The Willing (18 page)

"Morning," said Oliver. His gaze swept over my face, lips quirking up a little when he saw my short hair. I couldn't help recall last night's conversation—one of many—and his questions about why I even bothered to wear a wig in the first place.

The look of delight on his face was almost enough to make me reconsider my own beliefs on the subject; here was a guy who didn't look put off to discover what I looked like
au naturel
.

"Morning," I answered, because who was I to dispute that fact? The jury was still out on whether it would be a good one, but there seemed to be a clear glare of daylight spilling in from the hallway. It made me think of the master bedroom as a place out of time, as unreal as whatever had happened between us last night. Now reality was creeping in through the cracks and we were powerless to stop it.

I really should have woken up sooner and made my escape while I still could. As it was, I'd probably overstayed my welcome by a few hours.

Oliver scrubbed a hand through his hair and the sleeve of his shirt rode up a little to reveal a faint, pinkish ring of chafing around his wrist. The cuffs had left marks; as if I needed further proof to know I'd failed in my capacity as his domina, not to mention his employee. If he fired me, I wouldn't even complain.

"I took the liberty of ordering breakfast for us downstairs," Oliver explained, either oblivious to my unease or acting like it for shits and giggles. "I hope you like Eggs Benedict?"

"Sure." It must have been years since I'd had any. I knew how to make them in theory, but my meals were usually had in the late afternoon or somewhere around four in the morning, when I needed something quick and effortless and filling. I had never been much of a foodie, so I didn't really mind the lack of variety in my diet. Of course, it would've been fun to eat something other than ramen and sandwiches, but I had a limited budget and too many expenses, what with the new apartment and a beauty regimen on which my so-called career depended. Sacrifices had to be made and I chose wigs and nail polish over extravagant dining experiences.

"You probably want your shoes," Oliver remarked casually, anchoring me back into the present when I felt my thoughts begin to run away from me.

"Yes. Please."

He was behaving so casually, so artlessly, as though nothing at all was the matter. I really didn't know what to make of his newfound good cheer.

I stuffed my wig into my purse as best I could and followed Oliver back into the playroom. It was barely even worthy of the name. "You've been a busy boy this morning," I noted.

"I'm an early riser," he said, shrugging. "Needed to keep busy."

The sun was definitely out, easily visible through the tall windows. Oliver's vertigo hadn't stopped him pulling back the curtains in here. "What time is it?" I asked aloud. I could have fished out my phone, but I didn't want to see all the missed calls I must have had from Madam Madrigal.

"Seven fifteen?" Oliver grinned. "Why, did you need to be somewhere this morning?"

I could tell he was teasing, but I needed coffee before I'd be able to match him quip for quip. "You were saying something about breakfast..."

We went downstairs together, his loafers click-clacking against the tile, my bare feet soundless, and I resisted the urge to go straight into the living room and lunge onto the couch. It would've been easier if I had the fortitude to rip the Band-Aid right off; ask Oliver to call me a taxi so I could put last night behind me. I had a futon I could sleep on at home and breakfast in bed was still worthy of the name if it was microwaved pizza. Someday, I kept telling myself, I would grow up and learn to cook. It was not today.

Today, I was gutless.

Oliver's dining room turned out to be a whole separate venue, previously unknown to me, with a wide mahogany table and twelve high-backed chairs. Paintings hung on the walls of what I imagined to be stern-faced ancestors and country homes on the other side of the Atlantic. Oliver's pedigree couldn't have been more obvious if he'd told me he was a distant relative of the Queen of England.

"Shit," I said before I could stop myself. "It's like being invited to dine with the Rothschilds…" Worse, actually, because this offer I couldn't turn down.

He chuckled. "Nothing so fogyish, I promise."

I half expected him to come around to my side of the table and pull back a chair, all forced chivalry and old world manners. I blamed the weird sense of anticipation on still being half asleep, but he didn't and I breathed a little easier to be able to flop gracelessly into my seat unaided. Our food arrived a few minutes later by the same route that Oliver had once procured a Coke for me just because I'd asked.

