Page 4 of Mended Hearts

I rolled my eyes and burrowed deeper into my hot pad burrito.

“Ever heard of knocking?” I demanded. There was no bite to it. I liked Ollie. Probably more than I should, given that our lives were tied together so long as Alice and Greyson were. And if they ever split—yikes—that’d probably be worse. It was for that reason alone that I hadn’t already climbed the man like a tree.

“Ever heard of locking?” he countered, glaring at me this time before hoisting takeout bags up like a flag of surrender.

I was so excited by the Chinese food that I almost didn’t hear what he said. Almost.

Scowling, I said, “I always lock up.” After all, I wasn’t in Mistyvale anymore. Emerald Bay was nestled in SoCal, and I’d witnessed more police presence in my first month here than my entire life back in Alaska.

“Well, then call your landlord, because the thing was open.Oh wait,” he added pointedly, arching his brows until my face returned to an accusatory glower.

Technically, Hart Investments owned this place, making it as much Ollie’s as Grey and Alice’s.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I asked, lifting my nose like that would somehow help me assess exactly what he’d smuggled over.

Was that beef and broccoli? Definitely some chow mein. My stomach gave a humiliating snarl of approval.

“Well, it’s nice to see you too, Trouble.”

“Very nice to see you—how was work? Good? Good. Kids? Oh, the kids were great. Now, what did you bring me?”

I freed one grabby hand and motioned for him to pass over the goods, unwilling to abandon my hot pads.

“I’m here because I bought you that extra spicy Moo Shu Pork shit nobody with taste buds actually likes as a thank you for saving my ass today, and you were gone before I got home.”

Had befriending Emerald Bay’s most notorious playboy been on my bingo card this year?

Certainly not.

But as he fished boxes out of the flimsy plastic, arranging an impressive display of all our collective favorites over my coffee table, I firmly decided it was worth it.

“Sorry, evidently it’s shark week.”

Confusion furrowed those dark brows as he set the last container on the table.

Oliver Hart was like a living, breathing embodiment of Dionysus—his dark hair always coiffed from the office, except for one stubborn curl that hung down over his expertly exfoliated olive skin, just begging a girl to play with it.

Soulful brown eyes betrayed his happy-go-lucky demeanor and convinced me from day one that he wasn’t the shallow, self-indulgent womanizer the media made him out to be.

The concern pinching his forehead together said as much.

“Shark week?”

“You know.Aunt Flo. Mother Nature’s blessings have been bestowed. The endless sentence. Hell week. Pick a phrase, it sucks however you slice it.”

“I’m lost.”

I choked on a laugh.

Not every guy grew up with six sisters like mine did, and this was the moment I remembered he wasn’t one of them. “My period hit, rather…unexpectedly.”

“Oof,” he blew out a breath, shifting his weight while trying to look at ease. Which was endlessly entertaining for me. Ollie shirked out of his suit jacket and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, putting his gorgeous vascular forearms on display, before yanking impatiently at his collar until his shirt popped open—just enough for his chest hair to peek out.

Why the fuck did that do something to me?

Maybe it was the memories of the tattoos just one button away—or hormones’ cruel sense of humor that I was easy to rile on my miserable cycle.

Hot and reminiscent of butterflies in my belly, my blood seemed to boil.

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