Chapter 8

The familiar brown-uniformed driver pulls up to the curb first thing on Monday morning.

James, as he introduced himself last week, has got his job down to a T. A quick stop, then run to the back of his truck where he sorts out the packages until he pulls out a large box with both his hands and begins to walk toward me.

“Hey, Gabriella,” he greets, juggling the box until he places it on the porch directly by my feet.

“Hi, James.” My eyes wander toward the large box, wondering what on earth could be inside. Nicholas is relentless in showering me with gifts. “It’s a big one today.”

James chuckles beneath his cap, handing me his device to sign my name. “A dime for every time I’ve heard that.” He winks, walking away with a slight skip in his step as I thank him, unable to hide the smile from my embarrassing comment.

Curiosity gets the better of me. Tearing off the tape, I pull out the flaps, and inside the box sits a large giraffe. Struggling to remove it, I finally pull it all out and place it in front of me.

The stuffed giraffe sits over three feet tall, reaching the top of my chest. At the rate he’s going with stuffed animals, I will soon be able to open an imaginary zoo.

My eyes hazily wander to the envelope, removing the card to read what it says.

How about our honeymoon in Africa?

Love, Prince Charming.

I let out a sigh. A smile wavering as the internal conflict of the whole situation rests heavily on my shoulders. As if the weight is bearing me down, I take a seat on the old wicker chair, staring blankly at the giraffe and trying to acknowledge the word ‘honeymoon.’

Nicholas is trying his best. I must give him that.

It was a joke. One day over dinner, a friend of his was talking about Africa, and I mentioned how much I loved giraffes but have never seen one.

A honeymoon.

My chest begins to cave in while a sense of overwhelming thoughts floods my brain within seconds. Time is ticking by slowly, and in just a few weeks, I’ll be back home. According to my mother, the caterers were booked out for the date my father insisted the wedding take place. So, they agreed to a wedding date a week later. Still with enough time before the next election. All it did was buy me another week here.

There is just so much to think about.

Where will we live?

Nicholas’ family owns a ranch not too far from us. He has his own quarters, but the thought of living with the Kings is enough to make me run away and change my identity for good. They are nasty and ruthless, and I have overheard on more than one occasion that his father is part of some underground mob.

“Planning a trip to Africa?” The familiar voice startles me, my hand instinctively covering my chest to calm my racing heart. Oliver is leaning over the fence curiously watching me. I’m not immune to his shirtless body glistening in the sunlight and his muscles protruding, making it impossible to ignore him. He has one of those rich golden tans with very little hair on his sculpted chest.

Stop gawking, moron.

I quickly place the card back in the envelope. “No… I wish.”

“Interesting gift,” he comments while removing his AirPods.

“It’s from Nicholas,” I mumble as Oliver stares at me, rubbing his chin with a confused expression. “You know, Prince Charming? He kind of sends me stuff, I guess in an attempt to lure me back.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not,” I blurt out, suddenly conscious that once again, I’ve opened up, maybe a bit too much, and to a complete stranger.

I don’t know why Oliver has this way of dragging up my feelings. It baffles and irritates me at the same time. It’s almost like I speak with my heart and not my head when I’m around him. Very unlike me. Aside from Lana and Tiffany during my one-night bender, I prefer to keep my cards close to my chest.

“I came here to clear my head. Gain perspective before making any commitments.”

Oh, damn! There, I did it again.

“Well, how about you come with me for a run?” he asks while fiddling with his AirPods as if he’s nervous or something. “Running can clear your head.”

I haven’t run in ages. College would have been the last time I had pushed myself to run and only because our sorority made us. I try to walk and practice yoga daily, but running is on a different level.

What do I have to lose? Your ability to breathe and function tomorrow.

“Okay, let me get changed first.”

“Good. Nana cardigans and skirts would make for an interesting running ensemble.”

I look down at my clothes.

Asshole.

I head inside, changing into a pair of modest shorts and a sports tank before my phone beeps. With my hair twisted between my fingers, I lean over, swiping my screen while attempting to tame my curls and place them up into a bun.

Nicholas

About this break… I miss you. Come back.

I sit on the bed reading the text over again. It’s almost as if he can sense me pulling away, latching onto any strength I’ve mustered up while trying to drag me back into a world I so desperately am trying to run from.

I decide to leave my phone behind, unsure of how to respond. Nicholas has become clingy with his need to text me all day long. The funny thing is, he wasn’t like that before I left. In fact, we saw each other maybe twice a week, usually in the presence of my father. He traveled, and I kept myself busy with social engagements and foundations my mother forced me to be part of.

According to her, our family has responsibilities to society. My father despised it, though he was smart enough to make an appearance for the sake of his career. Both my older sisters have children, and they used it as an excuse since they never had time to do anything, yet had a bunch of nannies working for them so they could still keep up with their beauty appointments.

