Page 11

HARLAN

This dinner is like slowing down on the freeway to look at an accident: the longer you look, the bigger the traffic jam gets. Then you blink and you’re stuck for three hours because you missed the turnoff. Olivia is a wreck, that much is evident, yet I can’t look away. I could take Paige’s call and she’ll probably have a good reason for me to leave, but I silence it instead, and flip my phone over so it won’t ring again. It wouldn’t be a fake emergency, Paige only calls me after hours if shit has literally hit the fan.

Olivia picks up her utensils and starts to eat her meal as if I’m not even there. I look at her plate, not dissimilar to mine with a juicy steak, and roast vegetables. None of them mixed together, though, and not one thing on her plate is touching the other. She also doesn’t have any sauce. It looks a bit dry to be honest, but I’m not eating it so that’s her issue. I want to laugh at this crazy woman, and the bizarre turn of events, I really do, but she seems so out of place in the real world that I feel sorry for her.

I’m not a people person, but that’s a choice. I don’t like them, not up close at least. Olivia isn’t a people person because she’s just completely unequipped to deal with them. Maybe she’s just really nervous. It might even be an act, she’s trying to chase me away or get me to leave. I’m hungry, and entertained, so I won’t be running. I should, but I won’t. I could sit here all night watching people eat dinner, but I’m very much enjoying the comedy show that is Olivia. I wave down the waitress and ask her to bring us another bottle of wine before I start eating.

You know when you’re being watched, it’s a feeling. I know Olivia is watching me chew my food, which makes it hard to swallow. There’s no dinner conversation, Olivia eats, and watches me eat. She catches me a few times and her cheeks blush a stunning shade of red, like her hair. Other people are watching our awkward exchange, especially the hostess I chased off earlier.

The staff all know her well, and I recall her mentioning she comes here often. It explains why the staff are so eager to please her. When we’re both done eating, our table is cleared quickly, the wine is refilled without asking this time, and the chef has come to check on us twice.

“Would you like dessert?” I ask her when the menus are brought back to the table.

“There’s no point in going out to dinner and not having dessert. That’s the best part,” she replies. I can’t argue, my sister is a pastry chef. Sweet is my thing, and I’ve been known to eat dessert for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

“Do you have a special dessert order like your dinner, or do you choose from the menu?” I ask, teasing her rather than mocking her.

“I usually have dessert in my room and order one of everything to try, but that’d be a bit weird in here.” She looks around at the full dining room. The table wouldn’t be big enough for that, but scanning the menu I can understand why she does it.

“Which dessert would you say has been your favorite? Or should we go to my room and order all of them?” I tease, but she doesn’t get that I’m joking. She straightens her back, and places her hands in her lap. Her stunning eyes are wide and unblinking. Her mind is running riot, I can almost see the wheels turning.

“It’s not like I’m ever going to see you again, and I’ve had enough wine that this doesn’t sound like the dumbest idea on earth. I also like dessert and really want all of them.” She takes a deep breath, looks at me and adds, “Fine, we can have dessert in your room, but I’m not dessert. Is that clear before we do this?” It’s my turn to talk to myself inside my head. What the ever-loving fuck am I doing? I didn’t plan on going to the room because I’m not staying the night. I don’t even have a toothbrush with me. Why would she say yes? Is there a way to get out of this now? Not without being horribly rude, which usually I would do. But I have a gut inkling that being rejected twice in one evening might push her all the way to crazy town. Before I can say yes or no, or ‘hey, this was a joke’, she’s called over the manager, placed our order, and asked to have it sent to my room. Her napkin is neatly folded in front of her before she picks up her purse and stands, looking down at me and waiting for my brain and body to catch up to one another.

It’s like I’m walking in slow motion and everyone around us is a blur, through the lobby, and into the elevator. This is crazy? Right? I don’t even remember where I put the keycard or the what the room number is.

“Which floor?” Olivia asks as the door dings shut, closing us into a small space alone.

“Umm,” I pull out my wallet and take the key out, “Give me a second.”

“You don’t know which room you are in?”

“I didn’t plan on staying in the room, or even going to it to be honest. I just didn’t want to park two blocks away.” She laughs, grabs the key and hits the button for the sixth floor.

