Kaleidoscope Hearts (15 page)

When the waitress comes, and we order our drinks and some food, I know I can just drop what he said. It’s an out for both of us to go back to treading on more comfortable ground, but his words keep playing in my head.

“Panicked why?” I ask quietly, breaking a piece of bread and lathering it with strawberry jam, as he does. I feel his eyes on me and I look up to see him shrug.

“Because of the last time I saw you.”

“At my parents’ house,” I say, nodding in understanding.

When the waiter comes back with our drinks, we drop the subject, because that one is too much for a friends-only date.

“So, Doctor Hart, how are you doing in your residency so far? Do you get quizzed? How does that work?” I ask, smiling. Oliver chuckles, as his eyes light up and those dimples flash in amusement.

“I’m proud to say all of my quizzes are behind me, but they do stay on my ass enough to know if I mess up . . . which I don’t,” he adds with a wink.

I grin. “Of course you don’t, Mr. Perfect.”

“
Doctor
Perfect,” he corrects, raising an eyebrow. We share a laugh over that, but it dies down quickly when his gaze turns serious again. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” I respond, just as the waiter sets down our food. He ordered egg whites and bacon scramble, and I’m having Eggs Benedict over avocado. We push our plates toward the middle of the table so we can share, like we used to. Everything feels so . . . natural.

I smile, watching as he takes a bite of the avocado and eggs. He groans, making a face of pure bliss, and then smiles and cuts a piece to feed me. I place my hands on the edge of the table and lean into the fork, my eyes on his as I do. As soon as the explosion of flavors hits my tongue, I match his moan and close my eyes.

“That is so good,” I say once I finish chewing. I smile when I notice Oliver’s eyes are still on my mouth. “You had a question for me,” I prompt. He swallows and nods.

“Was he really controlling over you?” he asks. I guess my face shows how taken aback by his question I am, because he adds a quick “If you don’t mind me asking” to his statement.

“I wouldn’t say he was controlling . . . not in a bad way, anyway . . . I’m sure Vic has painted a terrible picture of our relationship for you—this guy goes out of town constantly and leaves her alone without calling her for days and days and then comes back and tells her she can’t dress the way she normally dresses and has to give up dance classes,” I say, mimicking my brother’s angry voice. “But he didn’t make me do any of those things. I did those things because I wanted to.”

Oliver’s face twists into something I’ve never seen before. It’s like grief or something, I don’t know—but the sight of it makes my heart drop to my stomach.

After a moment, I whisper, “What are you thinking?”

He looks away from me, into the ocean, and when his green eyes find mine again, that look hasn’t gone away. “I’m thinking . . .” He stops himself, as if he’s having this tug of war in his mind over whether or not to tell me. I nod, encouraging him. “I’m thinking that I don’t think I could go days and days without hearing your voice.”

His answer is so not what I expected. The way it makes me feel, is so not what I was expecting. And the fact that I like both things makes me feel conflicted.

“What are you thinking?” he asks after a moment.

“That this is nothing like the last date I went on.”

Oliver chuckles. “With that Derek guy?”

“Why must you have such a good memory?” I ask, smiling and shaking my head.

“Did you ever go out with him again?”

“Nope. Definitely not my type.”

“What is your type?” he asks, his eyes dropping to my lips, which I lick because they’re suddenly dry.

“I don’t really have one. I just know he’s not it,” I say, shrugging.

“I think you do have one.”

“Really?” I say. “Enlighten me, oh, wise one. What is my type?”

Oliver smiles, that lazy smile, and leans back in his seat, pushing his cup of water away slightly. “You like guys with long hair.”

“You’re only saying that because Wyatt had long hair,” I say. He gives me a pointed look. “And you had long hair.”

“Have,” he corrects.

“It used to be longer.”

“You want me to grow it back?”

I shrug, ignoring the butterflies circulating inside my stomach. “Doesn’t matter to me. What does Jen like?”

