by Wood, Vivian
“Stop,” I plead.
“I’m just telling you that you can do better. And you’d only be a last resort for him. You know?”
That hurts, big time. Ripping my arm from his hold, I growl at him. “Are you done?”
His light-colored eyes study me for a moment, then he nods. “Yep.”
Shaking my head, I stalk toward the dining hall. Grayson doesn’t even know anything about it.
…does he?
Chapter Sixteen
Aiden
Almost a week passes. A week in which Olivia and I have seen each other in the main house or outside our apartments and still somehow neither of us has said a word to the other. That’s mostly because apparently Grayson caught me looking at her during our most recent trip to Whiskey Bend. I remember perfectly what Grayson whispered to me outside the mess hall.
You and Olivia, working so closely together… I just don't want any wires to get crossed. She deserves someone loyal and faithful. You are a good friend, but that one woman thing isn’t really for you. You’re a player. Find someone else to chase.
He’s absolutely right about that. I’m the biggest player I know, and no good for her besides that. I do need to find someone else to focus my obsession on. It’s just hard, because there is no one else even close to my age at the Morgan estate.
It’s rainy and gray outside today, cutting my house painting short. So after talking with Margaret, I’ve decided to start working on the inside of the house. I discover another set of stairs past the level with the ballroom, tucked away at the end of the hall. After climbing them, I find myself in a long passageway, the whole thing sprinkled with closed doors.
Unable to help myself, I go down the passage, opening all the doors. Most of them just open onto attic spaces, the rooms oddly shaped and containing nothing but a few sheet-draped pieces of furniture. One room proves to be a treasure trove, though.
It is packed to the brim with the ghostly shapes of old furniture, antique candelabras, and trunks that look like they should’ve gone down with the Titanic. I start sorting through things, trying to segregate the few things that should be kept from all the things that should be trashed.
It’s hot, sweaty work up here. Maybe when the room is a little more empty I can open a window, but for now I’m just sweat-slicked. The clouds of dust released every time I move anything start to stick to my skin.
It’s a lucky thing that I’m a park ranger, and therefore used to being a little dirty. Hell, I was a Navy man before that. There is nothing quite as cloying as the desert sands of Kandahar.
I can deal with this pretty easily, but I am a little worried that I will happen upon Olivia when I’m sweaty and smell bad.
I keep working anyhow. The furniture is mostly trash and I spend my afternoon hauling it downstairs to get rid of it. Most of the trunks prove to be old books. But inside one of them are several paper-wrapped packages that prove to be bottles of liquor.
I show them to Margaret, who chuckles. “Those must’ve been Betram’s. That was my brother, Carter’s grandfather. He always knew how to have a good time. And he liked to hide things away…”
I pause. It sounds like Bertram would’ve been my grandfather, if what my mother told me was true.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, careful to mask my intense interest. “He did?”
“Oh yes.” She cocks her head, considering. “He was a very playful person, even when he was older. He always said that you could take a boy out of the schoolroom but not the other way around.” She sighs and eyes the trunk. “Bertram was taken from us too soon.”
Yikes. This is good information to have, but it is veering a little into the morose. I clear my throat. “Where do you want me to put it?”
She waves her hand. “Get rid of the bottles of whiskey. Or better yet, if they are still good, drink them. That’s what Bertram would have wanted.”
My lips lift at the corners. “Alright then.”
Margaret looks to the window, to the sunlight turning amber as the sun begins to set. “You can take the rest of the day off. Tell Olivia that too. You two enjoy yourselves.”
After thanking Margaret, I head back upstairs to the second floor. The ballroom is empty but for the piles of paper Olivia has been shuffling around. I clatter back down the stairs and out the front door, grabbing the trunk as I go.
I nearly run Olivia down on my way off of the porch. She’s wearing that pink crop top and those tight white cotton pants again, her hair tied up off her neck with a kerchief. She’s wearing these oversized glasses, looking for all the world like a sexy librarian.
“Whoa!” she says, carrying an armload of books. She almost loses her balance, making me grab her arm. Our eyes connect, instantly sparking.
I look down at her, the trunk pressed between us. She blushes, even though nothing has been said.
Nothing needs to be said. In the crackling silence between us, my lips turn up at the corners. There is something about her that just pulls a smile out of me. She clears her throat.
“I was actually just coming to find you,” she says.
“Is that right?” I say. “Here I was, coming to find you.”
That turns the apples of her cheeks scarlet. “Oh. Well… I thought that I should share some information I found with you. You asked for me to look out for mentions of your mom—”
“Shhh,” I say, glancing at the door behind me. “Come on. Come back to my apartment and tell me.”
“Okay,” she says, letting me tow her along toward the woods. I feel her eyes on me. “What’s in the trunk?”
“Apparently someone in the family used to squirrel away liquor bottles. I showed them to Margaret, and she told me to drink them or throw them out. And I’m not about to waste any whiskey…”
I glance at her, watching the gears turn. She pulls a puzzled frown.
“And that made you think of me somehow?”
Rolling my eyes, I pull her through the woods. “You don't like whiskey?”
“Err… I don't think I’ve had it. And especially not any whiskey that comes out of a trunk that’s clearly like a thousand years old.”
