Page 160 of When I Was His

“Do you want me to talk to him?” Oliver offered.

I shrugged. “And what would you say?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I’d tell him to leave you alone,” he said, a protective edge in his voice.

“That won’t help solve my father’s murder,” I pointed out.

“I know, but every time you talk to him, you have nightmares,” he said softly.

“Ty is my friend,” I reminded him.

“I’m only looking out for your best interest,” Oliver said, reaching across the table to take my hand.

“I know,” I replied, squeezing his hand gently.

I took a big bite of my burger, and juice dribbled down my chin. Oliver reached over with his napkin to wipe it off.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling.

“I like you messy. Maybe we can play with some body paints when we get home,” he suggested with a mischievous grin.

“Body paints?” I asked, intrigued.

“Edible paints. We can draw and lick them off each other,” he explained.

“Sounds like fun,” I admitted, laughing.

“Anything I lick off you would be fun,” he said with a wink.

“Is sex all you think about?” I teased.

“That’s not sex, it’s art,” Oliver defended with a smirk.

“Painting me is art?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“You’re already a work of art. Paint would just enhance your beauty,” he said, his eyes full of admiration.

I rolled my eyes again and took another bite of my burger while Oliver finished his grilled cheese and onion rings. We spent the rest of the night going over more reports, watching television, and snuggling. I fell asleep in my bathrobe and felt Oliver lift me to slip me under the covers.

It was still dark when I woke, the bedside clock illuminating the time of 1:08 am in soft blue numerals. I heard Oliver talking in another room. When I tried to concentrate on what he was saying, I fell back asleep.

Oliver

“I don’t care about your bullshit. If you threaten my fiancée again, I’ll kill you with my bare hands,” I seethed into the phone.

“I’m trying to help you, Oliver. I have no control over this situation,” Jonah insisted.

“You’re trying to extort money from me,” I accused him.

“I’m trying to protect you,” he pleaded.

“Who is this man?” I demanded.

“Someone from Ryleigh’s past,” Jonah admitted reluctantly.

“Who?” I pressed.

“I can’t tell you that. If I reveal who it is, we’re all dead,” he warned.

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