But now I have all the freedom in the world—no social engagements, no luncheons or fancy caviar served on a silver platter. That, in itself, is enough to motivate me to do better things.

Things that make me happy.

Oliver is right, though. I need a good head-clearing, and running should do just that.

As I walk outside and lock up the house behind me, Oliver yells at me like a drill sergeant, demanding I pick up the pace. He makes it hard to keep up with him, his long muscular legs taking big steps, almost double that of mine.

After a difficult hill and my lungs collapsing two miles back, we stop at the beach to catch my breath. Oliver does not seem the slightest bit worked up.

“How… how… on earth… are you breathing?” I’m struggling for air, bent over with my hands resting on my knees for support. My throat is parched and desperate for water or any liquid to quench its thirst.

“You’re talking to a born athlete. What we’ve done is nothing compared to the training I used to endure.”

“So, you still train even though you don’t play?”

He bends down to tie his shoelace, and upon closer inspection, he stills. I notice his demeanor changes every time I mention anything about him playing soccer.

“It’s in my blood.”

A long silence follows, and with my heart rate evening out, I suggest we stop for something to drink. There’s a small café, Sally’s Seaside Stop, overlooking the beach. It has a few tables and eclectic décor, with washed-out colors to blend in with the beach theme. Upon looking through the glass display, it appears they mainly sell fresh fruit, pastries, and various drinks. We order our fruit juices before sitting at a small yellow table out front.

People are coming and going, some walking their dogs, some in workout gear just like us. There are a few school kids and surfers in wetsuits—a mixture of people unlike the stuck-up socialites back home.

“I love people-watching,” I say while eyeing an elderly man who pulls out a water bowl for his dog. It’s pink and bedazzled in jewels, and he’s filling it with a bottle of Evian. “I don’t get to do it back home, you know. But gosh, there’s something about watching people go about their daily lives that’s fascinating.”

“Airports are the best.” Oliver appears relaxed, taking a sip from his straw while eyeing the same man and his dog. He pulls out some fancy blanket for his King Charles Cavalier to lay on. It’s also pink, has diamantes sewn along the edges, and embroidery that says ‘Lady Eloise.’ “You ever just sit and wonder where that person is heading?”

“Yes.” I smile, the feeling so familiar. “I don’t get to travel much, but when I get the chance, I could just sit in an airport for hours.”

“So why don’t you travel? Money?”

I’m a little taken aback by his forwardness, but considering he saw me empty my stomach into a random bush, we’re beyond that level of friendship. Talking about money is something my parents enjoy doing, but not me.

“I traveled with my parents and sisters. We did Europe, though my family’s idea of traveling is five-star hotels and dinners with the consulates.”

“So, you want to do it rough?”

“Excuse me?”

“Travel? Trek through the world with a backpack, I mean.”

“Oh, yes. It would be nice,” I reply wistfully.

He bursts out laughing. “Sweetheart, I’ve done the backpacking, and it’s anything but nice. You share a shower with strangers, sleep in bunk beds, your clothes stink for days, and if you’re lucky, you don’t end up broke with some hooker running off with your belongings.”

I scrunch up my face, unable to contain my amusement. “A hooker ran off with your belongings?”

“Not me.” He laughs again. “A mate of mine when we backpacked through Europe. Let’s just say, a girl he picked up at the bar wasn’t quite a girl if you know what I mean.”

“No way!” I blurt out, covering my mouth to control my laughter. “You hear about these things, but you never actually hear of it happening to anyone you know.”

He nods, still grinning. “It was quite a loud scream to wake up to. And I’ve never heard a bloke scream like a girl.”

I twirl my straw around. “Lucky it wasn’t you.”

“I wouldn’t just bring a random woman back, especially in a foreign, non-English-speaking country,” he affirmed rather confidently. “Sex is great, but it’s even better when you’ve built it up in your mind.”

The linger of his words heats beneath my skin.

I blame the warm air or the run.

No, it can’t be anything else.

Oliver isan arrogantly good-looking man who just turned you on.

“Interesting perspective,” I say, unsure of where to go from here.

“So, the boys back home are what?”

“The boys back home?” I’m not following until he stares at me, waiting for a response. “They’re not backpackers, that’s for sure. They’re more into stocks and bonds. Political race. You know, that world?”

“So, hookers and crack?”

“That’s a bit far-fetched,” I argue, taken aback. “Just because you have money doesn’t mean you’re into hookers and crack. Why would they pay someone when they can get it for free?”

“And what if they can’t get it for free? What if the person they’re desperate for has taken off to go find herself?”

