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“You’re unbelievable,” I shook my head in mock disbelief.
“Can I show you how unbelievable I am?” Oliver suggested with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“How so?” I asked, playing along.
Without waiting for a response, Oliver scooped me up into his arms, planting kisses on my face as he carried me to the bedroom, our laughter filling the air.
On Monday, I woke up feeling grouchy. Oliver and I had a small argument about a Christmas tree, and his indecision was getting on my nerves. If he kept dragging his feet, there wouldn't be any trees left by the time he made up his mind. I stomped off to my office, plopping down in my chair and flicking open my laptop. With a jab of my black-painted nail, I powered it on.
As I logged into my email, I noticed one from Oliver. He had left me in the lobby that morning since he had a meeting in the financial district, which didn't involve me. I was on my own for the day, which suited me just fine. I clicked on his email, the subject line reading: "I'm sorry."
Sweetheart,
Don’t be angry at me. Holidays are not my thing. I’m used to spending them alone or working. This is all new to me. We can discuss it when I see you this evening.
I love you with all my heart,
Oliver (Possessive Ass)
No kidding he was. I understood his reluctance to get a tree, but Christmas was one of my favorite holidays, and he was ruining it by not giving in. I knew he was trying, so I could at least give him that.
Throughout the day, I found myself snapping at Henri a couple of times, my bad mood refusing to abate. I apologized the second time; there was no reason to take it out on him. Henri was used to handling Oliver's demands, not mine.
He shouldn't have to deal with my mood swings since he wasn't my assistant. I didn't have one, and he was only helping me out by shuffling files back and forth from the recording room.
By the time Oliver returned, my mood had only worsened. The only silver lining was the slightly warmer weather, at least by mid-December standards. When Oliver knocked on my door, I called him inside, admiring his sharp suit — light gray with a dark purple tie and white shirt, a combination that framed his sexy body perfectly.
“Are you feeling better?” he asked.
“No. I’m still a bitch. I yelled at Henri,” I confessed, my frustration still evident.
A smirk played on Oliver's lips. “He can take it. I pay him well enough.”
“I apologized. He probably hates me and thinks of me as your side dish,” I grumbled.
Oliver inhaled sharply, his words slicing through the air with a sharp edge. "Don’t say that," he implored, his voice tight with a mix of frustration and hurt. "You’re my fiancée, not my side dish. Soon you’ll be my wife."
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach, a familiar ache that seemed to grow heavier with each passing day. "And that’s why I command respect around here," I retorted, my voice tinged with bitterness. "Not because of my Columbia education or qualifications. Because I’m Oliver Fox’s fiancée."
His suggestion to leave came as a relief, a chance to escape the suffocating atmosphere of the office.
"It’s only 4:30," I protested weakly, but his gaze was imploring, urging me to relent.
"You can call it a day," he persisted, his tone softening. "Let’s go home and order truffle burgers for dinner."
"I’m not hungry," I murmured, my voice barely audible as I struggled to meet his gaze.
“Why is it that you always have to be difficult?” Oliver's frustration bubbled to the surface, his words cutting through the tension like a knife.
A heavy silence hung between us, thick with unspoken words and unresolved tension. "You know why," I replied softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
Oliver rose from the chair in front of my desk, his movements tense and controlled. He retrieved my black wool coat; his actions deliberate as he waited for me to shut down my laptop. As I finally rose from my chair, he moved to kiss my lips, but I turned my cheek, a silent refusal that drew a sharp narrowing of his eyes.
As Oliver helped me on with my coat, his words hung heavy in the air, a tense cloud between us. "I hope you won’t be like this all evening," he murmured, his voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and concern.
I couldn't help but let out a bitter laugh. "Afraid you won’t get sex tonight?" My retort was sharp, laced with the bitterness that had become all too familiar in our exchanges.
His response was a resigned sigh. "I won’t even attempt. I’m afraid you might bite my dick off."