“You booked a room for a parking spot? That makes you sound a bit serial-killer-ish, you know that right?” She hands the key back to me. “You are in six-twenty-two.” She winks at me and it’s sort of cute.

“I needed to see the barman,” I defend myself, because I’m not an episode of CSI waiting to happen.

She seems surprised. “Asher?”

“The asshole, yes. I didn’t want to walk a mile to get here so I booked a room so that I could park my car. Dinner and dessert wasn’t a part of my plan.” I’m explaining myself to someone who is crazy, so it sounds crazier. “Not a serial killer, just a really irritated landlord.”

“If you say so.” She shrugs her shoulders. In the elevator I can see all of her at once, all the mirrors make it so I have this 360° view of her. I didn’t notice before because I wasn’t looking. Olivia is petite, her wild and wavy red hair shines, and that black dress fits her like a glove. She’s quite beautiful when her crazy isn’t showing.

“That’s it?”

“Look, if you murder me, no one is going to look for at least a month so you’ll totally get away with it. I’ll die happy having had dessert for my last meal, and the only thing missing will have been earth shatteringly good sex just once before I die.” She really has no brain-to-mouth filter at all. However, her saying the word sex out loud has my body doing things it shouldn’t be doing.

“Earth shattering, huh?” I say as the door opens on the sixth floor.

“I make this shit up for a living, I have high expectations,” she replies, stepping out ahead of me. “I also have a very, very good vibrator.” She looks over her shoulder to see if I react. It’s either her nerves or the wine, but she’s funny when she talks. The crazy disappears when she gets all sexy and dirty-talking, then she’s just plain hot. Olivia stops in front of the right door, like she lives here and knows her way around without even having to look. I open it with the electronic key, and hold the door open so it doesn’t swing closed and smash her in the face. This means we are both in the doorway at the same time, and I can smell her perfume. She pauses, looking up at me with those mischievous eyes, bites her lip and walks slowly into the room.

This is a bad idea. I know it is, and yet here I am in a hotel room with a strange woman I met in a bar. There’s a joke in there somewhere, a grumpy property mogul and a romance author meet at a bar… It’s better than having met her online, I guess. That’s where the real crazies live. The door swings shut, and Olivia turns around to face me, walking backward into the room. She’s drunk so that’s a bad idea. I can see it coming, but she walks straight into the bottom of the bed, which gives her a fright and she falls over. I want to help her but room service is knocking with our dessert, and I might laugh at her if I do. So I leave her to pull herself together and open the door.

There’s a lot of dessert. A lot! She wants to die in a sugar coma, that’s the only explanation for this. I can eat sweets, Birdie has spent years testing hers on me, but this is a bit much. The two trollies take up most of the open space in the small room — I wasn’t staying, I didn’t need a big room. There’s no table and chairs so the only place to sit is on the bed, which is where Olivia is already waiting. She is sitting cross legged, her shoes off, eagerly awaiting the chocolate and sugar she ordered.

“You really order all of this for yourself when you stay here?” I ask, closing the door. “You don’t have to worry about serial killers because sugar is the new cancer, haven’t you heard?” She laughs at my joke, and her eyes scan over all the very pretty-looking plates they’ve brought in.

“I don’t eat them all, I just taste each one. If I ate them I’d get a fat ass, not diabetes, and I’m allergic to gym so I can’t eat whatever I want.”

“Actually allergic or you just don’t like it?”

“Too-many-people-looking-at-me, allergic. I’d rather eat salad and rage-run a ten-k every morning than go to a gym.” She picks up a spoon, and scoops up the orange and vanilla mousse that’s closest to her. Her eyes close when she licks it off the spoon, and I can’t take my eyes off her. I don’t need to taste it, I can see how good it is just by observing the subtle changes in her expression. She hands me the plate and chooses another one, a merengue with cream and fruit this time.

She said she wasn’t dessert, but fuck my life watching her eat dessert is the sweetest, sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

“You’re supposed to taste it, then I give you the next one,” she says when she sees I haven’t taken a bite yet. Holding out the second plate to me, she asks, “Do you not like dessert?”

“I just decided I prefer watching you eating dessert, to actual dessert.” She blushes, shakes her head and takes another off the tray. This time she’s teasing me on purpose, looking me in the eyes as she licks and sucks the gooey chocolate off the spoon. If that’s not an invitation, I don’t know what is.