by Nichole Van
And for that, I was glad.
TWENTY FIVE
Olivia
Mom, don’t make me regret coming home for this.” I relaxed on the living room couch. My parents sat on the loveseat opposite.
Tennyson had taken himself off to bed, still obviously feeling the strain of the emotions around him. I appreciated his presence more than I could express—knowing that there was someone unequivocally in my camp—but I knew it came at a steep personal price.
He had a near freak-out on the plane. As a connoisseur of freak-outs myself, I clearly recognized one when I saw it.
Thankfully, he slept through most of the flight. I really wanted to ask what had set him off, but I was worried about triggering him again, so I kept quiet. For now.
Seeing Tennyson like that though . . . I realized I was truly seeing the extent of his fracturing. He managed his life so meticulously in Volterra, painstakingly avoiding scenarios like this because he knew they could have disastrous results.
He had to have known flying would be like that.
And yet . . . he had come anyway. The better question was . . . why? Why had Tennyson come with me? It was the action of a true friend.
Or, my stupidly hopeful heart whispered, possibly someone who thinks of you as more than a friend.
Naturally, just thinking that Tennyson might have gooey, lovey-dovey feelings for me sent my attention-starved hormones into frenzied hysteria of anticipation.
I instantly squelched that thought.
You seriously cannot still be on this, Olivia. The man has been extremely clear in his friend-zoned-ness. Not gonna happen. You’re hurting yourself even entertaining the idea.
“Your father and I just want what’s best for you, Livy-loo.” Mom sounded tired. “I can see why you’re so smitten with this Tennyson guy. He’s handsome and charming, and I’m sure it’s flattering to have a guy like him pay attention to you. But you need someone who is more than just eye-candy.”
I couldn’t bring myself to dignify that comment with a response. If Mom couldn’t see all the amazing things Tennyson was, then no amount of me talking would change that.
“Darling, how many times do I have to tell you? He’s using you,” she continued.
I knew I had been existing in a bubble with Tennyson in Italy. I knew that these sorts of pressures waited for me here at home, but that didn’t make the reality of my parent’s displeasure any easier to bear.
“Mom. Dad.” I waited until I had their full attention. “I love you both dearly, but you need to stop. I trust Tennyson.”
I paused. The emotion flooded me.
Trust.
I did trust Tennyson. Absolutely. Viscerally.
I didn’t understand him. I didn’t know why he would say he couldn’t offer me anything more than friendship and then risk his very sanity to accompany me home.
But I did trust him.
Maybe it came from knowing we had been newborns together. Maybe some subconscious part of me knew the subconscious part of him.
Whatever.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” Dad said.
“I’m a big girl, Dad. Let me handle it.”
“This goes against all my better judgment, Olivia.” Mom sighed. “But for you, I’ll let it go for now.”
“Thanks, Mom. It’ll be okay.” I crossed to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “And just think, if it doesn’t, you’ll be able to say, ‘I told you so’ for years to come.”
Mom laughed. “Ah, silver-linings, Livy-loo. You always find them.”
My mother’s pre-announcement party was going to be a glitzy, well-attended affair. Which meant I passed the next two days being prepped and primped and plucked. The day of the announcement, in particular, I spent closeted with a make-up artist and hair stylist.
I hardly saw Tennyson. I hoped he was coping okay.
Naturally, someone on my mother’s staff had arranged a couture dress for me—an ice-blue 1950s homage with a tight bodice, cinched waist and full crinoline skirt that ended just below the knee. The dress fit like a glove and highlighted my small waist and downplayed my too-wide hips. My hair was swept up into a loose up-do with curls escaping here and there.
I texted a selfie to Langley.
She immediately called me back. “You look insanely gorgeous! You make that friend”—she said the word with scathing emphasis—“regret that he friend-zoned you.”
Man, I loved her.
“You’ll be amazing tonight, Olivia,” she continued. “I’ll be watching on T.V. and cheering for you. I have popcorn ready to throw at the screen whenever I see Michael.”
Langley was so my bestie. With her words buoying me up, I dabbed on some lip gloss and went in search of my date.
Tennyson was waiting in the front living room, head tipped forward into his hands, massaging his temples. My heart ached. He was clearly under strain. All for me.
Gah. I was such a confused mess over this man.
“Hey.” I stopped in the doorway.
He raised his head, blinking, obviously surprised to see me.
“I hate that I never feel you arrive,” he said.
A small smile touched my lips. “That’s your non-sequitur?”
He stood intent on replying, but his mouth snapped shut as I stepped forward, coming out of the shadows.
His eyes widened before he slowly perused my dress, starting with my mustard yellow heels and hitting the ice-blue wrap I had draped over my elbows, my small waist and ending on my curly up-do. His scorching gaze left a trail of wildfire in its wake, skittering across my skin and shorting my breathing.
His gaping pause was good, because I needed a moment, too.
Tennyson in a designer suit . . . yeah, it was every bit as delicious as I had imagined. Mom had decided her announcement wouldn’t be a black-tie affair (no need to seem that elitist) but business formal for the men was required.
