body slowly, his hands wrapped tightly around my waist. His blue eyes are dark with desire.
“You’re sleeping here tonight.”
“Mmm,” I say, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him again.
The heat between us burns hotter than it did last week. His hands are everywhere; they’re fire on my skin as he tears at the buttons of my shirt. When he tugs down my shorts and runs reverent hands over my thighs, my eyes roll back a bit. It’s too much to be wanted by this man. I can’t bear it.
Oliver goes down on me again, hands holding my legs apart, and I have to grip his sheets to keep from straining away from that mouth. He knows me too well, and still… I never want him to stop. I break apart under his hands and tongue.
I touch him the same way. Sprawled atop him on his massive bed, he’s a golden mess of man and I want him everywhere. I trace the groove of his collarbone and the scarred skin of his shoulder.
These are things I’ll remember forever—the growling sound he makes when I stroke him, hard and throbbing in my hand. A sweaty forehead against my shoulder, hair tickling my skin. When he murmurs my name, a prayer and a plea in one. He tastes salty and slick, and I look up at him as I do my best to make him burn like I am.
Because I’m on fire. The world could be ending outside of this bed—it might as well not exist at all. Nothing matters but him and this, the clawing, burning need inside of me to make us one.
I notice things I didn’t, that first, delirious time in my studio apartment. The way his chest hair feels against my breasts when he fills me. How he will time the deep thrust of his hips with slow kisses. How the hair at the nape of his neck curls, just slightly, with the humidity and heat rising between us.
Oliver brings me over the edge twice before he finds his own release. So caught in my own desire last time, I nearly missed it. I make sure I don’t this time.
I wrap my legs around his waist and run my hands along the powerful muscles of his back. His gaze, heady with need and lust, meets mine and I refuse to look away. I want to see it. I want to see him like this, lost in me, just as I’m lost in him.
Oliver shudders as he comes, his eyes shuttering for a few moments. I hold him close and feel the aftershocks as my body squeezes around him.
He collapses on top of me, still buried inside, his breath heavy against my temple. I never want to move from this spot, enveloped in his warmth. I want to know all of him.
“You’re never getting rid of me now,” I say.
I feel the faint exhale of his laugh. “That doesn’t sound like a problem.”
18
Oliver
I sleep better than I have in years.
Her warmth against me and the soft tickle of her hair against my chest is the last thing I remember before I drift off into blissful, dreamless sleep. It isn’t until the early morning hours that I feel her stir in my arms.
I’m awake in an instant. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She yawns, pulling back her hair. “I have to head back to the bakery.”
“Now?”
“My aunt and uncle start working soon, and I can’t exactly slip in through the front door when they think I’m asleep upstairs. Besides—“she glances at the clock on my nightstand—“my shift starts in two hours.”
I tug her back and throw my leg over both of hers. Her skin is warm and soft against mine, and I want to fall back asleep. “What if I just keep you here instead?”
“Keep me prisoner?”
"This house has all the necessary amenities." I kiss the small birthmark atop her right breast. "I wouldn't break the Geneva convention."
Lucy laughs again, and I smile in response. “I’ll happily surrender to you any other day.”
“I’ll take that as a promise.”
She cups my face with a soft hand. Her nails gently rasp against the scruff on my cheek. “You haven’t shaved,” she murmurs.
“No. I’ve been asleep.”
She rolls her eyes, but keeps exploring the side of my face. The way she’s looking at me… I could kill to keep her looking at me that way. I never want to lose it.
“I like it.” She bends to kiss me softly. “And now I must be off.”
Shorts are tugged up over those magnificent legs, a tank-top pulled on. I sigh and sit up. My t-shirt is draped over a chair in the corner, but my boxers are nowhere to be found. I grab a new pair from the drawer.
“Oliver?”
“Yes?”
“You can sleep in, you know. It’s very early.”
“I’m not about to let you bike back down to town in the middle of the night alone.”
She rolls her eyes again, tying her hair up. "It's almost dawn."
“Still.” I press a kiss to her temple and reach around to where my jeans hang. “I’m driving you home.”
Austin’s claws on the hardwood floor is the only sound in the dark house. It’s as quiet as it always is, but it doesn’t feel that empty anymore. Not with Lucy’s hand in mine and her scent clinging to me.
“You’re being silly,” she murmurs, but her voice is soft.
I grab the keys to the truck. “I’m not. Are you worried someone might see us?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
I pick up her bike and stow it in the back of my truck. The ranch is dead quiet, all the guests asleep and reception closed.
Lucy puts her feet up on my dash and turns to look at me as I pull out. The road to Main Street is as familiar as the back of my hand.
“What are you thinking about?”
I tap the steering wheel. “That I wish you could have stayed all night.”
“Oh, Oliver.”
I don’t know what that means, or the soft sigh that follows, but I reach out and put a hand on her knee. The skin is distractingly soft beneath my palm. “No regrets?”
“None.”
“Good.”
She’s quiet again as her hand covers mine. I look ove
r and see her furrowed brow, her tentative expression. I think she’s about to ask me something—I just hope it’s something I can answer.
“How well do you know Gavin Whittaker?”
What?
“Better than I’d like to. Why?”
She looks out the window. “You’re not friends, then?”
“Hell, no. Why are you asking about him?” Of all people, she asks me about him… What had made her think of Gavin? Now? His disgusting words at the pub come back to me.
“Has he done something to you?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way. He came by the bakery yesterday.”
My hand tightens around the wheel. “Tell me what he said.”
“It wasn’t that bad.” She shakes her head. “Actually, it was awful, but I’m used to it.”
“Tell me.”
“He asked me if I accepted clients from town, and if I… if I gave any special services.” The last two words are whispered, her tone dripping with disgust. “I told him in no uncertain terms that I didn’t. I’m not sure he heard me.”
For a wild moment, I see red. Anger, raw and palpable, pulse through my body. I need to hit something—that something being Gavin Whittaker’s smug face.
“Oliver?”
“I’ll handle it.”
“I don’t want you to handle it.” She’s frowning when I glance over, eyes flickering from my face to my hand, still clutched too tight around the steering wheel. I force myself to relax. “I told him I don’t do that sort of thing, and that should be that.”
“Yes, maybe.” It won’t, with him, though. The lesson Logan and I had tried to impart earlier had clearly gone right over his head. “I’ll take to him.”
“I want to handle it myself.”
I force my breathing to calm, my anger to drain. “Alright.”
“I just wanted to tell you. If he calls up to reception to book a treatment, I’m not going to accept him as a client.” She looks determined. “Therapist’s prerogative.”