CHAPTER EIGHT Olive

CHAPTER EIGHT

Olive

Starting my morning off by messaging Jasper Rafferty was not on my bingo card for this summer, but that's exactly what happened.

And of all things to talk about, it was aliens.

"What even is my life?"

"Chaotic," Annie says, and I whip my head up, surprised to find her standing in the doorway to my room.

I'm still in bed, looking every bit like a wreck, and she's already dressed in her formfitting scrubs, appearing refreshed and ready to tackle the emergency room.

"Why are you dressed for work? It's daylight."

She shoves off the frame and saunters into the room, hopping up onto the end of my bed like she's done a thousand times before. "Switched shifts with someone. Remi wants to take me out for dinner tonight. Some fancy place where they have cloth napkins."

She pulls a face, though I'm not surprised. Annie hates anything fancy. She's the practical one of the two of us.

I, on the hand, would be ecstatic to go someplace fancy. Hell, I'd settle for a date at the McDonald's or the Olive Garden in Times Square.

Wow. I sound desperate. But I suppose I am. I can't remember the last time I went on an actual date, and here Annie is, complaining about an elegant dinner with her dreamboat boyfriend.

"Think it's one of those dinners?"

"Ugh, I hope not. I'm not ready for that." She flicks her eyes to mine, and I see it clearly—she does want it to be one of those dinners. The serious kind. The one that's life changing.

Annie's been going back and forth for months about whether she wants to keep seeing her long-term boyfriend, but if you ask me, it's obvious what she truly wants—commitment.

They've been together for four years and still live separately. It bothers my best friend more than she lets on. Even though they're opposites, she loves Remi more than anything. She wants a future with him, no matter how much she pretends she doesn't. I just hope Remi doesn't mess up the best thing that's ever happened to him and does something soon.

"Enough about me ..." She picks at the pilled pieces on the comforter I've had for way too many years. "How was the rest of your night?"

Translation: What happened with the message?

"It was . . . interesting."

"Interesting how?" she questions.

How do I explain to her that I spent an hour last night messaging with one of the most famous actors in the world? Or that this morning, I told him I dreamed of blue aliens with huge penises? Or that he offered to stop responding so I can resume my diary entries?

Oddly enough, I trust him not to read them anymore. I don't know why, especially since I don't even know the guy, but I believe him. All I have to say is stop, and he will.

"You talked to him, didn't you?" Annie guesses.

I nod, unable to say it out loud because ... what?

I'm still in disbelief over it. In fact, I'm not sure I want to believe it at all. It's not real. It can't be real ... can it?

"And you think it's really him?" my roommate asks, putting a voice to the worry that's been rattling around in my mind since last night.

"I'm . . . not sure."

She nods. "And you're afraid to hope it is." She sighs, continuing to pick at the blanket. "I get it, mixing fear and hope. Trust me."

Her last words are whispered, like she's frightened to put them out into the universe.

She has no reason to be scared. Not when it comes to Remi.

"He loves you, you know."

A grin pulls at her lips. "I know. I love him too. I just ..."

I reach out, wrapping my hand around hers, stilling her movements. "He loves you. The forever kind of love."

Her stare is filled with trepidation, and I don't know why she's so nervous. She doesn't have any reason to be. She has someone who is completely head over heels in love and would do anything for her. She's lucky, and she doesn't even realize it. I wish I had a love half as amazing as hers.

She clears her throat, shoving her shoulders back. "So, about Jasper ..."

But that's all she says. All she offers.

She's waiting for me to say something, but I don't know what to say.

"Are you going to keep messaging him?"

I shrug. "I'm not sure. I haven't thought about it."

And it's true. I haven't. I've done just about everything else. I don't want to think about it. Thinking about it means going down a path that could end with the discovery that this is all fake. Annie has a point—it could just be some elaborate hoax. A big screw you from the universe.

"Do you want me to ask Remi to investigate it? He could find out if it's really him, you know. He's a computer genius."

Remi is terrifyingly smart when it comes to computers. Like the kind of smart that has the government concerned, which I'm sure has to do with his getting arrested at fifteen for hacking into the White House database.

"I ... Maybe?" I shake my head, laughing lightly. "How am I sitting here having a casual conversation with you about your boyfriend cyberstalking Jasper Rafferty for me?"

"Because you're a badass, Liv. That's how." She winks at me, which only makes me laugh more. She rises off the bed, clapping her hands together twice. "All right. I'm off to go pull things out of people they had no business sticking inside of themselves."