Of course, Tennyson would have a sleek Italian designer suit in his closet. Cut tight, it highlighted his lean form and loudly stated, ‘I have taste and money’ without being flashy, which is exactly what a designer suit was supposed to do. The deep gray color only made his dark hair and blue eyes pop more.
“Wow.” He brushed his thumb against the corner of his mouth, stalking toward me.
“Wow yourself,” I smiled taking in a deep fortifying breath.
Because . . . uh . . . wow.
“This old thing?” He swept a hand down his body.
He stopped in front of me, doing another scope of my body with his eyes—lips, chest, legs and back again. His reaction didn’t feel planned or premeditated.
No, it felt helpless and lost and desperate.
His next actions confirmed that. Instead of leading the way out of the room as I expected, Tennyson reached for me, his hands sliding around my waist and pulling me against him.
I wasn’t sure what to make of his constant back and forth. He certainly had no qualms when it came to touching me, that much was clear. But kissing or anything more substantial was off the menu.
Friends. Nothing more.
Despite that knowledge, I didn’t stop him from pulling me close and tucking his nose into my neck. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders.
I knew the hug was platonic. He had been so insistent that any touching between us was simply innocent friendship.
But . . . gah!
This hug was even better than the one the first day we met. Then, he had simply been a good-looking stranger.
But now? Knowing what was underneath all that hotness?!
Wowsers.
Being in his arms just felt so . . . right. So true. The coiled strength in his shoulders, the firmness of his chest, his warm breath against my neck.
How was I ever going to stop myself from falling madly in love with him?
“You look incredible, anima mia,” he whispered in my ear, air brushing my skin, sending skittering shivers down my spine.
“Than
ks.” My voice was breathless. I breathed in his woodsy cologne and tried to think past the hammering ache in my heart.
Don’t read too much into this, Olivia. Friends. You’re just friends.
He shifted, pulling me even closer.
I went willingly because . . . mega-feels.
Yeah. This was it for me. The pinnacle of my life.
They were going to write it in my obituary—the highlight of her life occurred when she received a full body hug from Tennyson D’Angelo.
Anyone who knew the man would completely agree.
Life didn’t get better than this.
Annnnnnd then . . . it did.
Why?
Because I distinctly felt his lips brush over the sensitive skin between my ear and my shoulder.
Or, in other words . . . my neck.
Holy. Crap.
Tennyson D’Angelo kissed my neck!
Kissed. My. Neck.
Slow. Deliberate.
Soft lips. Lingering pressure.
Every last follicle on my body shot to attention, eager to get in on the action.
I swallowed, the noise embarrassingly loud.
Pretty sure that kiss had melted some important brain cells. Notably the ones labeled Self-Preservation and Sanity.
The man was potent.
“Nervous?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Though it came out more of a hiccup-giggle: ye-ich-ah.
“I’ll be there for you, cuore mio.”
His lips brushed my neck again, this time dragging his nose along my skin.
I clung to his shoulders, desperate to keep myself from drowning.
Help!
He pressed his lips a third time.
The logical part of me was having a full-on freak out. Why was Tennyson suddenly kissing me? Friends didn’t kiss other friend’s necks if they wanted to stay platonic friends.
Do you hear that, Tennyson?!
Necking drifted into ‘friends with benefits’ territory. Not that I was opposed to such a change in our status, but as kissing was usually a feature of that arrangement, it seemed like something that should be more fully discussed.
I sagged even more against him, clinging harder to his shoulders like the life-preservers they had become, my kneecaps having melted away.
It was just . . . the feel of his breath on my skin. The heat of his mouth . . .
I desperately wanted him to move those kissy lips about six inches to his right and plant them on my mine.
He is currently kissing your neck, the still thinking part of me whispered. You should just kiss him.
I could. I could initiate a kiss.
I didn’t have to wait for the thought to become fully formed.
I turned my head, intent on seeking his mouth—
“Eh-hum!”
Someone cleared their throat behind me.
I startled, flinching away.
“You two ready?” Michael’s tense voice came over my shoulder.
“Of course.” Tennyson pulled back, smiling down at me.
I wasn’t sure what I expected to see in his eyes—longing? affection? bemusement?—but it wasn’t the guarded pensiveness I received.
His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
He had to have felt Michael arrive behind me, and yet Tennyson hadn’t pulled back from our hug until interrupted.
Was the kiss just show for Michael then? Maintaining the facade of us dating?
Oh.
Oh!
Duh.
Of course it was.
I was an idiot. No surprise there.
I froze, my chest still heaving, breathing hard.
All my hungry Tennyson feels morphed into ragey little harpies.
Frustration and anger flooded me. I wanted to yell at him and tell him to stop confusing me with his weird hot and cold.
To be more precise—Tennyson hadn’t needed to KISS MY FREAKING NECK to get the point across to Michael!
The two of them had this bizarre pissing-match thing going on, and I was done being caught between them because . . . gross.
