Olivier (Chicago Blaze 9)

Our pizza is delivered then, and Olivier changes the subject, asking if I’ve heard from Jada. I haven’t. He switches to another benign topic, and I hold up my end of the conversation, but inside, I’m reeling.

He has insecurities, too. He wants to be seen and appreciated for who he truly is as a person.

I wasn’t expecting this at all. It turns out Olivier and I aren’t as different as I had myself convinced we were.

Chapter Fifteen

Daphne

“Is your phone working properly?” my mother demands. “I’ve left at least ten messages in the last few days.”

“Hi, Mom.” I shrug off my coat and sigh softly.

If it wasn’t my nephew Heath’s birthday, I wouldn’t be anywhere near my parents’ house. I can’t miss his party, even if it means dealing with my mother.

“Well?” She glares at me.

“Leave the poor girl alone, Sandy,” Grandma Jo says as she walks into the foyer.

“Hi, Grandma,” I say, hugging her gratefully.

“You look different,” she says, standing back to examine me. “Your skin looks clearer than I’ve ever seen it.”

“Um…thanks.”

She leans in to speak in my ear.

“Are you and Frenchie getting it on a lot? I’ve heard that’s good for your health.”

There’s no escaping the inappropriate questions here. With all the photos of me and Olivier that have been circulating, I knew my family would want details. It’s none of their business, though.

“You know, I need to go find my nephew and tell him happy birthday,” I say.

I take Heath’s gift—art supplies—back to the main family room, where I hear kids playing. Julia walks toward me, arms open wide.

“I wondered if you’d bring Olivier,” she says in a low tone.

I scoff. “I wouldn’t do that to anyone I like.”

It’s been almost a week since I last saw him. Today is Saturday, and since our lunch last Sunday, we’ve texted every day. He’s not overbearing, checking in morning, noon and night, but at least every day, he sends a message to say he’s thinking of me or to share something funny. I laughed out loud when he told me his daughter was mad at him for accidentally drying her favorite sweater on high heat and ruining it.

Billionaires, they’re just like us. Sort of. It’s surprising to me how much of an average guy Olivier is for the most part. He does his own laundry and picks up his own carryout orders.

Little things pop up and remind me he’s wealthy, though, like when I asked him how he’s able to schedule so many meetings all over the city in one day and he revealed that he owns a helicopter.

“Things are good with you guys, though?” Julia asks me.

I look around to make sure no one else is in earshot before answering. “Yeah, but we’re not in a relationship or anything.”

“You don’t want to see anyone else, though, right?”

I shrug. “I don’t want to see anyone, period.”

“But you’re happy with him, and I don’t want to see you fuck this up because of your stupid ideas about timing.”

“Jules, I’m not with him, so how can I be happy with him? We went out a couple of times, and it was fun.”

“And you have plans to go out again, right?”

I shrug again. “He’s asked, but we haven’t been able to line up our schedules. He’s pretty busy with his daughter.”

My sister studies me, obviously having thoughts but not saying what they are.

“What?” I ask her.

“I love you, but your attitude is bullshit. You’re fortune telling.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t start your psychology crap with me, Jules. Not today. I’m already in the lion’s den.”

Julia got a psychology degree, but then married Andrew right after college and decided to stay at home with their kids rather than work. So she uses her education and training to psychoanalyze the people around her.

“You need to hear this, Daph. Because of letdowns in the past with men, you assume things with Olivier will fail. When one reason doesn’t work, you just come up with another. He’s too rich, you’re on the rebound, too many people are watching you guys. But so what?”

“Aunt Daph!” my nephew Tate cries, running up and hugging me around the legs.

“Hey big guy.” I bend down to hug him. “You want to play trucks?”

“Not yet,” Julia interjects. “Tate, please take Aunt Daph’s present for your brother and put it on the dining table. She can play when we’re finished talking.”

I give Julia the stink-eye stare. “You’re not my mom. I think I get to decide when I can play.”

“Stop acting like a child.” She crosses her arms and gives me her best stern mom look.

With a sigh, I hand my nephew the present I brought.

“Fine,” I say. “But let’s at least get a drink while we talk.”

We take a couple glasses of wine and retreat to our dad’s office, which is blissfully empty and silent.