I grin. “You’re a whiskey virgin! Lucky for you, I think I have some ginger ale in my apartment. If you haven’t tried whiskey, it’s the way to go.”
“Oh my god. You are such a bad influence,” she mumbles. Her cheeks burning bright, she lets me pull her up to my apartment.
Once we’re in the door, I put the trunk down on the little Formica kitchen counter. Then I point to the pair of overstuffed chairs in the corner.
“Sit,” I command. “I’ll play the bartender.”
She puts her stack of books down on my wobbly kitchen table, then retreats to the other side of the room, watching me very closely. I’m getting a wary vibe off of her and I don't know how to get her to just relax.
Everything about her posture and her face is uptight, her eyes roving around my apartment as if something will jump out at her in any moment. After a second, I realize she’s probably thinking of her only other experience in here. Me, half-naked. And her, seeing more than I wanted her to.
As I get two glasses down and put a little chilled ginger ale in them, I glance at her.
“What did you find that you wanted me to know about?” I ask. “Something about my mom?”
She sits back in her chair, warming to the topic. “Yeah. I wasn’t looking at 1989, exactly. I’m only in the 1910s. But I found a stack of papers that were totally out of order, from the late 1980s. They mention a girl living at the estate, someone about your mother’s age.”
“Oh yeah? Is there any more information?”
“I think there was a name… let me see…” She leans over and starts digging through the pile of papers.
I open one of the dusty whiskey bottles, sniffing its contents. It smells more like some combination of chocolate and Barbasol than just alcohol per se. I make a face, pouring a splash of it into one of the glasses. The liquid is dark amber. Tos
sing it back, I shiver a little as the caramel flavors mix with a spicy, sweet taste of fruit.
It’s still good. Very good, actually. I pour a healthy amount into my own glass, then a little bit into hers. I top her glass off with a little more ginger ale than whiskey.
“Ah. Here it is,” she says, nodding to herself as she reads.
I carry our glasses over to where Olivia sits, handing her the tumbler full of high ball cocktail. She looks up at me when I hand her the drink.
“Thanks,” she says, although she looks dubious of its contents.
I sit down, sipping my whiskey. Watching her as she takes a hesitant sip of hers makes me smile. She seems thoughtful for a second, wincing after she swallows.
“It kind of burns when I swallow,” she says. She looks up at me, her blue eyes soft. “But it’s actually not terrible. Thanks for making it for me.”
She studies me boldly for a second, then blushes and takes another sip.
“Not a problem.” I sit back. “Did you find the name?”
“Ah. Yes, it was Anna, I think.”
My heart falters for a second. I lean my head back, taking a moment to absorb that news.
My mother’s name was Anna. It’s pretty likely that she was the only Anna visiting in the summer of 1989. Having my suspicions confirmed a little bit more makes me feel sort of vindicated. For a minute there, I was starting to feel like my mother sent me on a goose chase, telling me Thomas Morgan was my father when he wasn’t.
Then I feel a flash of guilt for doubting my mom. Not only that, but I feel like a complete piece of trash for handling her confession so badly. The parting words I said to her — especially the fact that I told her fuck herself — that’s something that I will have to live with every day until I die.
The heavy stuff aside though, why would she lie to me on her death bed?
“I can't really tell if I just gave you the news you wanted or not,” Olivia says quietly.
My lips tip up as I look at her delicate features again. “Yeah, that’s my mom.”
She looks relieved. “Well, then that’s good. Or I think it is, anyway.”
“Mmm.” I’m not really sure whether it is good or not, but I won’t dwell on that.
What I will dwell on is Olivia. My eyes sink down to take in what she’s wearing again, especially that crop top. It just showcases a few inches of skin right below her tits. My fingers throb dully with the desire to touch that creamy, bared skin.
Out of nowhere, the words bubble up and spill out of my mouth. “Your brother warned me off of you when we were in Whiskey Bend.”
Her eyebrows fly up and she starts to flush. “He did? Why?”
Taking a slug of my whiskey, I shake my head. “I don't know. Maybe he saw me looking at you.”
She glances down, her irises concealed by her long, dark-rimmed lashes. She toys with the rim of her glass, her full pink lips parting. When she speaks, her voice is so soft it’s almost a whisper. “What did Grayson say exactly?”
Leaning closer to her is only natural, like a flower opening to the sun. I catch a whiff her natural scent — she smells a bit like jasmine and soap. My words leave my chest as almost a growl.
“Well… he said that I’m no good for you.” She looks up, her breath catching in her throat when she realizes how close I am. I look into her eyes, pure desire crackling in the space between our bodies.
Her words are breathy as she leans in, close enough to touch. I can feel her body heat from this far away. “Do you agree?”
I look at her lips, swallowing. At the way she ever so hesitantly bites her lower lip, hard white against supple pink.
“That I’m bad for you?” I ask, licking my lower lip. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”
And that’s what breaks something in Olivia. She closes the gap between us, pulled to my lips like the ocean at high tide. She stops a second before her mouth actually touches mine, but I press my lips down onto hers without a moment’s hesitation.
