Page 39 of Oliver
"I hope you’re able to concentrate on the wedding, dear," she said, voice silk-soft but sharp as a blade. "It would be such a shame if Oliver proved...distracting. Ruining your reputation, at a family event, no less." Her smile was all polite concern, but her eyes? Calculating.
My stomach turned. Her words struck deeper than worry. There was a warning there, a hint of disbelief that Oliver would ever forgive me for what happened in high school. But before I could defend him, she smiled. Too sweet. Too knowing.
"I'm sure things will turn out exactly as they're meant to." She patted my cheek and walked away, leaving a chill in her wake. "See you at the mixer."
The words clung to me, cold and heavy. A warning wrapped in silk. I exhaled, the tension coiling tighter. This wasn’t just about selling the lie to my family anymore. Auntie waswaiting for Oliver to slip, poised to push Ryan as the perfect replacement.
I needed to get my act together. Fast.
Because if I didn't? My professional reputation would be the least of my problems.
Parisa was still in her pajamas when I knocked on the door of her bridal suite, her hair wrapped in a towel and a cup of coffee in her hand.
"You're early," she said, letting me in.
"I wanted to check the final mixer arrangements before the vendors arrive."
She raised an eyebrow, studying me over the rim of her coffee mug. "Uh-huh. And it has nothing to do with escaping your hot boyfriend and that honeymoon suite? Because you're looking particularly... flushed this morning."
"The elevator was crowded," I lied, busying myself with my planner.
"Right." Parisa grinned. "So, how's it going with Oliver? Because from what I saw yesterday, that man is not playing around."
I kept my focus on the mixer planning binder. "We're taking things slowly."
"Slowly?" Parisa repeated, laughing. "Is that what we're calling that kiss at the airport? Because honey, that was not 'slow.' That was a man staking a claim."
The memory of Oliver's lips against mine, of his hand at my waist, sent a wave of warmth through me. "It's...complicated."
"Isn't it always with you two?" Parisa flopped onto the couch. "I remember how heartbroken he was when you stopped talking to him in high school. Poor boy looked like someone had stolen the sun from his sky."
I froze. "What are you talking about? Oliver was the one who stopped talking to me."
Parisa frowned. "That's not how I remember it. After the homecoming dance, you were suddenly all about Ryan, and Oliver just...faded away."
Something in my chest clenched.
No. That wasn’t how it happened… Was it?
"That's not—" I stopped, realizing Parisa didn’t know. Until I arrived with Oliver, she was still team Ryan. Her soon-to-be husband was Ryan’s golf buddy, close enough to appoint him as a groomsman. As far as most of my family was concerned, I had matured out of my and Oliver’s friendship into a relationship with Ryan. Only, I neverwantedto give up Oliver. I was forced to. "It wasn't like that."
Parisa shrugged. "All I know is one week you two were inseparable, and the next, he was sitting alone at lunch. But hey, looks like you figured it out." She grinned. "And that honeymoon suite seems to be working its magic."
I didn't correct her. Couldn't, without explaining the entire history, which would cause ripples I wasn’t ready to deal with. It had been kept a secret for this long; it could stay buried for a while longer.
"The meet and greet brunch starts at eleven-thirty," I said instead, redirecting the conversation to safer territory. "Darryl's parents want to meet with you beforehand to discuss the final seating chart for the rehearsal dinner."
Parisa groaned. "Future in-laws. Joy."
We spent the next hour going over the day's schedule, the flower arrangements, the seating charts. Then we got dressed, did each other’s hair and makeup, just like when we were little, when things were simple. It was a welcome distraction from thoughts of Oliver, from the lingering sensation of waking up in his arms, from the way his sleepy voice had murmured "five more minutes" like he'd been dreaming of me.
By the time I returned to our suite, I'd almost convinced myself that this morning had been a momentary lapse—nothing to worry about. I was a professional. I could handle this.
I knocked lightly before using my keycard, giving Oliver fair warning of my return.
The sight that greeted me had me stopping short.
Oliver stood by the window, adjusting the collar of his light blue button-down shirt. He’d left the top two buttons undone and paired the shirt with tailored charcoal slacks, casual yet polished. His hair was neatly styled, his glasses catching the light. He looked effortlessly elegant—the perfect balance of relaxed and refined.