I cringe. "String of butt-stuff patients?"

"String of butt-stuff patients. Always happens during the summer. I swear, that's when people get extra freaky." She waggles her brows. "I'm going to dinner right after and I'll be home late, so don't wait up for me."

"Have fun!" I call after her as she pads out of my room and down the hall. "And say yes!"

There's no mistaking her heavy sigh just as the front door falls shut behind her. The dead bolt clicks into place; then it's just me, my thoughts, and a waiting message from Jasper.

I spend the day doing something I should have done a long time ago: cleaning out my closet.

And I don't even mean metaphorically. I mean literally. There are piles and piles of clothes I know I'll never wear and shoes and bags that are collecting dust. It's time to purge this mess once and for all.

Besides, it gives me something to do instead of worrying over Jasper's message.

I still haven't responded, but I feel like I should, like I owe it to him.

With two giant garbage bags full of clothes, I tromp down the steps of my building and enter the bustling city sidewalks. Hell's Kitchen, with its bagel shops, diners, and funky stores, is packed—which isn't surprising, summer is peak tourist season, after all—and I do my best to navigate where I'm going carrying way more than I should have brought with me. Two bags were a bit much.

I make my way to Cuties & Curves and haul my garments inside, trying to ignore the sweat that's beading across the back of my neck. I knew I should have worn my hair up today, but nope. Since I've been using nothing but dry shampoo for three days, I opted for a hat, which required me to wear my hair down because I've never quite mastered a cute low-ponytail-and-hat combo that doesn't make me look like one of the Founding Fathers.

"Olive!" the woman behind the counter shouts when I walk through the door and into the bright store.

"Hey, Lacey," I greet her, trudging along and wishing like hell I had a free hand to wipe the sweat from my brow.

"Puh-lease say you're here to tell me you finally snagged a deal with Good Jeans," she says when I stop at the counter, finally letting the bags fall and giving my arms a rest.

I try not to let my dejection show and muster up a half smile for her as I tug off my sunglasses and drop them into my purse. "Not yet."

I say yet because I'm trying to be positive it will happen someday. It has to. Good Jeans not only caters to plus-size women, but their jeans are also made with recycled material. They are everything I want my brand to represent. We have to work together, and Uma's doing everything in her power to make it happen.

"But I do have lots of clothes to off-load." I lift one of the bags as high as I can to show off the goodies I'm bringing her.

"Yay!" she squeals, clapping her hands together as she races out from behind the counter, forgetting all about Good Jeans for now and grabbing one of the bags. I'm grateful for the help since I can barely feel my left arm from the walk over.

How many clothes are too many? It might be time to admit I have a problem.

"Let's get these over to Mac. She can sort through things while you fill me in on how your shoot with Mitch went," she says. Lacey is the one who saved me yesterday, helping me find the purple maxi dress.

We deposit the clothes at their intake station. I say a quick hello to Mac, Lacey's sister and the shop owner, then head back to the register with Lacey.

She leans against the glass, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. "Tell me everything."

So I do. I fill her in on everything, from me waking up late to the asshat who jumped me in line.

"Seriously?" She shakes her head in disgust. "I hate entitled assholes like that. It's the one downfall of this city—all the rich pricks who think they're better than everyone."

"How do you know he's rich?"

"Was he wearing a watch? And I don't mean an Apple Watch or Fitbit or whatever. I mean, like a real honest-to-god watch?"

Come to think of it, I did see something shiny and silver glinting off his wrist when he was taunting me with the coffee and danish.

"I think so."

"Ha!" She slaps the counter. "He's rich. Only rich assholes wear watches."

I laugh. "I don't think he was rich. Just an asshole."

Lacey holds up her hands. "Maybe. Maybe not. But fancy watch equals fancy man nine times out of ten."

I'm no fashion dummy, and there was nothing about his outfit that screamed look at how much money I make. If anything, it said the opposite, with a plain T-shirt, faded jeans, and a ballcap that looked like it had seen some shit.

"Who knows." I shrug. "I'm sure I'll never run across him again, so it's whatever."

"You're nicer than me. I'd have dumped his coffee all over him."

"It's true," Mac says, waltzing up with a slip in her hand. "One time in middle school, some kid cut in front of her on chicken-nugget day, and she poured chocolate milk all over him right in front of the entire cafeteria."

"Then I stole his nuggets." Lacey grins, clearly proud of herself.

"You're exhausting, Lace," Mac says, shaking her head at her sister. "Here." She holds out the piece of paper. "This is your total if we sell everything, which I have no doubt we will. There were some good pieces in there."

