Kaleidoscope Hearts (9 page)

“Because you know you’ll lose the battle.”

“I can’t do this right now,” I say finally, taking the glass of Moscato and drinking what’s left in one huge gulp before slamming it down with a clink. I take out a bill and toss it on the table.

“You’re seriously leaving over this?” she asks, balking at me.

“I have to go get some stuff and get ready to go to Felicia’s house for dinner tonight, and I’m not in the mood to argue with you right now.”

“How are you going to move on completely if you’re still eating dinner with his parents every goddamn week?”

My mouth pops open. I can’t believe she’s even going there right now, even after knowing how upset this is making me. I try to regain control of the blood simmering inside my body, but the longer I stand there, the more impossible it is.

“Next time I need your advice, I’ll ask you. You shouldn’t be dishing out so much of it anyway! Your ex-boyfriend left you to marry his ex-girlfriend, and you rebounded with his uncle! How’s that for fucked up?” I practically shout.

“I didn’t know it was his uncle!” She slams her palms over the table and stands up, so it looks like we’re in a boxing ring with the table serving as our referee.

“I . . . I . . .” I put my hands on my head and squeeze the impending headache. “I have to go. I can’t . . . I can’t right now.” As it is, I already regret what I said to her. She didn’t deserve that and I know it, but dammit! She knows I hate it when she brings up Wyatt. Even when he was alive, I refused to talk about him with her after a while, because it would always end up turning into a huge argument.

By the time I get to Victor’s house, I decide I hate everybody and can only pray nobody else gets in my way, because I feel like I have enough pent-up rage inside me to make a charging bull look tame. The door slams behind me in a thud, and I head for the stairs, ignoring the voices coming from the kitchen.

“Elle?” Vic calls out.

“Yeah. I’m just here for a moment. Picking something up,” I shout back, reaching the bedroom door and closing it behind me. I sag against it, feeling like a teenager avoiding her parents, and I focus on collecting my thoughts before the inevitable footsteps come up the stairs. The knock comes shortly after and I sigh, conceding to open it. I regret it immediately when I find Oliver standing on the other side, wearing nothing but a pair of swim trunks and a smile. I refuse to give in to the urge to let my gaze travel the length of his naked torso. My eyes can burn in hell for wanting to do it. My hands can follow them and sit beside Satan himself for wanting to reach out to tame the mussed brown hair falling over his forehead.

“What do you want?” I ask, not even trying to hide my annoyance.

He stops smiling and starts frowning, crossing his arms over his chest. I refuse to look at his defined arms. Absolutely refuse.

“What crawled up your ass?” he asks, and I start closing the door on him, but he stops it with his hand. I exhale.

“I don’t have time for this right now, Oliver. If you want to annoy me, come back after nine o’clock,” I mutter, looking down at his naked feet. They’re probably the least attractive thing on his body, but then, feet usually are.

“Okay,” he says, pushing the door wider and letting himself in.

“What are you doing?”

“Annoying you.”

“I said after nine. It’s six-forty, and I have to go.” I grab the bag I have on the floor, filled with pictures of Wyatt.

“Where are you going? Another date?” he asks, as he walks around the room, picking up everything and looking at it—even a pink bra that’s draped over my chair. He stays fixated on that.

“I guess you can call it that.” I turn to the closet and sift through clothes, looking for something more modest to change into. The black shirt I have on shows off my entire back, and it’s not something I would wear to Wyatt’s parents’ house without him there.

“I like what you’re wearing,” Oliver says huskily into my ear, making me jump. I turn quickly, both palms up and ready to push him away, but get sidetracked when my nose ends up on his sternum and I can’t help but breathe him in. He smells of salty water and a natural scent that’s sweet, yet masculine. I only hesitated for half a second, but it’s long enough for him to place his hands over mine. He presses them to his warm chest, and my breathing escalates.

