Chapter 8
After Olivia took me to the hospital, I swore to myself I would never call her a pick-me again.
I even started inviting her over.
Red-faced and awkward, I asked Nate if we should have her come to dinner as a thank-you. He looked almost pleased with me for finally “being mature.”
That day, he got weirdly enthusiastic, running out to buy ingredients Olivia liked and bragging that he was going to cook.
He’d lived with me for ages and almost never cooked for me.
But by then, I didn’t really care anymore.
Olivia showed up carrying a few bottles of wine. “From our vineyard overseas,” she said with a smile. “Open one with dinner.”
Nate was in the kitchen.
Olivia and I sat on the carpet in the living room, the TV playing softly in front of us. I thought about the hospital. The rain. Her carrying me.
I turned to her, completely sincere. “Thank you. Really. If you hadn’t taken me, I probably would’ve cooked my brain in that bed.”
She glanced toward the kitchen.
Then back at me.
Something moved in her eyes, like light rippling over deep water.
The sounds of stir-frying came from the kitchen. Oil crackling. A spatula against the pan.
And then Olivia leaned in.
One knee on the carpet. Both hands braced beside me.
In an instant, I was trapped beneath her.
Her face was suddenly close—too close. Beautiful in a sharp, dangerous way. Like a cat that had finally cornered something it wanted.
“If you want to thank me,” she murmured, “do it like this.”
And then she kissed me.
Not gently.
Not sweetly.
It felt less like being kissed and more like being taken apart.
I tried to push her away, but I couldn’t. The kiss was heated, messy, overwhelming. Wild in a way I’d never known a kiss could be. Like she wasn’t trying to comfort me or tempt me. Like she was trying to mark me.
From the kitchen, the sound of cooking kept going.
In the living room, Olivia kissed me until my thoughts turned liquid.
When she finally pulled back, her voice was hoarse. “My tongue’s pretty talented, right?”
I was too stunned to answer.
She was too thin, her chest flat against mine, and somehow the press of her body still made my skin burn.
Then the kitchen went quiet.
We sprang apart like criminals.
Olivia grabbed a sparkling water from the table and drank from it with maddening calm. I wiped my mouth and started fidgeting with a stuffed toy on the couch as if I’d been doing that the whole time.
People always look busiest when they’re guilty.
Nate came out carrying a plate.
“You girls must be starving,” he said with a smile.
At dinner, both Olivia and I acted like nothing had happened.
Nate carefully picked a piece of fish and placed it in Olivia’s bowl.
She raised one brow. “I don’t eat fish.”
He froze. “Really? I thought you liked it.”
Olivia let out a small laugh. “No. Emma likes fish.”
The table went quiet.
To ease the tension, I reached over and took the fish from Olivia’s bowl. “It’s fine. I’ll eat it.”
Olivia had been smiling at me.
But when Nate shot me a grateful look, her expression darkened immediately.
She muttered under her breath, “Too oily. We should’ve just gone out.”
Nate’s chopsticks paused in midair.
Maybe because he’d always been the one being catered to, maybe because he wasn’t used to anyone talking down to him, but this time something flickered across his face.
Annoyance.
“So the princess can’t handle home cooking now?”
Olivia smiled coldly. “With your cooking? Let’s not insult Chinese food.”
That hit hard.
Nate’s face went white, then green.
I looked back and forth between them in panic.
Both of them turned to me at the same time.
“Emma,” Nate said.
“Emma,” Olivia echoed.
Two sets of eyes. Two different storms.
I panicked and stood up. “I—I need the bathroom.”
Running away doesn’t solve problems.
But sometimes it feels incredible.
Dinner ended badly.
When Olivia left, she ordered, “Emma, walk me out. Nate, do the dishes. And don’t even think about making Emma help.”
In the garage, before she got into the car, she leaned close and kissed my cheek.
“Break up with him,” she whispered. “His cooking tastes like pig food. Mine’s much better.”
When I got back upstairs, Nate had already cleared the table.
For some reason, I felt guilty, so I offered to help wash dishes.
But he just tilted his head and said, almost bitterly, “Don’t you think Olivia’s exhausting? No wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
Then I heard myself say, quietly, “I don’t think she’s that bad.”
He stared at me, then suddenly softened and smiled like he’d figured something out.
“Honestly, now I see it. Looks aren’t everything. Someone can be gorgeous and still be impossible. You’re different, baby. You’re gentle. Easy to love.”
I said nothing.
That night, he tried to touch me in bed.
I thought about what he’d said. About what she’d done.
And for the first time, the idea of him touching me made my skin crawl.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said.
He didn’t push.
He only propped himself up on one arm, looked at me in the dark, and said in a clumsy, almost earnest voice, “Emma… I messed up before. Let’s be good to each other from now on.”
But it was too late.
By then, all I could think about was Olivia.