"And you'd know? Now that you've been together for four entire months?" Oliver challenges.
"Beats six weeks." Holden chuckles.
"Seven weeks," Oliver says.
Holden presses his hand to his chest. "They're still counting weeks."
"And you aren't?" Oliver asks. "You think I don't see you doodling in your notebook?"
"Drawing naked pictures of my girlfriend? Of course," Holden says.
Oliver shakes his head no. "Mock-ups of couple's tattoos. And hearts with her name. Or Daisy and Holden Forever."
For a second, Holden blushes. Then he jumps back to troublemaker. "That's a cover. So you don't realize I'm drawing her naked. I don't want to disturb you."
"You don't want to rile someone?" Oliver asks. "That's your story."
"Yeah. Of course," he says.
"Really?" Daisy asks.
"Of course." He picks up her hand. Places a kiss on the inside of her wrist. "I want to make you in every way." He draws a line over her forearm. Which once again bears a temporary version of the tattoo she wants.
I struggle and I emerge.
Only in Latin.
Everything sounds better in Latin.
"You really draw hearts with my name on them?" she asks.
"Fuck, now he doesn't know what to do," Oliver says. "Play up the bullshit. Or admit he loves her more than anything."
"I love you more than anything." Holden leans in to press his lips to Daisy's. "And I love fucking you more than anything."
She smiles, charmed.
In love.
Blah, blah, blah. It's not that cute the ten millionth time.
Don't get me wrong. I love hanging out with my best friend. Even with her and her boyfriend. Or as a foursome.
It's our new unit. The best friend double date slash double date.
This perfect mix of friendship and family and love.
But, seriously, I don't need to see them make out anymore.
Really.
Never again.
He teases her. She giggles. Whispers back.
They smile at a shared joke. Or maybe a secret. I'm not sure anymore.
It's their own private world. I'm not in it.
A part of me aches. A part of me misses the way things used to be. But most of me—
I'm happy for her. For them. To see her soar and grow and fall in love.
To let go of what used to be and embrace what is.
Because… I'm the same. Me and Oliver. Sure, it's new and a little fragile. We're still building our private world.
But we are.
No one else teases me about the shade of my lipstick (really the only shade I wear around him now), or my idea of "sharing" a French press, or my obsession with the exact shade of my hair. (Still silver, but a little darker).
No one else knows exactly where I hurt. How I can't stand when someone calls me difficult. Or how I struggle to say nice things about Allison's new girlfriend. Or how I both love and hate the new Sunday brunch, because I get two hours with my parents. And then I have to see them say goodbye again.
And go to their separate lives again.
And leave the world that's ours again.
"Angel, you there?" Oliver releases my hand.
My gaze shifts to him. God, he has such beautiful blue eyes. It defies reasoning. And that strong jaw, those broad shoulders, the tattoo peeking out from his v-neck. "Was I saying something?"
"About the cake." He motions to the slice on his plate. Pink frosting on chocolate cake.
Poor innocent chocolate, ruined by all those extraneous ingredients.
"This is better. It has coffee in it." I push my plate toward him. "Coffee."
He chuckles. "I have coffee right here." He picks up my mug. "Do you need more?" He leans in close enough to whisper. "Or do you need to go upstairs and come on my hand?" His fingers skim my thigh.
The edge of my dress.
Then under it.
This isn't the right outfit—a sheath with a sheer embellishment, a sharp Peter Pan collar, and a very snug skirt—or the right place, but I still let my eyes close.
Let my body fill with pure need.
Yes. Now. We haven't had enough time together. Not since Daisy arrived home last week.
I spent most of the week with my parents. One, then the other, then the two of them, together today.
For chocolate chip pancakes and presents and a long walk along the beach. Like when I was a kid. But better. Because now there's coffee.
It's strange, seeing them live separate lives. But I'm getting used to it.
"It's better than it looks." Holden, now finished with making out for the moment, scoops a slice of chocolate peppermint cake onto a plate. Offers it to me. "You might like it."
And I really should stop thinking about taking off my boyfriend's clothes. "It has light pink frosting."
"We made that frosting together," Daisy says.
"And what did I say when I tasted it?" I ask.
"Oooh, can I do the Luna impression?" Holden asks. He doesn't wait for a response, he stands up. Cocks his hip. Places his hand on it. "It's disgusting. Like injecting sugar in my veins. Everyone will love it."
Daisy laughs.
Oliver too. "Sorry, angel, but that's dead-on."
"Betrayal," I say. "Ultimate betrayal."
"How will I make it up to you?" Oliver runs his fingers over my inner thigh.
God, yes.
But not here.
Not in front of her.
"Coffee." I barely get the word out. I don't want coffee. I want his body pressed against mine, his cock buried deep inside me.
But I can't have that yet.
So coffee has to do.
"Coffee." He presses his lips to mine. A quick, easy kiss. We have a lot of those now.
Hello, goodbye, see you later, you look adorable when you're working, oh my god I love that mock-up, you're way cuter than the girl on The Bachelorette.
Some of them become more.
A long, slow kiss that screams I love you.
A hard, deep kiss that screams I need you.
Or the crashing, frantic smashing of our lips that, uh—
He slips his hand a little higher.
My eyes flutter closed. Desire overwhelms my senses. He won't go for it. He knows better. But, god, the dare—
My sex clenches.
My brain fights for control.
Loses.
I kiss him hard.
He kisses back, the perfect mix of I love you and I need you, then he releases me. "Coffee." His fingers trail my thigh as he pulls his hand away.
Oliver winks. Stands. Moves to the kitchen.
We're here, at the Flynn place. Oliver is still honoring his promise to Daisy—her first year of college, he's here—but he's making plans to move out in June.
And who knows?
I'm not ready to live with him yet. Not the two of us, sharing a lease, acting like actual adults.
But maybe by this summer.
Maybe…
Or maybe my parents will kill him. They like Oliver. A lot. I thought they'd freak when he told them about his sobriety, but they loved it. Called him "a positive influence." "A fighter." "A survivor."
And a bunch of stuff about how he's more than pretty eyes and strong shoulders and tattoos.