There’s a moment of pure electricity between us, like lightning struggling to find enough air to pull itself to earth. It crackles and cracks as I feel her hot lips beneath my own.
Shit. I should not have done this. I shouldn’t have let my lips touch hers. I know that Olivia is off limits. I know it in my gut.
But my gut seems faraway, compared with this living, breathing person who is digging her fingers into my arm, begging me subconsciously for more.
Though I’d like nothing more than to fuck her, to give her everything she’s asking for and more, I won’t.
I can't.
But I can kiss her properly. I open my mouth, teasing my way between her lips with my tongue. She tastes sweet and earthy, the heady mix of her drink and her need bursting on my tongue like fireworks. I cup her jaw and lean closer, drinking her in.
Images flood my brain, pictures of all the things I would like to do to her.
If she were anyone else, I would be fucking her already.
Then again, if she were anyone else, things would never have gotten this far. I would have already had her and discarded her.
Maybe she tastes extra sweet because of who she is, then.
There’s a change in her breathing, a question unspoken. I break off the kiss and pull away, already knowing the answer. Scanning her prettily flushed face, the words are pulled from my chest. She looks so hopeful, so open and honest and fresh.
I can't let her down, but I know that taking this any further would only be more of a blow. So I say it.
“We can’t,” I rumble.
Olivia’s face caves in. She turns red. “Oh.”
She pushes me away, standing up and gathering her stack of papers with shaking hands. I am shaking too, adrenaline rushing through my system.
“Olivia,” I try to say.
She bites her lower lip, her expression pained. She pushes past me. “I have to go.”
I catch her by the elbow, trying to think of what to say. Anything to comfort her. “It’s not anything about you. You have to understand…”
“I think I understand perfectly,” she says, tearing up. “Now let me go.”
She yanks her elbow free of my grip and hurries out of my apartment. I stand there for a half minute, staring at the door. I feel guilty and ashamed, for reasons I can’t even fully articulate. I also feel like I let Olivia down somehow.
Turning back to the chairs, I pick up her glass, slugging it back. The rinse of cool, overly sweet ginger ale does nothing to relieve the churning in my stomach, though. Shaking my head, I pluck my glass from my chair and head to put them in the sink.
Chapter Seventeen
Olivia
For the next few days, I keep myself locked up in the ballroom during work hours. Staying busy, darting down to the library for a new stack of papers occasionally, I nurse my wounded pride.
Outside of work hours, I barricade myself in my apartment. I drink tea and read Love In The Time of Cholera and sigh to myself. I go through an entire extra large bar of dark chocolate, which does little to change my mood.
The whole world is full of would be romances that didn’t work out. I need to focus on that, not on the stunning rejection that I feel every time I think about Aidan.
With his dark hair, his dark eyes, and his enormous stature, he is the stuff of fantasies. That much I am sure of. But I won’t pine for him.
I refuse.
I actually come to stacks of papers representing the late 1980s. Probably full of references to Aidan’s mother. But because I can, because no rule has been set about going through each piece of paper in order, I set them aside. Push them into a corner and resolve to do them later.
I’m at my table-turned-desk, squinting down at a page full of near-illegible scribbles, when I hear voices downstairs seeping into my solitude. I must have left the doors to the ballroom open when I last dashed downstairs. I hear deep baritones and lighter soprano voices; there are at least a few of each.
Even with myself, Mar
garet, Carter, and Aiden, there isn’t that much noise. So I push myself up out of my seat, drifting toward the landing curiously. At the same time, Carter comes bounding up the stairs.
“Olivia,” he says when he sees me. He gestures for me to follow him. “Come. The are some people I want you to meet.”
My cheeks color. I glance down at my plain blue dress, streaked with dust. Carter gives his head an impatient shake. “It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing.”
He just reads me, like it’s no big deal. I pale and follow him down the grand staircase, my eyes taking everything in.
I spot Margaret in the far corner, chatting with two older women dressed in designer pantsuits. My hands go to my skirt, feeling inadequate already. There are three older men in expensive suits, standing with their heads together, quietly conferring. None of the visitors so much as look up at my arrival, until Carter calls attention to me.
“Hey! This is Olivia, the girl Aunt Margaret hired to do the family archives,” he says, his voice naturally loud, filling up the foyer.
When everyone looks at me, I turn bright red. The expressions looking back at me are a mix of suspicious, aloof, and almost hostile. I wish instantly that I could’ve just stayed invisible.
Carter doesn’t seem to notice though. “Olivia, this is my extended family. Aunt Gretchen and Emily, and Uncles Will, Tolliver, and Smith.”
Everyone is silent for a minute. Then one of the women speaks up. “That’s nice, dear. Margaret said that you also hired a handyman. Would you be a darling and show us around the house? We would like to see what state everything is in. You know…” She glances at Margaret. “For the future.”
Carter looks bored by the very suggestion. He sighs. “Maybe we should start outside? That’s where the most visible signs are that someone has been trying to rehab the old house.”
Everyone trails out the door, leaving me and Margaret alone. We stand by the open front door, watching as Carter points out the condition of the porch to his audience. I glance at Margaret, who sighs and shakes her head. She hobbles off into the front parlor.
