12. Olivia

12

OLIVIA

I have never been less excited for anything.

And yes, I know I’m being dramatic.

But as I put mascara on my lashes and gloss on my lips, the girl who stares back at me in the mirror looks incredulous for good reason. Because she is spending the day behind enemy lines.

AKA at Aaron Marino’s evil lair.

My brother regrettably failed to inform me that our Thanksgiving plans last night had changed. Instead of our quiet, family holiday dinner, we had pizza in front of the TV. Meanwhile, the pie and yams I made have been repurposed for a huge, potluck-style affair with a horde of hockey players. Hosted by my least favorite hockey player of all.

Jake “forgot to tell me.”

Convenient.

Which is how I find myself on Aaron Marino’s doorstep at 2pm on Black Friday, flanked by Jake and Sofia, my arms full of food and my stomach fluttering with trepidation. As much as I want to cancel this plan and run away like a coward, I know Aaron would think that I canceled because of him. And I’m not about to give him that kind of satisfaction.

In fact, I have made a vow to be at my very sweetest this evening. Just to mess with him.

And, hopefully, to make him vaguely wonder if I tampered with his pie.

Which I absolutely did not, but the thought of him thinking that I did makes me feel very thankful for this joyous Thanksgiving occasion.

As we wait, I take out my phone and quickly check my email. My December schedule should be out today, and I’m eagerly seeking the silver lining of knowing which far-flung place I’ll be in for Christmas.

The door finally swings open to reveal Aaron in the entryway, smiling like a total ass-hat (though he does, unfortunately, have a very cute ass-hat smile). He’s dressed up, wearing khakis and a crisp, white button-down shirt that looks like a terrible choice in which to cook (or consume) turkey, but a great choice for showing off that annoyingly perfect olive complexion of his.

“Hey, guys,” he says warmly, his lips tipping up further when his gaze zeroes in on me.

“Hey, man.” Jake claps Aaron on the back. Sofia then steps forward and gives Aaron a hug, which he reciprocates.

He then turns to me, but doesn’t attempt to give me a hug as he did Sofia, thank goodness. Probably because I absolutely would have kneed him in the unmentionables if he had done so, and he knows it. “Welcome. Come on in.”

He sounds like a villain enticing us into his lair. All handsome, and ominous, and morally gray, and muscular to boot, and…

No, stop it!

Fricking Jing and her fricking romance books making me almost forget that this stuff isn’t meant to be attractive.

While Aaron retrieves the food from my arms in a convincing imitation of a gentleman, I glance around. I’m half expecting to see blood-red paint, and bearskin rugs, and deer heads mounted on the walls, and furniture in the shape of coffins (because I have zero imagination when it comes to villains). But instead, everything is very… nice.

More than nice.

The house is large, but not pretentious, with light Scandi-style floors and an abundance of windows. Throw in the cozy-looking furniture and the selection of houseplants on display and, well, it’s eerily similar to what I would want my house to look like, in my dream world.

Almost like he had it staged this way, just to taunt me. Which he obviously didn’t, but still, I am finding it very difficult to believe that Aaron Marino has such good taste in decor.

As Jake and Sofia make their way down the hallway, Aaron hangs back and falls into step with me.

“What’s wrong, Lil Griz?” Aaron looks down at me. The way he towers over me makes me feel positively diminutive, and I’m not sure I like it. “My digs not to your liking?”

“You have a beautiful home,” I tell him primly, remembering my vow to be on my best behavior.

Those dratted lips pull up at their dratted corners again.

“Well, you look beautiful in my beautiful home,” he drawls.

I roll my eyes at him. “Don’t be facetious.”

“Take the compliment.” His eyes land on mine for one long, loaded moment before he smiles. “You guys are the last to arrive. Everyone else is out back.”

He proceeds to direct me down the hallway to the behemoth kitchen, which smells like absolute heaven with scents of cinnamon and nutmeg and vanilla swirling in the air. He deposits my dishes on one of the overcrowded counters—there are countless sheet pans, crockpots, salad bowls, and serving platters taking up every square inch of space that’s not crowded with wine and beer bottles and jugs of cocktails.

