I hope the same goes for her.
But that doesn’t mean that the thought in the back of my mind ever leaves.She is faking it for you, just like you asked.
What happens after Christmas? That question is starting to haunt me.
If the moments were as real to her as they were to me, I would be incredibly happy. I want that more than anything right now. But her having real feelings doesn’t change the fact that Kat is still a missus.
She can’t fully be mine when she is still tied to Nic.
The first few days I spent with Kat, I thought maybe what I was feeling for her was fleeting. That the circumstances we were in were the cause for the way my heart fluttered when she walked into the room or the way I wanted to be beside her all the time, holding her, kissing her.
But it isn’t because we are here that I care about her. I have a gut feeling that whatever is happening between us would have inevitably happened one way or another.
I have worked so hard for my career. It hasn’t always felt easy or right. Nor have any of my relationships in the past. Not the way it does with her. Being with her, in any capacity, feels like the most natural thing in the world. I don’t think I want to lose that.
If, after this trip, she wants to stay with him and forget about us, then so be it. But if this is all the time that I have to show her how serious I am about keeping her to myself, I need toreallyshow her, in all the ways Nic never could.
But what if this isn’t what she wants at all?
After I inhale way too much food, I ask Emma, who is standing in the kitchen, “Do we have a tray? Like the one that folds out over your lap?”
She contemplates it for a moment, and then, as if a lightbulb goes off behind her eyes, she says, “Yes, I’ll be right back.”
She disappears out of the room, and I grab a new plate. I pile it high with everything in the spread. Grabbing a glass and a mug, I fill each one up with orange juice and coffee, respectively. I wonder how she likes her coffee though. If she doesn’t like black coffee, I will come back down and add stuff to it until she does.
Muffin walks into the kitchen and lies down at my feet. My little angel. I grab her food out of the fridge and dish up her breakfast in a slow-feed bowl. She is jumping and waiting impatiently for me to set it down. Once I do, she immediately starts scarfing it down.
Moments later, Emma walks in with a gray folding tray.
“Is this kind of what you are looking for?” she asks, a little out of breath.
Where the heck did she have to go to find it?
“Yes, thank you,” I notice a change in her demeanor. Something about her is different than when I just saw her.
It takes me a minute to realize that her red lipstick is smeared on one side. She probably just forgot about it and wiped her hand. I have done that before more times than I would like to admit.
“You have a little …” I wipe the side of my lip to show her where it is on her.
Her eyes widen, and she quickly rubs the side of her mouth, not stopping until it only remains on her lips.
Refocusing on the task at hand, I unfold the tray and begin filling it up with all of the tasty food—the plate of food, the juice, and the coffee.
Grabbing the full tray, I exhale slowly and lift it off of the counter. Nerves rattle through me as I start walking to the stairs. Oliver walks down the hallway by the staircase, and I glance up at him for only a second.
But that is all it takes to see a small red smear on his lips, the same shade of red that Emma happens to be wearing today.
Oh. My. God.
I knowingly smile at him with my eyes wide as I shake my head slightly. “Hi.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Hello,” he says questioningly.
Squinting my eyes, I say, “You have a little something on your mouth.”
His eyes blow open with panic as he wipes his mouth as fast as he possibly can. He clears his throat, and his lips part to say something, but nothing comes out as I walk past him and up the stairs.
I cannot believe they are together. They have worked together since before I was born. But I never saw any signs of a relationship between them before this. I wonder why they don’t just tell us. I know my parents wouldn’t care at all. As long as they don’t have sex on everything in the house.