More to the point, Tennyson was back to giving me mixed signals again, and I had TRUSTED him to be gentle with my heart.
A deep part of my soul—the part that was still connected to the tiny newborn in the hospital bassinet—felt that our connection was profoundly real and genuine.
But it was hard work to keep telling myself that same story.
So as Tennyson pulled my hand through his elbow, all the while shooting Michael a mean smirk, I blink-blinked back my frustration and swallowed the knot of hurt rage in my throat.
My mom would kill me if I smudged my make-up. Now wasn’t the time to thrash this out with him. I had an evening to get through and then . . .
. . . then I would evaluate what to do about one troubling Tennyson D’Angelo.
The drive to the hotel and convention center was short.
Thank goodness.
I was seething in the back seat of the hired town car, sitting stiffly beside Tennyson. He probably thought I was nervous for the evening ahead—and I was, I definitely was—but his behavior was consuming more of my cranial space.
Pull it together, Olivia.
You don’t have the luxury of falling apart right now.
So I bottled all my anger and frustration about him and our non-relationship, choosing to focus on my mom and her big night.
I could do this.
The donor meet-and-greet dinner was being held in a hotel ballroom, after which we would all trek across the street to the convention center to listen to speeches before Mom’s big ‘surprise’ announcement. I mentally inserted jazz hands every time I thought about her surprise.
My job tonight was to avoid saying anything directly to the gathered media (cause that never went well for me), mingle and talk as little as possible during the dinner, and then join my mom on stage for her announcement.
Thank goodness I didn’t have to give a speech.
We had tried that once. My mind had blanked, even with the tele-prompter, and I had ended up rambling off something about loving each other and pumpkin spiced lattes and Iceland.
I know. It made about that much sense at the time, too.
We pulled up to the hotel entrance. Tennyson slid out of the car and turned, extending a hand to help me out. I slid my palm into his, pasting a frozen grin on my face. He gave me an encouraging smile and drew my hand through his elbow, escorting me into the hotel ballroom on his arm. All my mental power was focused on smiling and keeping my brain on proper topics.
But, of course, reality was determined to sabotage me.
Three women whipped around and stared as we passed by. I assumed they were just surprised to see me, though the thought was odd. It took another two women and a man staring and a solid glance in the mirrored wall of the ballroom before I realized.
They weren’t staring at me, per se.
Nope. It was all for Tennyson.
Of course.
I mean, I couldn’t blame them.
The image of us in the mirror together burned into me.
Me with my nice dress and nice hair and—okay, I admit it—killer shoes. Shoes aside, I appeared competent and nondescript. The perfect casting option for Office Assistant #3 in a family-friendly sitcom. The kind of person you meet and forget about five minutes later.
Standard Not Person.
Tennyson, however, was absolutely Hotty MacHotness.
He was airbrushed movie star perfection, oozing charisma and confidence. He seemed like someone who should be with someone.
Duh! Of course my parents assumed he was only interested in my connections. Why would someone like Tennyson be with me for me? I was a thousand ways an idiot to have even thought for one second that Tennyson could actually be into me.
I barely swallowed a hiccupping, hysterical laugh.
I was such a stupid, naive fool.
I caught my mom’s eye across the room. She was surrounded by jou
rnalists and smiling her famous smile.
Her gaze flicked to Tennyson at my side and then back to me.
Her expression said it all.
Tennyson and I were too clearly mismatched. And I was a moron to think his interest in me was anything personal. I couldn’t even imagine the heyday the media was going to have with this. The endless rounds of news cycles picking apart how our relationship was clearly fabricated.
I closed my eyes briefly, letting out a slow breath.
How could I have thought this situation with Tennyson would end any other way than with my heart broken and shattered?
TWENTY SIX
Tennyson
Olivia was withdrawn and quiet during dinner. She smiled reflexively, giving short answers to questions.
I hated not knowing how she felt. Was this just typical Olivia behavior during a public event? Or was something more going on?
Maybe I was reading too much into all this. Maybe Olivia was always like this when dealing with the stress of a political rally—the swarming media, her anxiety over her communication skills, Michael’s passive/aggressive comments and the pressure of her mother’s expectations.
I shouldn’t have touched her earlier, much less hugged her and pressed my lips to her throat.
But . . . Olivia in those heels and that dress . . . damn. Her curves perfectly showcased, her eyes huge and face so gorgeous. She had sucker punched all good intentions right out of my brain, and I had acted thoughtlessly. I was going to have to apologize to her later.
I didn’t want to be grateful to Michael for anything, but his interruption had been fortuitous. Any longer and I would have done something unforgivable.
Man, my coping abilities were catastrophically low.
Heaven knew I hated situations like this. The toxic emotions swirling in the room, so much jealousy and pandering and insincerity. The constant stream of admiration and lust and disbelief sent my way.
I knew the disbelief was all because of Olivia.
It sickened me. Why did we live in a world that only looked on the outside of a person? And if your exterior didn’t fit into a tightly proscribed box, then you were deemed less than?
