Page 97 of Holiday Hopefuls
A hand gingerly lifts, cradling my cheek and rubbing a thumb across my skin. “Talk to me, sweetheart,” he breathes.
Forcing a smile onto my face, I shake my head.
Oliver’s lips tilt up. “It’s just you and me, baby. Tell me.” He shifts closer, using his free hand to pull me close. “You’ll freeze if we stay out here much longer.”
“Not likely.”
Using a finger to lift my chin, Oliver brings my gaze to his. “Come inside with me. I promise to let you hide in the bathroom if you start to feel the least bit awkward.”
Biting my lip to hide my smile, I cast a quick glance over my shoulder. “The view was getting a little old, anyway.” I’m not about to admit that I’m already turning into an icicle.
Oliver gives a low chuckle as he ushers me back inside. “That’s my girl.”
Letting him take care of shutting the door, I plop down onto the bed, kicking off my shoes and socks one at a time.
Oliver leans back onto the dresser, pulling off his sweater to reveal a white T-shirt underneath. The traitorous mirror reflects every flex of his back muscles on display through his shirt.
I’m tempted to check for drool, even if that’s about the least appropriate thing to do right now.
Setting the sweater down, Oliver folds toned arms over his broad chest. Mimicking my own movements, the man steps out of his shoes and socks one by one. He makes no secret of watching me carefully, as if afraid I’ll bolt at any moment.
Not sure where he came up with that idea.
“Callie, we need to talk about that kiss.” His words are slow, deliberate. Each one heavy with the weight of what remains unspoken.
“Why?” I ask innocently, with one sock on the floor and the other halfway off my foot. I’d imagine this is what marriage must be like—having awkward conversations forced on you when you least want to have them.
All while half-dressed.
My wandering eyes drift down to where his khakis hang perfectly from his hips, unbuttoned and right where we left off.
Oliver follows my gaze and smirks. “That’s why.”
“Do you think it’s some big secret that you’re super hot or something?” I ask, rolling my eyes.
“You think I’m super hot?” His grin widens.
“Objectively, you’d make just about any woman toss her underwear at you. Don’t act so surprised. I’ve seen your apartment—you own mirrors.” Leaning back against the headboard, I weave my fingers together and rest them on my stomach. “And that’s not even including all your other obvious attributes,” I groan.
“Other attributes?”
I can look at him so long as I take myself out of the judging process. No feelings, no problem.Think objectively, not likeyou’re in love with the guy.“Between your career where you get to make a difference daily, your amazing family and the fact that you own the dog of the century, you’ve just gotta face facts, Rhodes.”
“And what exactly are these facts, Rutherford?” His brow furrows, trying to keep up with my logic that is closely aligned with that of the clinically insane.
Shrugging, I resituate to a sitting position while my legs remain kicked out on the bed. “You’re a catch.”
That beautiful smile drops. Something else takes over his expression, softening it. “You think I’m a catch?”
“The ninety-year-old gas station clerk on the way up here thought you were a catch, Oliver.”
He hangs his head, shaking it. “That’s not what I asked, Callie.” When Oliver brings his eyes back up to mine, every single nerve lights itself on fire. “I want to know whatyouthink.”
“About the fact that you should definitely be married with eight hundred kids by now?” I ask, quirking a brow. “And that in no way should you have to dupe your family by having a fake girlfriend?”
A wolfish smile pulls at Oliver’s lips. Pushing off from the dresser, he takes slow, measured steps toward the bed. “Maybe it’d be easier if I started.”
“Started?” I repeat.