“Look at me, Elle,” he says, using the deliciously low, demanding voice that made my toes curl and my eyes roll back many moons ago. I have no choice but to tilt my head back and give him my attention. “Forget those lame guys you’re dating. Let me take you out.”

My heart, if possible, spikes even further in my chest, overriding all warning of the impending chaos that’s sure to come. I try to turn my attention to the poster hanging beside us, but the image of a kissing couple has my eyes darting back to deep green eyes that burn into mine. My stomach does a flip-flop—the way it always does when he looks at me that way. I try to take my hands back, because these feelings are too scary for me to deal with right now, but he holds them tighter, bringing them up to his mouth and kissing the tip of my ring finger. Why did he pick that finger to kiss? I pull harder, and he finally lets my hand drop.

“I can’t,” I say, my voice raspy.

A myriad of emotions flash in his eyes before they settle on determination, and I’m forced to take a step back—away from his scent, away from his warmth.

“Why not?”

I sigh and finally look away, back down at his naked feet. “I just can’t.” He knows why not. He shouldn’t ask me that question. “What’s Vic doing, anyway?”

His body moves into mine so quickly that I don’t have time to react, as his large hands clutch my arms and his face drops, bringing his nose to mine. I just stare, wide-eyed, waiting for his lips to close the distance, but they don’t. He just looks at me . . . breathes on me . . . lets me breathe on him, and then he groans. And that fucking groan bridges the distance between us and crawls into the core of me, draping over every fiber of my being.

“What do you want, Oliver?” I whisper against his lips. “What do you want from me? You want to kiss me? You want to fuck me? You want to come into my life like the hurricane that you are and tear down everything I’ve rebuilt before you disappear again?”

His lips brush lightly against mine—just a breath of a touch—yet he’s crowding me like he’s about to devour me. He won’t though. He never goes in for the kill. He just casts the lure, reels me in and then cuts the line. As expected, his hands drop, and he pulls away from me as quickly as he’d approached. I feel a pang deep inside me that I desperately wish wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, shaking his head in a movement that makes his hair sway back and forth. His eyes are soft on mine now, and I can almost hear his thoughts:
I should never have kissed her. I should never—

My brows rise in surprise at the apology, though. There are so many things I can say to him, but the sudden, defeated look in his eyes keeps my mouth shut. Finally, I exhale and push off the wall to stand in front of him, keeping enough distance between us to discourage us from reaching toward the other.

“It’s okay just . . . don’t do it again. The kiss the other day was a mistake . . .” I stop talking and walk past him, putting the bra away and sorting through my underwear drawer, like I’m unearthing hidden treasure or something. This time when I feel him come up behind me, I drop my head and exhale. He really needs to stop sneaking up behind me.

“Oli—” I start, and gasp when I feel his lips on the back of my neck, soft and warm. My heart thunders and I freeze in place, my shaking hands still inside the drawer. I close my eyes and focus on breathing, as he drops another kiss right beside that spot. I never knew the back of my neck was so sensitive. The feeling sends a ripple of sensation down my arms and through my body.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he says in a husky whisper that makes my flesh break out in goose bumps. “You’ve never been a mistake. You want me to tell your brother that I want to date you? Is that what it would take?”

I pull my hands out of the drawer to clutch the edge of the dresser, and a moan escapes my lips.

“That sound,” he growls, as he pushes his body against my back. I can feel the hardness of his chest . . . of him . . . against me. “That fucking sound drives me crazy, Elle,” he says, sucking the side of my neck. I’m starting to pant, and I don’t even care. I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t know what I need. I don’t know if it matters—if anything matters—when Oliver is making me feel this way. I don’t even have time to let guilt sink in, because even that’s a foreign feeling right now. A storm of lust rises inside me, and my heart continues to trip over itself as his lips descend on me over and over.

“I can’t do this again,” I whisper shakily. “I can’t . . . oh God, you need to stop.” I moan as he drags his hands down my sides, the tips of his fingers grazing my already pert nipples.

He presses against me again, pushing me into the dresser. “Was I a mistake to you?”

