Page 86 of First-Time Caller
“I’m not interested in someone else. I wouldn’t—I wouldn’t do that.”
He places the wine menu back down. “You’ve mentioned Aiden at least six times.”
“Have I?”
He nods. “And we haven’t even ordered dessert yet.”
I’m flustered, clinging to the edge of the fancy tablecloth for dear life. “That’s—I don’t—” I force myself to take a breath and unclench my hands from around the table. I don’t know what to do with them, so I settle for folding them in my lap. “I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
Oliver’s face slips into something patiently amused as he sips his water, the light from the candle in the middle of our table flickering across his face. “You didn’t realize you were mentioning him, or you didn’t realize you have feelings for him?”
I want to crawl under this table and dig to the center of the earth. I want to scale the walls and shimmy through the air vents. “I didn’t realize I was talking about him so much,” I manage, my mouth numb, the words clumsy. “And I don’t have feelings for him.”
Oliver arches one eyebrow.
“I don’t,” I say again.
“Sure,” he responds.
“We just work together,” I say defensively. And I’m hung up on why he hasn’t spoken to me in two days. He was flirting with me in my living room on Sunday, and now he can’t even respond to my texts. Also, coincidentally, I think about him constantly.
I reach for my wineglass, discover it’s empty, then place it back. “Are we really having this conversation right now?”
Oliver shifts, his face melting into something earnest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just—” He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip and I barely notice. With Aiden, I’d probably notice. “Listen. I need to be honest with you.”
I eye him warily. “Okay.”
I brace myself for something horrifying. He’s a convicted murderer on the run. He doesn’t thinkDie Hardis a Christmas movie. He eats his chicken nuggets without sauce.
“There’s a reason I’m out of practice,” he says slowly. He’s watching me carefully, like he’s doing some bracing of his own. Air masks dropping from the ceiling. “I have feelings for someone else too. That’s how I could spot it so easily. Like recognizes like. I thought I was over it, but I’ve realized that I’m . . . not.”
We stare at each other. The waitress comes by and asks us if we want any dessert, and I tell her we’ll take two tiramisu and the gelato sampler.
“I don’t know if I should be afraid or relieved,” he says as soon as she disappears back into the kitchen. He laughs nervously. “Are you going to scalp me with the spoon?”
“I need sugar to think. Now, let me see if I have this right.” I point a finger at him. “You went out on a date with a woman knowing you had feelings for someone else?”
He looks offended. “So did you.”
“I don’t have feelings for another woman.”
“But you sure do say the name Aiden a lot,” he fires back.
I blink at him. That is a . . . fair point.
He rests his forearms on the table. “My intentions were good, I promise. I thought I needed a push to get me to move on and I heard your voice on the radio and—I don’t know. It seemed like a sign.”
A sign. Magic. The universe tugging you in a different direction. I can understand that. Isn’t that exactly what I’ve been hoping for?
“And I think,” he says again, gently, “that you are really great. You’re funny and smart and spectacularly hot.” A disbelieving puff of air bursts out of me and he laughs. “Truly. But I—I think my heart is somewhere else. And I think yours is too.”
The waitress drops off our dessert. I immediately drag the tiramisu toward me like it’s a life vest and I’m floating in the middle of the Atlantic. I didn’t realize I was being so obvious. Is that why Aiden has been so distant? Did I embarrass myself at the bar? Was I too much? I have a hazy, out-of-focus memory of my hands fisted in his shirt and my mouth tipped to his. He said we didn’t kiss, but . . . oh god, did I try? Did he say no? Before I manhandled him to my couch?
“Want to talk about it?” Oliver asks carefully from the other side of the table. I’m doing it again. I’m sitting across from Oliver and thinking about Aiden. Oliver picks up his spoon and scoops out some gelato. I watch him slip it into his mouth and feel . . . absolutely nothing. A vague appreciation for how good-looking he is, but no flips in my stomach. Nothing.
“With you?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Who else? I’ve been told I’m a good listener, and I don’t think our waitress is interested in us.”