I sweep my eyes over the paper.

$1,200.

Not too bad for two bags of clothes. I try not to think what the other four bags I have sitting in my room could net me. Hauling those down here is a problem for future me. I'm too wiped today.

"You know ..." Lacey starts, and I have a feeling I'm not going to like where this is going. "We do have some new stuff in ..."

Don't do it, Olive. You just got rid of stuff. Do. Not. Do. It.

But then again, it is my job, and my brand does encourage sustainable clothing. There's nothing more sustainable than secondhand shopping, right?

"Show me what you got."

And that's how I end up with a bagful of new-to-me clothes and a few pieces from Mac herself, who, in her spare time, makes amazing dresses like the one I wore at the shoot yesterday. I might have an eye for fashion, but Mac has a talent for it.

"The wine-colored dress is perfect for fall. It'll pair so well with tights and my booties," I say to Mac. "You're the best."

"I'm the best? Um, you're the best! Thanks to you, I'm part of a shoot with the Mitch Dirkson. That's huge!"

I grin, then shoot her a wink. "It's all you, baby."

She rolls her eyes in an attempt to brush off the compliment, but she knows she deserves it.

"Thanks, ladies," I tell them as I walk out of the shop, promising myself this is the last time I let them talk me into spending so much money.

I check my phone as I step outside, ignoring the texts from friends asking if I want to get together for drinks tonight and heading straight for my Instagram.

I have plenty of new comments and a few DMs, but nothing from the person I want to hear from.

I try not to be disappointed, but I am. I'm not exactly sure why. He did say the ball was in my court, which means he's waiting for me to message back. It doesn't mean I wasn't hoping he would break our apparent standoff and say something first.

I tuck the device into my purse, then pull my sunglasses from my bag and slide them into place before heading back toward my apartment.

As I round the corner of my street, I stop in my tracks.

It's him.

Not even thirty feet away, wearing dark jeans and a white T-shirt under a light flannel, standing in line for coffee at JT's truck, is the Asshat.

My eyes narrow as I watch him stand in the back of the line just like he should have yesterday.

Freaking jerk.

I decide at that moment that I'm going to give him a taste of his own medicine.

I stomp toward him, sliding myself right between him and the guy he's standing behind.

"Hey! I was here first."

I spin on my heel, hoping like hell my long hair smacks him in the face, and sneer up at him. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was there a line?"

His eyes are covered by those same aviators, so I can't see if he recognizes me, but by the way his lips twist up into a smirk, I'd say he does.

"Sunshine."

That damn low, gravelly voice of his hits me in places I don't even want to think about.

"Asshat," I counter, giving him my own version of a smirk.

The nickname only causes his smile to grow, and I hate that I love it so much.

I'm smacked with that same wave of familiarity from yesterday, but I brush it aside as quickly as it comes.

"I take it you're still mad I bought you coffee and a pastry?"

Ugh. I want to wipe the smugness right off his face, but I'd rather not go to jail for assault today. So instead, I settle for crossing my arms over my chest, enjoying it a little too much when my bag from Cuties & Curves smacks against him.

"It was the worst coffee and danish I've ever had."

That's a damn lie. If anything, I'd wager that my coffee tasted exceptionally better yesterday, and the danish was damn near orgasm inducing.

I'm willing to bet it had everything to do with it costing me exactly zero dollars.

Again, I think, Freaking jerk.

"So bad you're here again today?"

"I live close by."

I regret my words almost instantly. How stupid can I be, telling this stranger I live near here?

"Me too," he says, almost like he can sense my instant unease and he's trying to make me feel better.

It only annoys me more. "Did you get off to your uber-important better-than-everyone-else meeting okay?"

"I did. And did you get that stick out of your ass all right? Don't want it jammed up there for too long."

I glare harder—not that he can see, but it makes me feel better anyway.

"Why are you here?"

"Same reason as you." He leans closer, that same pine scent from yesterday hitting me. "Coffee."

As a reflex, I inhale sharply, and immediately wish I hadn't.

That damn smirk of his reappears, this time somehow even more disarming. "Did you just sniff me?"

"Allergies," I mumble, turning around to hide the redness I know is creeping into my cheeks.

Why the hell did I just sniff him? And moreover, why the hell does he smell so damn good? It makes me want to go climb a mountain ... or him.

I shake away the intrusive thought, then step forward when the person in front of me does.

