I shrug out of his grasp, annoyance rising. For days, I've tried to talk to him—but no. He just has to show up at the end of the best night I've had in weeks—heck, and months—and totally ruin it!
"What's it to you?" I snap.
"That wasn't Glenn was it? I swear he was working in the kitchen tonight…"
"No, for your information, it wasn't." I walk to the elevator and Ollie follows, hot on my heels.
"Who was it?"
I press the button, giving Ollie the cold shoulder before responding, "His name is Patrick."
Ollie grunts.
I turn on him, sticking a finger in the center of his chest. "What?"
"Nothing, nothing," he says and steps back. Then under his breath mutters, "Tool."
"I heard that."
"Well, sorry," Ollie adds, in a voice so far from apologetic it's laughable.
I look back at the elevator door, wondering what could possibly be taking so long, and then give in to the question burning my tongue. "Why do you care, anyway?"
"I don't," Ollie growls.
"Well, good."
"Yeah, good." Then he takes a deep breath, and from years of experience arguing with the McDonough siblings, I know there is more coming in three, two, one… "It's just, I didn't realize you had so many guys lined up. You were complaining about needing to find a boyfriend for your column, and here you are a week later coming home at three in the morning, letting some loser shove his tongue down your throat right outside our building for the whole world to see."
"Patrick is not a loser," I say just as the elevator opens before us. He was, however, shoving his tongue down my throat… But I'm too angry to give Ollie any sort of win. He steps ahead of me into the elevator while I continue ranting. "He's sweet, and chivalrous, and just treated me to one of the most romantic nights of my life. Which is more than I can say for you."
Okay, shut up, Skye!
I seal my lips, forcing them closed before I begin to move the conversation into topics better left unsaid. Ollie remains silent and I step onto the elevator next to him, crossing my arms.
But I can't help it, my blood is boiling and my throat burns to say more. Not about the thing, I don't want to talk about the thing—you know, that thing that happened four years ago that I don’t want to ever think about again. So instead, I lean over and tersely whisper, "And there aren't so many guys. There were two guys, Glenn and Patrick, and that's it. So I don't need any attitude from you, okay?"
But at that exact moment, a hand stops the elevator from closing and I just know before I even look up who it's going to be. And I'm right. It’s Neal—the spinach guy. Oh, for the love of god! I hit on a guy one time and it's like the world won't stop punishing me for it. Seriously! I can't escape him.
"Hey, Skye," Neal says kindly, completely unaware of what he just walked into.
I wince, holding back a massive sigh, and mumble, "Hey."
And then I wait for the inevitable.
And wait.
Ollie takes in a deep, sharp breath.
I sigh. Here we go.
"Oh," Ollie says in mock surprise, voice so smug I want to punch him. His eyes are two lasers pointed at my skull, painful. "Do you two know each other?"
"He lives in the building," I say. "Neal, Ollie. Ollie, Neal."
"Dude." Neal shrugs and holds out his hand. They shake.
"So, how'd you meet?" Ollie asks, tone far too light and far too leading.
I'm about to reply, but Neal, smelling like booze, jumps in first. I cringe. "On the elevator," he says. I breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn't so bad. But then he adds, "Her teeth were green. I thought she had a medical condition."
Oh god. I want to disappear. Immediately.
Ollie snickers. "What condition?"
"I had spinach in my teeth," I snap.
Finally, the door opens to Neal's floor, and it takes all of my self-control not to shove him forcibly off the elevator. When the doors close, I stare straight ahead, not daring to meet the challenge in Ollie's gaze.
"So, should we add Neal to the growing list of your admirers?" Ollie asks.
I remain utterly silent.
"Anyone else I should know about?" he continues.
Do not give in. Do not give him the satisfaction of a response. I just have to keep my cool.
"No? I just want to be aware if any lovesick guys are going to come knocking on our door at five in the morning, demanding to see you? I mean, if they do, I need to know how to handle the situation. Who to turn away…who to punch in the face."
I keep ignoring him until we reach our floor.
But as I begin to put the key in the lock, I stop, squeezing my eyes tight. Ollie is right behind me. Like always, I'm totally aware of his body and how close it is to mine, totally aware of the way I yearn for his touch even when I'm furious with him.
"What—"
"Ollie!" I interrupt, turning to face him. "If you have something you want to say to me, just say it. Because as soon as I go inside, I'm going to my room and going to bed, and you'll lose your chance."
His turquoise eyes brighten to clear crystal and he seals his lips, holding back whatever teasing remark he was just about to say. Our faces are only inches apart. I ball my fists at my side, holding them steady, keeping them perfectly still as a current tightens the air between us.
"I missed you," he finally says.
I suck in a breath. My chest burns. So do the corners of my eyes.
"You didn’t talk to me for four years and I missed you."
I missed you too.
The words sit ready, waiting at the back of my throat, urging to be spoken. But I can't. Because I wasn't supposed to miss him. I was supposed to forget him. I want to forget him. And tonight, for a few hours, I did.
Instead, all I do is say, "Okay."
Ollie closes his eyes for a moment, holds them there, and then nods. But I can't help but wonder what is left unsaid, what words burn the back of his throat. I don't press though. Because honestly, I don't think I'm ready to hear them.
For now, this is enough.
So I turn, ready for the solitude of my bedroom and for sleep. But as I twist the key and push the door open, a surprised scream travels up my throat, popping out before I can stop it.
A bare butt.
My eyes zero in on the target and I can't look away. I mean, I want to. But I'm bizarrely mesmerized in some out-of-body experience—like, is this really happening? There is a naked boy walking across my living room.
And then it clicks.
Bridget's date. Bridget's naked date.
Oh god.
I slam the door shut, stumbling backward into Ollie, almost knocking both of us over. He catches me before I fall, wrapping his solid arms around my waist, holding me up. I turn in his arms, eyes wide.
"Skye? What?"
My head shakes. He didn't see. Thank god he didn’t see. But then Ollie reaches into his back pocket, going for his keys.
"No!" I jump, regaining my balance and firmly holding his hand. There is no way I'm letting Ollie inside. No way.
He shakes my hold easily.
Time for a new approach.
I stand in the doorway, arms crossed. "Want to go find some pizza?"
"Pizza?" he asks, stretching his keys forward to open the door. "It's three in the morning."
"So? I'm hungry," I grumble, casually extending my arms and bracing them across the doorway, trying to create a human barrier. My stomach growls, nicely completing the act. Which isn’t really an act—after seven puny fish courses, I could use a little pizza.