Page 79 of The Billionaire Mismatch

I wakeup in the morning to two things. The scent of Oliva’s hair on the pillow next to mine, all curly and messy and beautiful. And her dog, who is sitting next to my side of the bed staring at me.

A dog who has made it clear that she doesn’t like me.

Well, you know what, Vivien? I don’t give a damn.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her as I sit up in bed. I place my feet on the floor, assuming she will back up, but she doesn’t. I guess I shouldn’t have expected any different. They say dogs mimic the behavior and personality of their owners.

Salty. Forward. Stubborn. And oddly cute.

Yeah, that pretty much tracks.

Of course, I am interested in Olivia and not her wire-haired dog, so I don’t really care what she thinks. Assuming she will not bite me, of course.

“You heard me,” I say as I walk to the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. “I’m not going anywhere. So you might as well get used to me.”

I can hear her nails clicking on the floor behind me as my eyes scan the kitchen counter for the coffeepot. Maybe, if I’m lucky, an espresso machine. I find a pod coffeemaker in the corner, and while that’s not my go-to, it’ll do for now. I prefer to grind my own beans, steam the milk, that sort of thing.

I open the cabinet above the machine and find a bunch of coffee cups. And I mean…a lot. None of them matching, none of them even the same size or shape. There’s one shaped like a hedgehog, one with psychedelic flowers on it, ladybugs, cherries, and even one with Vivien’s face. I take in a deep breath and opt for a bright blue one as it seems to be the most normal. Of course, when I set it on the counter, I see that at the bottom of the cup is a whale, complete with a spout.

That should make stirring interesting.

With Vivien’s eyes still on me, I head over to the fridge to look for milk or half and half. What I find is a stack of meal kit microwave meals, half a pineapple, vanilla yogurt, and “frosted sugar cookie creamer,” I say out loud while closing the door. Guess I won’t have to worry about stirring since I’ll be drinking it black.

I press the button and wait as the machine rumbles and groans, trying to figure out how to heat up a cup's worth of water. Meanwhile, I lean against the counter, running my hand down my face and through my hair while I think about last night.

The tacos were good. The dinner in general was good. Olivia is quirky, but she’s funny and sweet; intelligent and real. Real isso hard to find. So rare. Especially in the epidemic that is our current dating world.

But it wasn’t just dinner that went well. The aftermath was above the bar, too. It’s insane how simply kissing Olivia, knowing that it’s not going to heat up beyond that, is more erotic than anything I’ve ever done with any other woman.

The machine finally stops grunting and whirring, and I take that as my sign that my coffee is done. I grab the mug, my mind still so lost in the rerun of Olivia that I fail to realize she is standing in front of me, long hair soaking wet and wearing nothing but a towel.

“Good morning–” I start to say when she plucks the coffee mug from my hand.

“You can’t drink that,” she says, setting it in the sink.

“Is something wrong with it?” I ask. I’m lost. Between her snatching my coffee from me and also standing there in nothing but a towel that hardly covers her perfect curves, I’m not really sure which part of this whole thing to wrap my brain around.

“We are going out,” she says, and I gotta say, this girl has a lot of perk for someone who hasn’t had any caffeine yet.

“Out? Before coffee?” I ask.

“Out for coffee,” she answers with a smile.

“Why would we do that when we can just use your German robot over there to make some?”

“Because I am taking you to the best coffee shop in all of Boston,” she says. “Now go put some clothes on.”

“Do I have a say in this?” I ask as she marches off.

“Nope!” she calls back. And as I watch her butt swaying from side to side, I know as well as she does that I will follow her to whatever coffee shop she wants me to. Hell, at this point she could say we are going to a coffee shop in New York City, and I’d probably follow her.

* * *

“So what do you think?” she asks the moment I take a sip of my latte. We are at Flora, a small shop I’ve never heard of despite the fact I have driven past it a thousand times. It’s a hole in the wall with terracotta walls, mismatched 18th-century furniture and plants. A lot of plants. But despite not really being my style, I have to admit one thing.

“It’s good,” I say. “It’s really good.”

“Right?” Olivia grins, swirling her iced coffee in her hand. “I come here pretty much every day.”