"Don't you ever cook?" I asked for the sake of conversation, watching as two servers wheeled in a tray and started setting placemats and cutlery before us. It felt like something out of a dream—or a Disney cartoon. I wondered when we were breaking out into song.

Oliver didn't mirror my surprise. "Sometimes," he said vaguely, "but I haven't had a reason to bother for some time."

"No kidding." If a simple phone call got him whatever his heart desired, what was the point of slaving away in the kitchen? A plate of eggs drenched in Hollandaise sauce was laid before me with a flourish and another before Oliver. There were little glass bowls with three kinds muesli, a pitcher of milk and on top of everything six different types of jam. Toast and croissants had been arranged in a small basket at the center of the table, right next to the orange and grapefruit pitchers. All that was lacking was the room service bill.

"I'm sorry, is this all for us or should we leave some for the rest of the folks in the building?" It wasn't going to stop me, but even my generally healthy metabolism could balk at processing this much food in one sitting. 

Oliver thanked our servers and they left without too much gawking, seemingly unimpressed at my presence. For all I knew, Oliver routinely had breakfast with strange women.

"I think they forgot the coffee," I groused, trying and failing to put on a brave face. Caffeine wasn't something I could pass up, unfortunately, and the thought of having to make conversation while still half asleep didn't exactly thrill me.

The smile on Oliver's lips only grew wider, cockier. "Come with me," he invited and held out his hand.

"Do I have to?" The dining chairs were surprisingly comfortable and I wasn't sure I remembered how to walk straight without my first cup of coffee. Oliver remained unrelenting. I think he would've waited me out if it took a minute or an hour. Stubborn asshole. Eventually, I took his hand and let him pull me to my feet.

The kitchen wasn't far, but it felt like a trial to make it all the way through the swinging doors. And then I heard the gurgling, droning hum of a coffee maker and I forgot to groan at the unpleasant chill of tile beneath my bare feet.

Right there on the counter, Oliver had fired up an industrial-sized machine that not only processed the beans but also filled the room with the sweetest scent of freshly ground coffee.

"I've died and gone to heaven," I proclaimed, staggering a little against Oliver's side. Had I been more awake, I might have realized I was holding his hand in mine. Instead, my attention was altogether focused on the coffee maker and the steaming cups filling slowly from the trickle of two separate spouts. "I'm not making any threats, but you're aware there's a good chance you'll wake up one morning and that little piece of paradise will be gone, right?"

"It weighs about ninety pounds," Oliver said. "Give or take. You're welcome to try to abscond with it."

I had the distinct impression he was mocking me, but I couldn't be bothered to care. "You know, I have few vices, but this? Oh man..." I padded over to the machine and waited more or less patiently as it finished filling my cup. The first sip all but scalded my upper lip. I didn't mind. "Yeah, I'm definitely lifting this."

Oliver brushed my elbow as he retrieved his own cup. "Give it your best shot," he said, his voice reduced to a soft, treacherous rumble. I tried to remember if he'd said that to me during a session or if I was making it up out of my many fantasies. All the same, I shivered with a flash of pent-up longing.

We went back to the dining room, this time armed with coffee and, in my case, a proportional increase in self-control. I tucked into my breakfast hungrily before I realized it might be sexier if I played with my food or feigned a lack of appetite. The eggs were delicious, the bacon crisp and crackling on my tongue; I reasoned that this was likely my first and last time at Casa di Shepherd, so I might as well make the most of it.

"So last night," I started to say.

I chose my timing so well because it was precisely at the moment Oliver had opened his mouth to tell me: "I'm really grateful--"

Just as we'd started together, so too did we stop, looking at each other across the width of the table with tight, nervous smiles. "I was going to say last night was good," I explained quickly. One of us should bite the bullet, I figured. "What are you grateful for?"

It was a little late for either one of us to be saying Grace, our plates already half finished. Oliver swallowed past a sip of coffee. "I'm glad you stayed." The subtle change was all the proof I needed to know that he was back on the defensive. He seemed most comfortable there.

