Page 73 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

“That was an interesting evening,” I offer finally.

It’s too dark to tell, but I’m pretty sure his eyes are twinkling by the way he says, “Whatever do you mean?”

“Oliver.”

“Are you perhaps referring to the way Maisie attempted to throw us together at every possible turn?”

I chuckle. “You know I am.”

He clears his throat a little uncomfortably. “Yeah. I’m sorry about that.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s just that I’m probably the closest thing to family Maisie’s got. She’s very…invested in my happiness.”

“Or at least what she perceives would make you happy,” I retort.

He doesn’t respond, and I worry I’ve offended him somehow. Insulted his relationship with Maisie, maybe, by suggesting that she doesn’t actually know him well enough to gauge what he wants.

Or is he hesitating because being with me would, in fact, make him happy? My palms start to shake at the thought, so I splay my fingers and press my hands against my thighs, willing them to stay still.

Oliver throws on his directional to turn down the side street where Beach Haven is waiting, stoic beneath the stormy sky.

I need to break this awkward silence somehow. “See, I told Maisie I could have walked home. It’s only about a mile.”

He shrugs, pulling up to the house and turning off the engine. “I really didn’t mind.”

The only sound then is the wind, which is picking up its tempo rather impressively outside the truck. Oliver’s looking over at me, shadows clinging to his face like they’re old friends, and it occurs to me that I don’t want to go inside.

“That cheesecake was divine, by the way,” I say with a grin. “You’re clearly a man of many talents.”

Oliver smiles in the darkness, so broadly you’d think I just confessed my undying affection. It does something to me, knowing that my praise has that effect on him.

“What are these other talents of which you speak?” he asks with a magnetism I’m struggling to fight.

“Okay, now you’re just fishing for compliments,” I tease.

He smirks. “Maybe.”

“Well,” I begin, willing to take the bait, “you’re also a brilliant writer.”

Now I know he’s blushing. “I don’t know if I’d say that.”

“No, but I would. And anyway, I’m the literary expert.”

His hand is only an inch away from mine on the bench seat. It’s calling to me, a beacon of warmth that I want to submit to so badly.

“That’s true,” he admits. “You are definitely the last word in great writing.”

“Your poem was heartbreaking,” I admit. I could say more, but I’m not sure where to begin.

He breathes deeply. “No one’s ever perceived it that way before.”

“No?”

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “But it broke my heart to write it, so I think it must mean something that you picked up on the feelings beneath the surface.”

My heart thuds in my chest. It must mean something? What is he implying? The air in the truck is too hot; too thick. I feel like I can’t breathe. “Well, it’s that whole literary expert thing,” I finally manage.