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If he didn’t know her, if every cell in his body weren’t already fully attuned to everything about her. If he hadn’t memorized every single curve and plane of her body. If he couldn’t recall her freckles down to the number and location. If she weren’t his—and she was his—he might not have noticed.
If he hadn’t spent years dreaming of the line of her cheekbones, the arc of her neck, the absolutely perfect cartesian arc between her waist and her hipse, he may have walked by. But there she was. Even if he hadn’t had every feature memorized, he probably still would’ve known her. He couldn’t get within twenty feet of her without sensing her, knowing her, feeling the influence of her aura like a vise to his heart.
But he did, she was, and he had. There was no escaping her. She owned him.
But, it was the fact that she wasn’t alone that stole the breath from his lungs. Was that . . . was she with.. . . Trevor Langan?
He struggled not to stop and stare. Instead, he crossed the street and walked the other way. She was smiling at that god-damned attorney, and doing so with a brightness he’d thought was reserved only to him.
He felt heat rising from his gut through his chest and into his face. Langan didn’t deserve her. Olivia was belonged to him, goddammit. And yet, even with his necklace dangling from her neck, she had the audacity to reach out and touch that other man’s hand.
Was this a date?
The idea was nauseating.
She couldn’t really be interested in Trevor Langan; could she?
He pivoted again, walking back to his starting point—again trying not to stare. But, that didn’t mean he couldn’t slow down.
He felt his hands ball into fists as he watched Langan pick up her wineglass and refill it—with far more wine than was necessary.
He saw her smile at the other man and touch his forearm lightly, and he couldn’t help but clench his jaw, rage building.
This was entirely inappropriate. Who the fuck did he think he was? Didn’t he know?
Moreover, what was Olivia thinking? She was his; didn’t she know that?
He pivoted and walked back to steal another glance.
Was it his imagination, or did she glance out the window? He was willing to swear that her deep brown eyes joined his for a split second. But then, she looked back down at her salad, even as her free hand drifted up to her breastbone and played with the compass that hung down over it.
And her eyes remained steadfastly trained anywhere but outside the window. Yes, she’d seen him.
He saw her touch Trevor’s arm again, and then stand, smoothing her hands down over her skirt before walking away from the table.
And then . . .
And then . . .
She was outside, standing in front of him, her eyes dark and flashing with anger. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He suddenly saw the situation from her perspective, and took a step back and looked at the ground, guilt replacing his anger. “I was in the neighborhood,” he mumbled. “Saw you, and . . .”
“You decided to stalk me?” Her voice rose in anger and she took a step toward him, her anger palpable.
“It wasn’t . . .” he began awkwardly and then looked back through the window. Langan was absently buttering a dinner roll, oblivious to the conflict playing out, right outside the window. He took a breath. “I saw you,” he began. “I was curious.” He angled his head toward the restaurant. “Is this a date?”
She rolled her eyes. “Trevor handled Noah’s adoption,” she said, drily. “Noah’s been . . . asking more questions. And I want to get him some answers. This is professional; nothing more.”
Trevor. So they were on a first name basis now.
Before he could comment, she looked up at him, still glaring. “And even if it was,” she began, her voice ice cold. “Just where do you get off . . .” She shook her head. “You disappear for months on end. You only ever communicate through voicemails. You have no right to . . .”
He was the one to close the gap between them, reaching forward to touch the necklace he’d given her. “Don’t I?” he asked, and he could see her breath hitch. “What’s this then?”
She bit her lip and stuck her chin out in a small act of defiance. “A gift,” she said, her voice quavering almost imperceptibly, “from a friend.”
“Liv . . .” It was both a caution and an invitation, and she ignored both, continuing to blaze her own trail.
“What do you want from me?” She was still defiant, but the anger had ebbed.
He let his hand drop from the necklace, instead tracing the soft skin around it. “Just the truth.”
She licked her lips. “The truth . . .”
“That hard?” he pushed, and could see her inner struggle.
She reached for the compass again running her thumb over it before meeting his eyes. “The truth is . . .” she began. “You are the single-most important thing to me after my son.” She took a breath. “The truth is, I have been in love with you for longer than I care to admit, and I . . . I’m terrified. You terrify me.”
The truth.
“Terrified . . .” he repeated slowly. “I terrify you?”
She nodded slowly. “Elliot, I . . . you . . .”
He opened his arms to her and she walked into them. “This . . .” she continued, as he tightened his hold around her. “It’s all so much.”
He kissed the top of her head. “You know I love you, too,” he whispered.
“I do,” she whispered, “but . . .”
He shook his head. “No buts.” He ran his thumb just under her lower lip. “I’m not going anywhere. And I’m sure as hell not going to let you go.”
She shivered. “El . . .”
“I mean it, Liv,” he whispered, surprising himself at the gruffness in his voice. He stepped closer, and traced the line of her lower lip again.
She leaned into his caress with a sigh. He moved—slowly, giving her more than enough time to pull back, to change her mind. She didn’t. Instead, she moved with him, moved toward him, standing on tiptoe, and claiming his lips greedily.
She was warm, luscious, and tasted like the red wine he’d seen Langan refill her glass with. He wanted more. He needed more.
And she readily gave it to him.
It took everything he had to remind himself that they were in public. That fucking Trevor Langan was just on the other side of a giant picture window.
“Liv,” her name came out on a breath as he forced himself to pull back. ”Liv,” he repeated, as though needing to remind himself that it was her—that they were actually, after everything, together.
She was silent, merely leaning against him, and sighing in contentment.
And then—with a grimace—she pushed back.
“Trevor . . .” she sighed, and he would’ve been jealous except that there was no joy in the way in which she said it. She pushed back, and he could see she was struggling almost as much as he was.
“Wait for me?” she asked. “I just need to let him know something came up.”
He took the opportunity to trace the line of her lower lip once again.
Wait for her?
It felt, sometimes, as though he’d waited a lifetime, and yet.
And yet, at the same time, after that lifetime—five more minutes felt like an eternity. “And then?” he dared to ask.
“And then, detective. . . “ Her eyes flashed. “It’s entirely up to you.”
END