Where is he going with this?His honesty is confronting, treating me like I’m his closest friend when, in fact, he is still a stranger to me. I feel compelled to defend myself and the life back home in which he has no understanding of.

“Nicholas is not like that. He understands I need this.”

Oliver leans forward, his eyes demanding I bring myself closer. Without thinking, my elbows etch forward. We’re inches apart, close enough for me to see the small freckles scattered on the bridge of his nose.

“Sweetheart, if you were mine, I wouldn’t let you walk away and demand a break,” he whispers, the sweetness of his breath lingering.

My heart beats erratically with so many mixed emotions while the heat does nothing to cure the pressure mounting inside me. His eyes are fixated on mine, a sultry stare drawing me in. A grin is plastered on his face, and although I never noticed before, he has one dimple that sits perfectly near his cheek.

I pull away, regretting my decision to go on this run. My desire to experience freedom is being overshadowed by guilt.

“It’s complicated, and besides, how could you even understand? I don’t have to justify my relationship to you.”

Oliver retracts, the grin disappearing from his face. The heat between us is dying down faster than you can say fiancé.

“Right, I wouldn’t understand. I’m just the single boy next door looking to get laid. Obviously, I picked the wrong girl to play with.” And just like that, he’s turned back into his arrogant self, demanding we run back home.

This time, he doesn’t play nice, riling me up and pushing me the last mile until I almost collapse on the pavement. At my front gate, he pats my back hard, almost pushing me forward in my weakened state, calling me a ‘good girl’ as I almost faint to the ground.

Walking away, he pulls his white tank off, throwing it around his neck. His back muscles make it hard not to stare.

He will be the death of me.

As I shower, trying to rid myself of the guilt washing over me, it only makes things worse. I avoided brushing over my private parts, running the soap quickly because the pent-up frustration is turning into some sort of orgasmic finish. I’m ashamed of how his words affect me and how every time he argues and turns into the arrogant asshole, it becomes a breeding ground for my frustration which only leads to other mixed emotions.

What the hell is wrong with you?

This has to stop right now.

My hands reach for the cold tap, and with one blast, the cold water sends me into shock, a small yelp escaping until I can no longer cope and step out.

Dressing in a simple white sundress, I have absolutely no plans today, and that, in itself, could be my worst enemy. Sitting on the sofa, sinking beneath the scattered cushions, I grab my phone and see another text message from Nicholas. He’s heading into the city with some colleagues.

I hate to think Oliver is right.

Nicholas has never given me the impression he’s seeing anyone else, let alone paying for sex. Maybe I had heard stories of other men like his brothers doing so.

Nicholas is different.

Yet, at the end of the day, neither of us defined the rules of being on a break. The decision was quick, my motive was to clear my head, given that he was raised in the same world as me and somewhat understood the pressure.

A break meant just that.

This was never about seeing other people.

My eyes close on their own accord—the image of Oliver leaning in so close to me replays, and the way he said ‘if you were mine.’ It’s like a broken record, a forbidden broken record, because he should be the last thing on my mind.

I let out a frustrated groan.

Staring at the ceiling, it dawns on me he’s a famous soccer player back in Australia, so if I want more, I could rely on my trusty friend, Google.

I couldn’t have typed his name any quicker. There are thousands of search results that come back with articles—photographs of him playing soccer and others with him and a woman named Bianca.

He obviously enjoyed his social life, always surrounded by friends and women. The media appeared relentless—one minute, he’s crowned a hero for his gameplay and the next, criticized for his mistakes.

But the images which compel me the most are of his accident.

I’m glued to the screen, examining the picture with his motorbike against the tree. In one photograph, there are emergency services surrounding a body on the ground. Upon reading the article, the body is him. A drunk driver ran a red light, smashing into Oliver, flinging him off his bike causing almost fatal injuries.

According to one news outlet, the way he landed on the grass patch saved his life, though it ended his career.

The more I read, the more my stomach churns from all the information. I can’t help but pity him, for everything he’s lost because of someone else’s stupidity.

I want to walk over, tell him I’m sorry for being such a self-centered bitch when it’s clear he has a heavier weight on his shoulders. But instead, I continue to lay here and stalk him.

It was supposed to be only for an hour.

Then it turned into hours.

And before I knew it, I had read almost every article about Oliver.

Oliver Madden has crawled under my skin.

I either need to walk away now or accept I’m playing with fire.

Then, I remember his words again. The way his green eyes drank me in with such desire and, for just one moment, I imagined what his lips would taste like.

I wanted to send him a text or talk to him. Instead, I stand up and glance over at the room he’s staying in. There’s no movement.

With a huff, I head straight to my room for bed. No good will come of me stalking him from the window.

I just need to forget he’s living next door.

Easier said than done.