Oliver smiles wider, scratching the scruff on his chin. “I never really thought to ask for her opinion.”

The fact that he’s not denying that there was something going on with her makes me want to chuck my silverware at him. His deep chuckle snaps me out of my murderous thoughts.

“What?” I ask, sounding snappier than I intend.

“You’re so cute when you’re jealous.”

My mouth pops open. “I am not jealous. I don’t get jealous—ever. I couldn’t care less what you do in your free time.”

He keeps smiling at me, both eyebrows raised now. I close my eyes when I feel my face heat, because I can’t stand to look at the laughter in his eyes.

“Elle,” he says. I jolt and open my eyes when I feel his large hands covering mine on the table. “I already told you I’m not sleeping with anybody. Now tell me—what do you like?”

“It doesn’t matter what I like. Ask one of the nurses,” I throw out and regret it immediately, because I realize that I do sound jealous.

Oliver laughs again. “Their opinions don’t matter either.”

“Yet mine does.” I raise an eyebrow.

“Yours does,” he responds, his smoldering look beginning to affect me in a way I can’t handle well.

“What else is my type?” I ask, taking my hands from under his and putting them on my lap.

“You like older men.”

“Again, you’re just saying that because Wyatt was older.”

“Too much older,” he counters.

“No such thing.”

His jaw tightens and he throws a curve ball my way. “Do you know how shocked I was when I found out you were engaged to him?”

My stomach flips. I know the answer to this. I could never forget it, but I somehow manage to shake my head slowly, suddenly wishing the wind would take me far away from here before I get lost in the look he’s giving me. “How shocked?”

“Very.”

“Why?”

Oliver closes his eyes and breathes out harshly. Just as he opens them again, the waitress comes back with the bill. He pays, and we thank her as we leave out the side door, closest to the beach.

“I always thought you were mine,” he says. His words are so quiet they almost get lost in the gust of wind that attacks our faces, but I hear them as if he was screaming them to me. What do I say to that? How in the world could I possibly respond after all this time?

I’m thankful when Mia’s phone call interrupts us. I close my eyes. “I forgot to call her back,” I say, to him . . . to the beach . . . to no one in particular, before I answer.

“Elle, twelve is all I got. Nobody else can come at that time.”

I look up at Oliver, who’s staring down at me, and mute the phone. “Are you sure you’re okay with me cutting this short? Do you want to go with me?”

“And watch you pose with another guy?” he says with a smile and a shrug. “Fuck it. Why not?”

I beam at him and un-mute the call. “I’ll be there at twelve, but Oliver is coming with.”

Mia laughs loudly. “This should be fun.”

FUN IS WAKING up on Christmas morning, or taking a ride in a brand new car, or having drinks with friends . . . or even that first cup of coffee in the morning that gives you the sometimes-false feeling that maybe the day will be awesome. Fun is a lot of things. Taking off your clothes and knowing that you agreed for an ex-fling, or whatever he was, to watch you in your underwear in bed with another man, also in his underwear? That is the polar opposite of fun.

“Elle, you can come out now!” Mia says, pounding on the door for the second time. I open it a little, just enough for me to poke my head out and take in the room. The bed is covered in fluffy white sheets, the window behind it is open to let in the natural light, and in the middle of it all, Oliver is talking to the half-naked model guy. He keeps nodding his head at whatever the model guy is saying.

“Is the guy gay?” I ask Mia in a low whisper.

“Marlon?” she asks with a laugh. “Most definitely not, according to the females he’s worked with before.”

My eyes widen. I’m already picturing his unwanted boner poking me in the ass. “What does that mean?”

“Relax. He’s a total professional. I mean, he’s fucked some of them, after the fact. Not on my bed . . . on theirs.”

“Oh.” I pull my robe shut and follow her out to the room. Both Marlon and Oliver turn their heads to look at me. Oliver is serious, while Marlon flashes me a huge, model face Colgate smile as he walks over to me.

“I’m Marlon,” he says, extending his hand out to me.

