Filed to story: I Slept With My Ex's Father (Olivia & Dylan) Book PDF Free
I pour the wine, relishing the sound of it glugging into the glasses. “Well, I can’t wait to see.”
Bridget looks out the window at the street below. “How long does it take you to get to Hill?”
“A while. Do you want ice?”
She looks at me as if I’ve just told her I murdered her cat. “Ice?!”
“Uh, yeah?” What is so weird about that?
“It’s already chilled.”
I shrug and grab the ice tray from the freezer. “Yeah, but it could be chillier.”
“Olivia, you don’t put ice in wine.”
“Says who?” I scoff.
Bridget gapes. “Everyone?!”
“Okay. Well, I’m putting ice in my wine.” Who gives a fuck about decorum, especially in my own home?
I head over to the couch.
Bridget watches the two cubes bob in my glass, close to throwing up.
I hand her the iceless glass. “Here’s your could-be-chillier wine.”
Bridget takes it and sips. “It’s perfect. Unlike your soon-to-be watered-down wine.”
I roll my eyes.
“You take the subway?” She looks at me with a tiny grimace, shifting the conversation back to the previous subject.
I laugh. “Are you judging me for doing something most New Yorkers do?”
Bridget blushes. “Not judging, no. Never. Just…”
With a playful glare, I sip my wine.
Ah…perfectly chilly.
She eyes her glass, twirling the liquid around for a second or two. “I swear, it’s not judgment, it’s just…dirty, right?”
I scoff. “You’re terrible. Have you ever even been on the subway?”
“Yes! At least twice.”
I can’t help laughing. “Wow, twice? How did you make it?”
Bridget pouts. “Listen! I would never judge someone for taking the subway, it’s just not for me.”
The wine hits us fast. We chat and chat and chat as the light through the window ebbs to darkness.
Bridget shows me her sketches, very tasteful Vivienne Westwood inspired punk designs. She asks me to model for her collection when the time comes, and I balk at the idea.
Me? A model? Fat chance.
Time flies when you’re having fun, and hanging out with Bridget is definitely fun.
“So, have things been weird since the masquerade?” she asks.
My heart pounds. “Uh, what do you mean?”
Bridget laughs. “Come on, I’m not an idiot. The guy you were dancing with at the masquerade…”
I remain silent.
“Dylan Hill isn’t easy to ignore.”
I grab her arm. “Lower your voice.”
“It’s just us! In your apartment! In
Queens!”
I burst into laughter even though I’m deeply mortified she knows it was Dylan I was dancing with that night. The wine really hit me, ice and all. “It was an accident.”
“An accident?!”
“I didn’t know he was my boss,” I admit. “But don’t worry, we haven’t done anything. We’ve remained extremely professional.”
That’s not quite the truth, is it, Olivia?
Bridget shrugs. “I mean, I’d never…you know, with my boss, but I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”
“Bridget!”
“Oh, come on, I could tell you guys were into it.”
“You can be into anything while you’re drinking.” I finish off the last of my third glass of wine.
Bridget shakes her head. “No, y’all were about to fuck on the dance floor.”
“We were not.”
“You’re really telling me nothing has happened since then?”
I hesitate. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. And nothing ever can or will.”
Bridget sighs. “Well, I guess you’re both professionals. Dylan might get around, but I don’t think he’s ever put the club at risk for a lay.”
I’m more jealous than I’d like to admit at the thought of Dylan being a playboy. I guess he doesn’t want me enough to risk it all.
God, what am I thinking? “It’s more complicated than that.”
Her brow creases. “What do you mean?”
I’m about to respond when there’s a banging on the door. “Olivia?!”
Fuck.
Speak of the fucking devil.
“Nate?” Bridget says.
I smash my hand against her mouth. “Okay, now seriously, lower your voice.”
Of course, she would recognize him just by the sound of his voice. I’m sure they grew up together. After all, Solomon and Dylan are best fucking friends.
“Your lights are on. I know you’re home.”
But how did he find my address?
I look at Bridget, a silent plea for her to play along. “We’ll just wait for him to go.”
A moment. Silence outside.
Did he give up already?
His deep voice sounds from the other side of my door. “I’m happy to wait here as long as I have to.”
Dammit. Wishful thinking.
This relationship is done. Over. Finished. There’s nothing left to talk about, at least as far as I’m concerned.
I’ve been dodging Nate’s calls for a whole month since I’ve been in New York. It’s clear he still has something he feels he needs to say.
