Page 20 of Only One Bed: Anthology Vol. 1
Would her leg have rested across my stomach like it does now?
In the way her limb had laid claim to me during the night, my hand also decided to settle on her calf. Unconsciously holding her in place.
Olive Buchanan clearly still holds sway over me. Coming here was a mistake.
Trying not to wake her, I slide out of the bed, feeling a combination of triumph and disappointment when I’m able to complete the maneuver without my hardness brushing her again.
Instead of using my time in the bathroom to give my dick what it wants, I turn on the shower, twisting only the cold nozzle. Touching myself to thoughts of Olive would be giving my brain permission to keep fantasizing about her.
I need an Olive exorcism.
The best I can do is a freezing shock to my system, then a long run along the beach.
The sun shades the morning sky with vivid oranges and pinks, and I try to focus on those colors rather than the black of a certain woman’s hair, and the cinnamon tint of her skin.
“Sleep well?” Tim asks from his spot beside the coffee maker when I get back to the house.
“Yeah.”Too well.
The Buchanans don’t have any kind of formal breakfast, everyone wandering out of their bedrooms at different times to scrounge through the kitchen. Even three-year-old Mason grabs himself an apple juice from the fridge while his mom pours the two of them bowls of cereal.
After scrambling myself some eggs and successfully not burning my toast, I settle at a table in the corner with my laptop.
I’m immersed in editing a client’s video interview for their documentary, when there’s a subtle shift in the air of the room. Without moving my head, I glance to the side and spot a shapely figure clad only in a bathing suit, reaching for a bowl on the top shelf of a cabinet.
Olive is awake.
I can’t avert my eyes fast enough. The swimwear isn’t even that provocative. The practical cut looks like something a lifeguard might wear. But it reveals more of her body than I ever expected to see.
Less than my inappropriate fantasies hoped for, though.
Silently cursing at myself, I force my focus back to the half-edited video. But my concentration is broken a minute later when the Olive settles across the table from me.
For a few minutes, she loudly eats her cereal, staring at me while I try to ignore her.
I’m being rude in the pursuit of self-preservation. But if I thought my silence would bore her and send her away, I was naive.
With a clatter, she sets her empty bowl down on the table.
“What are you doing, Theodore Phillips?”
The use of my full name is strange enough to have me sliding off my headphones and meeting her eyes. Bad idea. Her noir gaze is easy to get lost in.
“Editing a video.”
“You’re working?”
I nod.
Olive sighs dramatically, leaning toward me across the table. The move puts her cleavage on distracting display. “Do I need to define the wordvacationfor you?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, but it’s not enough to fight off my smile.
Olive grins back at me. “Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m going down to the beach. You have a half hour to finish up whatever you’re working on and join me.”
“What happens if I take longer?”
The woman stands and circles the table, coming to a stop beside me. Suddenly, I realize we’re alone, the other Buchanans having wandered off.