Overcrowding aside, the kitchen is annoyingly just as classy and perfect as the entryway. The statement piece is the farmhouse sink beneath a picture window overlooking a huge deck and garden, where the other guests are milling around.

Jake is already helping himself to a beer—Dos Equis, like always—from an ice bucket. The host, meanwhile, rolls his eyes at my brother in a jokey tsk-tsk manner and turns to Sofia. “Seeing as your boyfriend appears to have left his manners at home, can I get you a drink?”

She pokes her tongue out at Jake teasingly. “Absolutely, you can.”

“Sauv Blanc?”

“Please.”

“You know it, Sof,” Aaron replies. It’s like he’s known Sofia for years. He’s always had this way about him—he makes people feel like they matter to him. Feel warm towards him.

It’s probably why so many women trip over themselves for him.

Well, that and his traffic-stopping face.

Luckily, I am not one of those people who buys into Aaron’s ways of wooing people.

I watch as he produces a glass from a cupboard along with a chilled bottle from the fridge—one of those industrial-style ones that I’m sure holds many, many protein shakes. He pours a large glass of wine and hands it to Sof with a flourish, before turning to the stove to stir a simmering pot of gravy like he’s Martha freaking Stewart.

At that moment, a couple of hockey wives and girlfriends swoop into the kitchen and Sofia turns to chat with them. Meanwhile, Jake waves at Dallas and Colton through the window, and makes his way out to the deck to join them.

I expect Aaron to follow suit without so much as a backwards glance at me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sets down his gravy spoon and leans against the island, casually crossing one leg over the other.

“Drink, Olivia?”

He says the four syllables of my name slowly, thickly, like his voice is drenched in honey.

And suddenly, a drink sounds like the best thing on the planet. Anything to ease the sudden jangle of nerves brought on by me standing here, in his house, without the buffers of Jake and Sofia.

“Yes.” I swallow, then tack on a, “Please.”

Because I will not forget my best behavior plan, no matter how weirdly fidgety I’m feeling.

“Beer, right?”

I frown slightly. “What makes you think I drink beer?”

I’m more curious than defensive. Last time Aaron and I were around each other for any significant period of time involving a drink, it was back in his high school beer-swilling days, while I was still religiously ordering Unicorn Frappucinos from Starbucks.

Maybe there’s a unicorn-frap-to-beer pipeline I don’t know about.

“You ordered one last spring,” he says, his voice so low that only I can hear. When I look at him even more curiously, he adds, “At the club that night.”

The fact that he remembers this makes me feel a little strange—the fact that he remembers seeing me at all, let alone what drink I ordered.

Clearly, he kept that little piece of intel locked away so he could pull it out to use against me when the time was right. Remind me of how foolish I looked when I practically fell on him that night.

Weird thing is, it doesn’t feel like he’s making fun of me right now.

Not at all.

The cluster of hockey wives are making their way outside, and soon enough, it’s just the two of us in the kitchen, locked in some sort of stand-off. The roomy space suddenly feels far, far too small for both of us to exist here at the same time.

“Right.” I swallow again, then force my lips to tip up. “The night you ditched your date.”

He gives me a closed-mouthed smile, his full lips pulling back to reveal dimples. “Actually, she ditched me .”

“Ha! I find that hard to belie?—”

The glint in his eyes cuts my sentence short. My guffaw is still echoing around the kitchen, mocking me. Because not only was I about to accidentally compliment him, but I was going to do so rather enthusiastically . And he knows it.

His smug expression is smuggening by the second, and so I change course and shrug. “Well, whoever ditched first aside… maybe I want something a little stronger today.”

“Margarita?” He jerks a thumb in the direction of a Jimmy Buffet Margaritaville machine in the corner, which is currently churning slushy green liquid.

“Why am I not surprised that you have one of those.”

He pats the top of the machine. “I only take her out for special occasions.”

“ Her. Gross.” I roll my eyes. “You boys and your toys.”

“You want one or not, Lil Griz?” His voice lilts, teasing.

“I do,” I admit.

“Say sorry to Margaret, then.”