“Estelle,” I respond, shaking it.

“I know you don’t usually do this, but relax, I’ll take care of you,” he says, pulling me toward the bed. I flash a look at Oliver, who raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at the whole thing.

“How long is this going to take?” I ask Mia.

“About an hour, so get comfortable, Bean.”

“I’m not sure comfort is a possibility right now.”

Mia looks over at him with a smirk. “Would you be more comfortable if you took over for Marlon?”

As Oliver seems to consider it, Mia tells me to take my robe off, so I do. It slides off and pools at my naked feet. Marlon is already sitting in the middle of the bed adjusting his boxers.

“Can I?” Oliver says suddenly. I look over my shoulder, wide-eyed.

“Are you serious?” Mia asks, gaping at him.

“If Elle is okay with it. I’m not here to dictate your shoot.”

Mia doesn’t think twice before ordering him around. “Take off your shirt. I need to make sure you’re still in good shape before I kick Marlon out.”

I’m about to put in my two cents, when Oliver pulls his polo over his head and my words, along with my sight, get lost somewhere between his sternum and the dips of his narrow waist.

“Yeah, still hot,” Mia says. “Marlon, off the bed. You’re not needed.”

“What?” he says in disbelief. “What do you mean I’m not needed?”

“Sorry. You and Elle have zero chemistry, and I need major chemistry on this shoot.”

“We only just met,” he argues, as he gets out of bed.

“And I already know the chemistry isn’t there,” Mia says. “I’ll call you next week when Miranda is back and schedule something then.”

“Okay,” he says with a shrug. “Have fun,” he says to me.

When he leaves to get dressed, Mia turns to me and says, “Just to be clear, I wouldn’t kick him out of bed under normal circumstances, if you know what I mean.”

I laugh. “Neither would I.”

Oliver clears his throat behind me, and I look at him with a smile and a shrug.

“All right, Ollie boy, strip and get on the bed. Elle, make yourself comfortable on it. You want music? I’ll play music anyway, so just nod.”

“You’re such a pain.” I laugh, as she taps her iPod and
Just Breathe
by Pearl Jam stars playing. I stop laughing and glare at her. “This is the kind of music you’re going to play?”

She shrugs. “My shoot, my rules.”

Oliver walks over to me on the bed, wearing a pair of black boxer briefs and nothing else. It takes every ounce of everything inside me not to devour his body with my eyes. He’s not even really muscular like Marlon, but he’s perfect, in that lean, California surfer–dude-and-former-baseball-pitcher kind of way. He gets on the bed and practically crawls to me like a fucking lion, and I’m starting to feel like a cat in heat, so I look away.

“You okay?” he asks, low enough for only me to hear.

I nod, still not looking at him.

“You don’t feel like I completely took over the shoot, right? Or like I’m being controlling or anything, right?” he asks.

I meet his gaze with a frown, and realize I don’t feel that way at all, despite the fact that he sort of did and he is sort of being a little controlling . . . sort of . . . right? I mean, he’s a goddamn doctor, not a model. This isn’t even his world!

“I’m not mad or anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

He settles himself so that his legs are around my body, not touching me, but just . . . around, and my legs are together and bent. I bring them closer to me and place my chin on my knees.

“You’re different people, you know,” I whisper.

A smile tugs on his lips. “So you agree that it was a good call for me to let the model with a thing for fucking the women he shoots with leave?”

“I didn’t say that,” I respond, hiding my smile behind my leg.

“But you agree. I know you,” he says, running his hand up my leg ever so softly until he reaches the hand I have resting on my knee. He holds on to the tip of my ring finger, and I’m reminded of the last time he touched it.

“You have an obsession with my ring finger. Have you noticed?”

He drops my hand suddenly. “Do I?”

I nod, not breaking eye contact. “You always touch it.”

He doesn’t say anything, but something in his eyes makes my insides stir and his words from earlier—the ones he doesn’t think I heard—come back to whisper at me.