She laughed in disgust.
“I’ll call you when you’ve had a chance to cool down.”
“Get out right now, or I swear to God I’ll call campus security and tell them you’re refusing to leave.”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go. But think about what I said.”
She picked up the phone, and she must have looked serious, because he scurried toward the door like the rat he was.
What the hell was wrong with him? What the hell was wrong with her? She wasn’t one of those women who’d spent years paging through catalogs, wistfully lingering over the baby furniture. Sure, she’d thought they’d have kids, but she hadn’t ached at the thought. She took a deep breath, and already felt better. It wasn’t that he hadn’t given her kids. It was just some phantom jealousy that he’d denied her something that he was now giving to another woman.
Well, not of his own free will, but…
“What a mess,” she murmured. He’d really dug himself a deep hole this time. Whatever antipathy she’d had toward Allison was quickly transforming itself to pity.
Still, Allison wasn’t her concern and neither was Victor. Olivia’s only concern now was her new business. Victor’s idiotic words had made her more determined than ever. More determined. And more impatient.
Olivia spread all her plans out on the desk and opened the spreadsheets on the computer. Maybe she wouldn’t have to save for years. Maybe she wouldn’t have to take on four sessions next semester. Instead, she could scale back to two sessions if she could find one paying project. Just one. That would be a start.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
FRIDAY NIGHT BROUGHT a big crowd and Jamie’s favorite local Irish rock band. Everyone was in a great mood, tapping their feet to the music and roaring with applause after each song.
Jamie was having a great time, too. Why wouldn’t he? He was back in his place, behind the bar, slinging beers and smiling. Tessa was serving tonight, and though she kept shooting him questioning looks, he made sure he was grinning every time.
“Do you want to talk?” Eric had asked warily when Jamie had stalked in at 2:00 p.m. Jamie had asked, “About what?” and that had been the end of it.
What the hell were they supposed to talk about? They could s
pend days hashing out their problems and nothing would be solved. Eric might grudgingly give some concession, throwing his little brother a few scraps to keep him happy, but Jamie would be damned if he’d be treated like a dog. Any plans he made, he’d make on his own.
But at the moment, he couldn’t imagine what they might be. He felt lost again, but this time he was determined to find his way out of it.
“Hey, Jamie!” a woman called from a table. “Where’s your kilt?”
“At the dry cleaners!” he shouted back. The damn kilt made him think of Olivia, and how she’d stroked her hand up his thigh, easing the kilt higher until her hand had closed over his cock. Then she’d climbed atop him, completely naked, while he’d been fully clothed, his boots still laced. She’d—
He shook off the thought. No more thoughts of Olivia. He’d gone to class on Tuesday just to prove a point, but that point had nearly killed him. He’d done a damn good job of not looking at Olivia, but he hadn’t been able to will her voice away. Hadn’t been able to make himself deaf. He didn’t want to give up the class and the information he needed, but he’d felt sick to his stomach by the time he’d left. On Thursday, he’d fabricated a reason to skip. He had the notes and the information she posted online. He’d have to make do with that.
“Jamie?”
He looked up to find Tessa watching him with a worried frown. “What?”
“Did you hear the order?”
He cleared his throat. “The music was too loud. Give it to me again.”
She stared for a long moment, but he ignored her, busying himself with drawing a stout for the guy at the end of the bar who’d signaled for a refill. Tessa finally gave in and repeated the order before hurrying away.
Tired of thinking about Olivia, Jamie tried to distract himself by singing along with the band, but he’d missed the chance. The chorus ended with a flourish and a crash of cymbals. The last note of the fiddle faded away. “All right, folks!” the lead singer said in an Irish brogue that got considerably thicker when he was onstage. “We’re going to go spend a little quality time with a pint, but cease your lament! We’ll be back in ten.”
Wincing at the quiet that fell in the momentary lull, Jamie turned up the piped-in music and delivered a pitcher to the band.
“Hey, bartender!” a man called when Jamie got back to the bar. He held up a finger and grabbed the bowl of pretzels he’d promised the band. A few seconds later, he was back.
“Sorry about that. What can I—?” The words turned to gravel in his mouth when he saw who’d spoken. Him. Victor. What the fuck?
“Jamie,” the guy said, smiling as if they were old friends. “Good to see you again.”