“Who?”

“Margaret.” He pats the machine again, then gives me ridiculous puppy-dog eyes. “She took offense to you calling her gross. She’s very upset.”

I click my tongue. “How original. A margarita machine named Margaret.”

“After Margaret Thatcher,” he replies, his expression totally serious.

I can’t help but snort with laughter. “Oh, yeah. The Iron Lady knew how to party.”

“Damn straight, she did.”

Aaron busies himself rolling the rim of a glass in salt before pouring in a good helping of the slushy mixture, careful not to spill any on the counter. Still, a little dollop ends up on his thumbnail, which he lifts to his lips to quickly licks off. And I have to admit, a margarita kinda sounds like the exact thing I’ve been wanting all along.

He holds out the glass, but instead of holding it towards me, he holds it above the farmhouse sink.

“Now. Apologize, or I’m tipping this down the drain.”

I can’t stop the gasp that escapes my throat. “You wouldn’t dare!”

“Try me.”

I squint at him, trying to work out if he’s messing with me, but he squints right back, deadpan.

“Fine.” I turn to the red machine, feeling my own face reddening at this ridiculous exercise. But here I am, doing it. Looking like a fool in front of Aaron Marino again, and yet… he’s kind of acting a fool along with me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. British Prime Minister of many years gone by.”

“She accepts your apology.” He nods soberly, then holds the drink out towards me, all gallant-like and with a silly flourish. “One frozen margarita for the lady!”

“Thanks.” I accept it, and take a sip to cover my smile.

Aaron grabs himself a bottle of water, and together, we walk out to the deck. I wave to Maddie and Reagan, who are cooing over a baby boy, and offer Dallas Cooper a wry smile after he winks at me roguishly.

“Nice deck,” I tell Aaron as I take in the beautiful oasis that is his backyard.

“Built it myself.” He glances at me. “I don’t know if you remember, but my family has a deck company. Would’ve been my career, too, if hockey didn’t work out.”

A memory suddenly captures me of a teenage Aaron sprawled on my bedroom floor, the one and only time he was ever in my bedroom. That night, he was wearing a sweatshirt with a construction-type logo on it. “That’s right. What was it called again?”

“Marino’s Decks.” He shakes his head. “My uncle Sal came up with it. Such a boring name. If I’d gone to work there, I would’ve petitioned to change it to Big Deck Energy.”

I almost spit out my mouthful of margarita. I cough, then recover quickly enough to retort, “Well that would be extremely misleading.”

“You’re clearly misinformed, Livvy.” Aaron flings his arms wide, gesturing at the hardwood below us. “I have the biggest deck in Atlanta. Fact.”

I look him up and down and smirk. “More like you ARE the biggest deck in Atlanta.”

He snorts with laughter, but before he can reply, Triple J bounces up to us. “What are you two over here whispering about?”

Aaron waggles his eyebrows at me. “My wood.”

“His deck!” I practically yell, causing the thinly plucked eyebrows of a nearby hockey wife to shoot up to her hairline. I drop my voice, my cheeks surely fire-engine red. “He means the wood used to build this deck. Not like… any other type of…”

Shut up, Olivia!

I take a gulp of margarita to silence myself.

But Jimmy nods sagely. “He does have a very large deck, this is true.”

This makes Aaron howl with laughter. “See, Liv? I told you it was a fact.”

“Shut it, or I’ll name a cockroach after you, too,” I clap back, but Aaron’s laughter is infectious, and I find I’m mostly kidding around, my insult delivered with lukewarm heat, at best.

So I’m surprised when Aaron’s green eyes flicker and his strong jaw tightens.

It only lasts a fleeting second, but my stomach pinches with regret. I’m about to apologize for going too far, but suddenly, all traces of that pained expression are gone. Replaced by his usual sunny smile and twinkling eyes. Almost as if I imagined it.

“How original,” he says, using the same tone I used when I said the words earlier. “Look at you, Lil Griz, jumping on the cockroach bandwagon.”

Before I can respond, he fully turns away from me to address the crowd of people gathered in his yard. “All right, team. It’s time to eat!”