“Oliver,” I plead in a soft whimper. My eyes roll back as his hands begin a sensual tease—up and down, squeezing and kneading—unhurried . . . as if we have all the time in the world for his seduction. As if we both don’t know that as soon as he walks out of this room, whatever we’re doing is over . . . like it always is.

“What do you want, Elle? You want me to kiss you? You want me to fuck you? You want to pretend that
I’m
the one who hurricanes through your life?” His voice is guttural as he grinds against my ass. Another moan escapes me.

Suddenly, his words sink in, and my eyes snap open. That’s the moment I slip out of his hold and turn to glare at him. His eyes are hooded as he looks back at me, his hair all tousled and sexy. Hell, everything about him is sexy. Oliver Hart is the definition of sexy in my book, but I’m too pissed off to be distracted right now.

“I’m the hurricane?” I say, pointing at myself. “
Me?
” I glance at the clock on the dresser and realize I’m already late, thanks to this . . . whatever we’re doing.

“You think you’re not?” Oliver counters, now looking at me through narrowed eyes.

“You’re delusional.” I walk back to the closet and, with my back to him, I pull the shirt I’m wearing over my head. I hear his sharp intake of breath, and I don’t relish it like I normally would. Right now, he’s officially back on my shit list.

“No. You are delusional, Estelle,” he says, stepping forward so he’s behind me again, his voice near my ear. He doesn’t touch me this time. “You are so damn crazy, and I want to touch you so bad right now and fuck the insanity out of you.”

A shiver runs down my entire body as I pull another shirt over my head. “Not going to happen.”

“Not right now, but it is going to happen. Don’t go on this date,” he says. The soft plea in his voice thaws me a little, and I turn to face him.

“Why? Why shouldn’t I go on a date?”

“Because,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair. His eyes scan my room quickly, as if he’s looking for the answer on my goddamn walls. Just when my anger is bubbling up because this feels like déjà vu all over again, his eyes flash back to mine, and the look in them is so potent that it freezes me. “Because I don’t want you to. Because it’s my turn. Because I’ve let you go a million times before, and I don’t want to miss this chance with you. Let me take you out. Let me show you how good I can be, and I’m not talking about fucking, I mean me.
One date, Elle.”

When my heart starts beating again, I let out a rushed breath. “One date.”

Oliver smiles. It’s the one that makes me swoon—the wide grin that shows off his dimples. “One date.”

“Our definitions of dates are wildly different,” I say, looking around the room. My eyes glance over everything—anything—so that I don’t have to look at Oliver, but then he moves closer, and my eyes snap to his so that he’ll stop moving.

“Okay, we’ll define it so we’re both on the same page.”

I let out a small laugh. “Okay, I’ll think about it. But if I decide to say yes, I have rules.”

He chuckles. “Text me the rules.”

“I will.”

When I head downstairs, I hear him and Vic in the kitchen and pop my head in to say goodbye. Oliver’s eyes take me in slowly, as if I’m the slice of pizza he’s about to dig into, and I look away quickly before I get lost in his gaze.

“You’re going to Felicia’s, right?” Vic asks.

“Yup. I’ll be back early. Bye, guys.”

“Felicia?” Oliver asks, when I’m already halfway to the door.

“Yeah, Wyatt’s mom,” Vic responds.

“What?” Oliver asks, bewildered.

I laugh all the way to my car, and when I get there, I see a text message from him.

You played me.

I laugh, but don’t respond.

What are the rules?

1- No touching. 2- No kissing . . . If I think of any more, I’ll let you know.

Is Friday good for you?

I haven’t agreed to this yet.

But you will.

I don’t respond. I wonder if he would really ask Vic if he could take me out. For some reason, it makes butterflies ignite deep in my belly. Then I groan, remembering where I’m going and why. Maybe Mia is right. Oliver is the last person I should play this game with. He invented the fucking game. I’m just a newbie hoping for a win.