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“I don’t think you’re my employee anymore.”
“No?”
“No, you’re my partner.”
The smile she gives me could power the entire building. God, I love this woman. I knew I was falling. I just hadn't realized I'd already landed. The words I love you press against the back of my throat, desperate to be spoken. But not yet. Not because they aren't true. Because I want to say them when she has no reason to doubt them.
26
PEYTON
Tilly chews a rubber giraffe beside me while I add another patch of blue to a painting of the Brooklyn Bridge. She watches every movement with wide, curious eyes, occasionally rewarding my artistic efforts with an enthusiastic kick that sends the bouncer rocking.
“What do you think?” I ask, holding the page up for her inspection. “Too much blue? I think it might need another color.”
Tilly considers the comment before shoving more of the giraffe into her mouth.
“Strong feedback. Brutal, but fair.” She kicks again, launching the toy from her mouth. “Okay, okay. No need to get defensive. Art is subjective,” I tell her with an exaggerated sigh.
Turning back to the canvas, I reach for green next. I love these moments with Tilly—the squeals, the kicks and the way her whole face lights up when I talk to her. Sometimes I catch myself imagining her a little older, sitting beside me with a paintbrush clutched in her tiny hand while we make a glorious mess together. I can already picture her getting paint everywhere except the canvas. And I can’t wait for that, even though I love this version of her, too.
The sound of Ollie's footsteps pulls me away from the painting. I smile before I even look up. “Hey,” I say, meeting his stunning eyes.
Ever since we slept together, thoughts of Ollie have become wonderfully impossible to escape. One minute I'm reading Tilly a picture book or folding laundry, the next I'm remembering the way he looked at me while pleasuring me and the feel of his calloused fingers against my bare skin. It's equal parts distracting and exhilarating. Apparently, this is who I am now. A woman who can be sorting tiny clothes one second and blushing like a teenager the next.
“What are you still doing here?” Ollie asks, his gaze flicking between us before settling on me. “I thought you’d be on your way to your lunch date. I was waiting for you to bring Tilly to the shop.”
“Lunch?”
He checks his watch and his following comment comes out half question, half statement. “With Soph…in less than half an hour?”
I blink at him before remembering the lunch date. “Shit! I better get changed and leave.”
I scramble, stepping on a rogue orange pencil in my rush. Ollie catches my elbow before I can discover whether colored pencils are as dangerous as banana peels in cartoons. His laughter follows me down the hallway as I disappear into the guest room. Even though I’ve spent the past few nights sleeping beside Ollie, I still keep all my things in here. We’re taking things slow, after all. Or at least pretending to, considering I haven’t slept in my own bed since we decided to give this thing between us a chance.
By the time I've slipped into my favorite sundress and brushed my hair, I'm smiling. The last three days have been a lot, but in the best way. They've been filled with sleepy kisses while coffee brews, long hugs in the kitchen and seeking touches whenever we pass by each other. Every excuse to be close has become a good one. A hand at my lower back while I reach into a cupboard. My feet tucked beneath his thigh on the couch. His fingers finding mine when we're sitting close enough to touch. Not that we've managed much privacy. We also haven't had sex again since that first night. Timing conspires against us, especially in the form of a very small, very adorable kid.
Tilly has developed an uncanny talent for waking up the second we start taking off clothes, which means the past few days have involved an ungodly amount of making out on the couch and dry humping. Enough that I’m starting to suspect the universe is testing my patience on purpose. Ollie, for his part, is trying very hard to be responsible and not scar his infant niece for life. Which is admirable, gold-star uncle behavior. But if we want to keep whatever this is between us alive and thriving, he’s eventually going to have to accept that intimacy doesn’t vanish just because there’s a baby sleeping in the next room. Preferably before I combust from newly found sexual frustration and become a cautionary tale they tell on the news.
It still feels a little surreal how quickly my days have changed. Only weeks ago, I woke up wondering what I was supposed to do with the broken pieces of my life. Now, I'm wondering whether Ollie is going to kiss me goodbye before I leave.
Spoiler alert: he does. One hand settles at my waist while the other cups the back of my neck, his thumb brushing beneath my ear before he leans in. His lips meet mine in a slow, toe curling kiss. I melt into him, my hands finding his chest as he pulls me closer. He kisses me like we have nowhere else to be. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a clock is ticking and Soph is probably already waiting, but Ollie's mouth makes an extremely convincing argument for becoming a terrible friend.
As I start to pull away, he follows me for one last kiss. Then another. A giggle slips out against his mouth when he steals a third, and I feel his answering smile against my lips.
When we finally pull apart, he doesn't go far. His hand stays firm on my waist, his face close. “If you keep kissing me like that, I'm going to be late,” I tell him.
“I've considered that,” he admits.
“And?”
“I’m willing to live with the consequences.”
“Tempting,” I say, biting back another smitten smile.
His fingers squeeze my waist once before he reluctantly lets me go. “Have fun.”
“I'll try.”