"No problem. I haven't slept so well in ages." It was a little scary to realize I was telling the truth, that being with Oliver really did put me at ease. I looked away, stabbing an errant piece of sausage with my fork. I intended to have some of that muesli, too, if only to taste. "I don't even know when you got up..."

"I know," Oliver said, smiling crookedly. "I was trying to be quiet."

"Is it a matter of habit?"

"What?"

My shoulders rolled into a shrug. "You know, to avoid the walk of shame? Not that we did anything shameful..." I didn't believe we had. I also didn't want him believing I believed that we had.

"We didn't do anything period," Oliver pointed out and I watched him set his cup down with a deft hand, as if careful not to make any noise.

He was selling himself short and I thought of telling him as much, but whatever he'd expected to have happen last night, I had doubts even Oliver thought it possible. Our dynamic didn't allow for spontaneity. "Just following orders," I said. "Although given all you'd laid out for me last night, seems like you were hoping for mutiny..."

Oliver drew a deep, long breath through the nose. "I didn't think you were coming."

"So I gathered." But he had taken his clothes off and waited for me in the foyer when I called, intent on showing me what he'd been hiding over the course of six sessions. There was no getting around the fact that it made it harder for me to think of him as the arrogant bastard who'd fucked up my life. Part of me resented him for that. "I should go," I heard myself say. "You probably need to get ready for work..."

"I have the morning off." Was that an invitation to linger?

"Doesn't Evangeline need you to hold down the fort?" I asked, inexplicably trying to point out he didn't really have any time for me. Apparently self-sabotage never really went out of style.

Oliver shrugged, smiling blithely at me. "It's a little easier to organize my schedule when I own half the company. If I say I'm free, then I'm free."

"Must be nice."

He nodded. "It's also nice when I get to dictate if my employees are free or not." For some bizarre reason, I felt my stomach clench and my mouth go dry. Was he talking about me or did I just imagine him making eyes at me across the table? "You still owe me a session," Oliver pointed out, something a little guarded in his eyes.

"Now?" Wow, my voice just got ridiculously high-pitched with surprise. How could I not be? I hadn't entertained the possibility that he'd want me around at all, much less now, after the many rules we'd broken last night.

Oliver sat up slowly and slid back his chair. "I'm going upstairs. If you'd like to leave, George will call you a taxi. But if you prefer to join me instead..." He trailed off and I wondered what it was he needed from me.

He was already in the doorway when I stood to follow.

Our contract being what it was, a hefty part of my decision was irreversibly mired in duty and self-interest. I wished it wasn't, but I couldn't pretend that money wasn't a factor. The rest was too preoccupied with rejoicing at the thought that Oliver still wanted to be with me to quibble at the fine print.

I knew the way to the play room by heart, now, and yet that didn't give me an overabundance of confidence in climbing the steps. I couldn't shake the feeling that last night had upped the stakes between us in ways we probably should've discussed in better depth; Oliver wasn't the most communicative guy and if he wanted me, I wasn't going to pass up the opportunity.

He was still dressed when I slipped into the room. "Everything okay?" It was my turn to asked, watching warily as he turned to face me.

"Yeah... I was just thinking." Oliver shrugged half-heartedly. "I don't think I've ever asked what
you
wanted from our time together." I couldn't tell if he was kidding.

"That's not why we're here," I reminded. I didn't want to bring up the contract we'd signed, but the way he was looking at me now was too soft, too inviting for me to think clearly. "Are you going to bring out the flogger?" I couldn't do it myself; I had no idea where he kept his toys when we weren't using them.

Oliver hesitated. "What if this time we do it your way?"

"You don't know what 'my way' means. You're okay with that?"

He held my gaze and nodded solemnly.

"Stupid," I chided and strode forward, into his personal space. "Don't ever give anyone a blank check—not even the people you think you've got in your pocket. Lovers disappoint you, strangers fuck you up with the best intentions—"

Two things became immediately obvious to me. First, no one knew better the human potential for betrayal than Oliver, who had been mutilated so intimately, so cruelly. Second: Oliver's wasn't backing away from me. I took another step closer, putting myself in his space, and watched his lips tilt up at the corners.