"Here," Asshat says, and a familiar-looking scarf appears in front of me. "You dropped this."

But I'm not looking at the scarf I just bought from Lacey and Mac. I'm too busy looking at the shiny watch on his wrist that's glinting in the afternoon sun.

Lacey was right. This guy is totally rich.

"Thanks," I mutter, snatching it out of his hand, hating how much I enjoy the laugh that rumbles out of him.

Who is this guy? And why is he here all of a sudden?

I turn to ask him just that, but suddenly, he's pulling his phone from his pocket and pressing it to his ear.

"Yes?"

In an instant, his playful smirk disappears. Instead, his lips are pressed into a thin line as he listens to whatever the person on the other end is saying.

"No, Dylan. I'm— No. She's— Ugh. Are you serious?" He scratches at the stubble—which appears to be a little longer today—along that perfectly cut jaw of his as his lips set into an even firmer line.

I have no clue what's going on, but it's clearly something he's not happy with.

He sighs defeatedly. "Why do I let you talk me into this shit? I—"

He's cut off again, the Dylan person talking over him. His shoulders slump, and he nods as he continues to listen.

"Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Yeah. I know. I know. I said I know, Dylan."

He lifts his hand, that damn watch catching the sun again, then squeezes the back of his neck like he's massaging out the tension growing there.

We move up two more customers before I hear him start to get off the phone.

"I'll be there. Yes, I promise. Swear it on my mother." He laughs. "Yeah. Yeah. All right, bye."

I don't dare turn back around. His business is not my business. I need to be a good New Yorker and just ignore him.

And that's exactly what I do—ignore him until I finally make it up to the counter.

"Your usual, Liv?" Ric asks, already grabbing the clear plastic cup.

"Just the coffee," I tell him. Then, without reading too much into it, I toss my thumb over my shoulder. "And a drip coffee for this guy."

"Wait. What?" I hear him splutter behind me. "No. I don't need you to buy my coffee. I—"

I turn around, throwing my hand up before he can protest any more.

"Let's get one thing straight: This isn't for you. It's for me. To make me feel better about accepting your apology coffee yesterday and enjoying it. I shouldn't have. I should have thrown it right in your fancy-man face and walked away. But I didn't. I was the bigger person. A lot better than you were, cutting in front of me like that. I was already having a bad morning, and you made it worse. But you're not ruining my day today. It's not happening. So this"—I grab the coffee Ric has placed onto the counter and hand it over to Asshat—"is for me. Not you. We're even."

I toss a twenty onto the counter, then grab my own iced drink.

"Keep the change, Ric," I tell him. I spin on my heel and waltz away, my head held high, trying to ignore the way my hands are shaking around the coffee I'm gulping back like I haven't had anything to drink in days.

I make it at least fifteen steps before I hear him.

"Sunshine! Wait!"

I don't wait. I walk faster.

But damn my little legs, because he catches up just as quickly.

"Sunshine," he says again, and I hate that I'm starting to kind of like the nickname, no matter how ridiculous it is. "Stop."

His hand lands on my shoulder, and I stop.

I stop because his hand isn't just on my shoulder—it's everywhere.

Or at least, that's what it feels like as it burns its way into my skin.

As if he feels it, too, he yanks his hand away, glancing down at it, then back at me. He shakes his head, and I barely see his brows crush together over his sunglasses as he dips his head toward me.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For yesterday. I ... I wasn't myself. That's not an excuse, but it's the truth. I ..." He sighs. "I'm just sorry."

Maybe I'm just too damn gullible, but I believe him. I believe every word of it.

More than that, I understand it. I'm not myself right now either. I'm not this bold person who cuts the line and yells at strangers. I guess we're both a little off-kilter.

"Okay," I say, after blowing out a breath. "Apology accepted."

"Yeah?" he says, and I nod, making that smile of his return in full force. "Good." He lifts his coffee, then takes a delicate sip. "I, uh, I'll see you around, Sunshine."

He sidesteps me, taking his smile and his charm and that delicious scent of pine right along with him.

It's not until he's halfway down the block in the opposite direction that I move again.

"Hey, Asshat!"

He turns slowly, almost like he was expecting it, and I can see his grin from here.

"You're welcome for the coffee."

I don't wait for a response. I just turn and walk away, listening to the sound of his laughter ring through the streets.

Feeling bold and brave from the encounter, I dig my phone from my purse and pull up Instagram, my fingers flying over the keyboard in an instant.

@OliveMe: Don't pretend it didn't happen. Tell me more about this alien dream of yours.