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I sighed, reaching for the door handle. As I opened it, I met his worried gaze with a weary look. "Don't start," I warned.
Oliver held up his hands in surrender. "I have no intention. I heard you talking with your mother."
Leaning against the sink, I explained, "She's just worried. You didn't see how I was after my father was murdered. She wants to make sure the same thing isn't happening to me. I assured her I was fine."
Oliver stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. "She means well. I feel the same way."
I shrugged off his touch, frustration seeping into my voice. "Oliver, I'm fine. Don't worry about me." Then, a thought struck me, and I turned to face him fully. "What about you? Why don't you have nightmares about what happened?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken fears and lingering trauma. Oliver's expression shifted, a flicker of something – pain? guilt? – passing across his features. As he opened his mouth to respond, I realized that perhaps I wasn't the only one still grappling with the aftermath of our shared ordeal.
The muffled sounds of laughter and conversation drifted down the hallway, a stark contrast to the tension in our little bubble. In that moment, surrounded by holiday cheer yet haunted by shadows of the past, I wondered if we were both putting on a brave face for the sake of those around us – and for each other.
He brushed a few strands of hair from my cheek. “I just don’t. Remember, I was barely conscious for most of it.”
“But you got shot.”
He pulled me against his ivory cashmere sweater and cupped the back of my head.
“I’m fine. I have no residual effects from it.”
I wished I didn’t. Anxiety, panic, worry – they were all present more than I cared to admit. When I was a child, I was more resilient but now, I carried everything around with me like a thousand pound weight. There were times we went out and I found myself looking over my shoulder. And I would never admit to Oliver my true feelings but I didn’t have to since my nightmares revealed my stress.
“Can we make a pact not to talk about this today? I want to enjoy the holiday without having it destroyed by bringing up one of the worst times in my life.”
He placed a kiss on the tip of my nose. “I promise. Your mom is serving hot buttered cider with the appetizers.”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Shit, she knows that’s my favorite. I can’t drink that.”
Oliver chuckled. “Then just say no.”
“She’ll wonder why.”
“Tell her you haven’t been feeling well lately.”
I pursed my lips. “Then she’ll really question.”
He shook his head in exasperation. “Hell, tell her you’re pregnant.”
“We talked about this, and I don’t want to do that yet. Now I’m all stressed out.”
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Like what Mr. Fox?”
I knew exactly what he had in mind. He wanted to make me come. He wanted to relieve the tension in my body. I’m sure he could feel it.
“Your choice,” he said huskily.
I frowned. “Not here. Why are you always trying to get me to have sex in strange places?”
He grinned. “A bathroom is not a strange place. We’ve had sex in ours many times.”
“That’s our home. This is my parent’s home.”
“I could lick you. I’m in the mood for an early dessert.”
“Oliver, get the hell out of here.”
