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Her eyes shift to me, that everlasting blush in her cheeks. “What's what?”
“The smell. Your smell? What is it?”
She rolls her lips together, brows pinching in a frown.
“I'm not wearing perfume. Maybe it's my lotion?” Her little nose crinkles, her tone pitched in a question.
“What's the scent of your lotion?”
“Sweet Pea.”
That accounts for the something sweet I always smell when she’s near. It leaves the question of where the scent of rain comes from.
“And the rain?”
“Rain?” Her eyes are wide as she repeats the word. When she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, it takes physical restraint to keep from leaning in to steal a taste. “You smell rain?”
I nod. Her blush deepens, and she pushes a lock of hair behind one ear with a trembling hand. She’s nervous, I realize. I make her nervous.
Why do I like that?
“That would probably be my shampoo.”
I grunt, facing the screen again. “I like it.”
She's silent for a long beat, and then she mutters, “At least you like something about me.”
Her words cut, but I don't let her see that. I don't know why they cut. They shouldn't. They are true. I don't like her. I don't want her here. And yet…
I can’t seem to put distance between us. I can't make myself get up off this couch and go to my room. I can't make myself not be around her when she's close.
I'm gonna make Ian pay for this. He's deliberately not finding what I need, forcing me to stay close to her. He thinks this is funny. He probably has a bet with the guys about how long I’ll last before I fucking blow.
But I'm a patient man. I can do this. I can be near her and not lose it. Except, I think I am losing it. My mind at least. My sanity.
She's messing with my head.
We're at least halfway through the movie, and there hasn't been a single comment of spite from her lips. She hasn't made one suggestion that either of the characters are cheating or disloyal to each other. She hasn't poked fun at heartbreak, nothing.
Ophelia would have already had a novel of spite spewed, and I’d have laughed at every comment, intrigued by her view of romance. Now, I know she’s sick. Twisted. Ruined beyond fixing. Narcissistic and possibly even psychopathic.
I can't tell if Olympia is acting or if the tears when the characters reunite are genuine.
When the movie ends, and she sniffles, pushing up from the couch to hide her emotion as she swipes the empty bowl from the table, I can't help but swipe the remote. I search for another movie, another romance. Another test.
Or maybe I'm just not ready for this night to be over.
The tap turns on and she rinses the bowl, placing it in the dishwasher. Then her voice, soft and sweet and definitely manipulative, sounds. “You're watching another movie?”
“Care to join?”
She hesitates, like she's not sure. My eyes lift to her, desire instantly flooding my veins. She's wearing tiny black spandex shorts, showing off great legs with thick thighs I imagine wrapping around my waist, and an oversized, but thin, and slightly see-through sweater that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair is long and unbrushed around her shoulders, framing a heart shaped face with big blue eyes.
The girl looks temptingly innocent. But that’s just it. She's a girl.
I give my head a firm shake, turning my attention back to the screen.
I select another movie. One I remember watching with Ophelia. She'd had so much fun making fun of these characters. But when Olympia’s hands clap together in front of her chest, and she makes a noise of pleasure, I have a feeling her reaction to this movie is going to be very, very different.
