Chapter 16: Olivia
It takes me a long time to fall asleep. Even when Davis’s breathing grows slow and heavy, I’m left fixating on the faint blue light that his air humidifier emits from the corner of the bedroom. Of course he has a humidifier. Sure enough, when I look up the model on my phone, I find that it costs fourteen hundred dollars.
In other words: It’s slightly more than Charlie’s monthly rent.
Despite the king-sized bed that we’re sharing, Davis has left no space between us. His body is pressed along my back, making me feel every bit the teeny spoon to his big one. He’s warm all over, and even though I haven’t enjoyed sharing beds with men in the past, Davis makes me feel at ease.
As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I want to grab myself by the shoulders and deliver a good, hard shake. The strangeness of the night consumes me—both Davis’s behavior and my own. For my part, I wasn’t lying—I didn’t expect for the cruelty of his words to get under my skin. The cruelty alone wasn’t the problem; I’ve heard plenty of insults over my life. Really, it was the thought of my mother sobbing after hearing those same words, yet accepting them time after time from my father and my stepfather. My mother abhorred those words; sick fuck that I am, I find that they heat my body.
Davis felt no remorse for them. If anything, he dangled them in front of me like he deeply suspected that I enjoyed them. He challenged my indignation, tempting me to break the contract. And somehow, he ended the night by holding me in his arms in a near mirror image of what we did in Amsterdam.
Either way, one thing is abundantly clear: We’re both so screwed up.
When I finally drift off, I’m sound. I sleep through the night and I don’t stir in the morning, even when Davis leaves the bedroom. In fact, it’s only when I awaken to the smell of coffee and the sound of pans in the kitchen that I even recall that I’m not where I should be.
Once I force myself out of Davis’s bed (which is so comfortable that I begin doubting that I’ve ever had a good night’s sleep), I help myself to his closet and find a button-down shirt that I sincerely hope is one of the less bespoke ones in his wardrobe. When I put it on, I’m practically swimming in it, but I don’t feel like putting on the change of clothes that I brought yet.
Plus, despite Davis’s meteoric attitude towards me, I do know one thing to be true: Most men don’t hate seeing the woman that they’re sleeping with going commando and braless in an oversized shirt.
My instincts end up being correct. His face brightens momentarily when I walk into his kitchen. He’s standing on the other side of the island, stirring a sizzling pan, but all of his attention switches to me.
“Morning,” I greet, trying not to be too pleased by his reaction.
“Hey.” He snaps out of it with a blink and looks back down at the pan. “I don’t know what you eat, so I’m making a bunch of stuff.”
“No way,” I blurt out as I crane over the island to peer into the pan. “You learned how to cook?”
Before he responds, he clicks his tongue. “Do you want the sarcastic answer where I say, ‘No, I’m just moving shit around in a hot pan and hoping for the best,’ or do you want the overly nostalgic answer where I say, ‘Yes, Olivia. I remember that conversation we had in Amsterdam and since then I’ve channeled the ghost of Julia Child to live out my normal-guy, non-pampered fantasies’?”
Scoffing, I push away from the island and straighten my spine. “I mean, maybe stop being a jackass and just say, ‘Yeah, I learned to cook.’”
“Yeah, I learned to cook.” He turns off the burner and slides the pan to a trivet on the island. “Coffee black, right?”
“Actually, I’ll take cream and sugar if you have it. I’m feeling indulgent.”
Davis quirks an eyebrow, but he doesn’t ask questions. “Take a seat. I’ll get it,” he instructs.
I walk over to the table, where a couple of weeks ago we sat and hashed out our infamous contract. It looks better in the morning light, and certainly better with the matching, blue-rimmed plates that Davis has laid out.
After a minute, he puts a hot cup of coffee down in front of me, followed shortly thereafter by an adorable ceramic creamer and sugar set that I’m ready to gush over. To my chagrin, however, he shoots me a preemptive, silencing look. Eyes narrowed, mouth pressed into a flat line—the whole nine yards. I take the hint.
Over the next couple of minutes, he then proceeds to load up the table with everything he’s made: scrambled eggs, a stack of buttermilk pancakes, a plate of fruit, bacon, and finally some French toast.
“Wow, Davis. You’ve cooked for at least four. Is this your way of telling me that you knocked me up somehow?” I ask as Davis sprinkles powdered sugar onto the French toast from a couple inches up.
“This is my way of continuing to make you feel like shit about Amsterdam,” he replies with a haughty smirk. “More sugar? No?”
“Just when I think I could like you…”
He lets out a chuckle. “Oh, Olivia. If I spent my time trying to get you to like me, trust me: You would like me.”
I have to admit, that was hot. Not because I particularly like arrogant men, but the sentiments still sounds so strange coming from Davis’s sweet face—sweet despite how hard he tries to be steely. “Since when are you so cocky?” I ask as I look between the plates, trying to decide where to start.
“I’ve done a lot in the last eight years,” is his response. “Including, but not limited to, mastering the art of the pancake.”
“I was thinking about going for those first,” I admit as I raise my chin at the stack. “But the French toast looks pretty promising.”
“Take anything you want. I don’t eat half of this stuff anyway.”
I stop with my fork sticking out of the pancake stack. “Wait, really?”
“Rarely,” Davis answers with a shrug before he slides into the chair across from me and takes a sip of his coffee.
“Why the hell not?” I question as I finish transporting pancakes over to my plate and begin taking bits of this and that from the rest of the platters.
Davis glances down at his own chest and stomach before turning his attention back on me. “You think that I eat pancakes and French toast on the weekends and still look like this? What young adult fiction novel do you think we live in?”
“One where people are happy and eat bacon,” I reply as I bite into a piece.
“Don’t get me wrong. I love this stuff. I just…”
“You lost weight through diet and exercise and don’t want your hard work to go to waste. I get it.”
Davis takes the plate of fruit. “I work so much that I don’t always get to work out. These days, my Friday and Saturday nights are even busier, so my schedule has fallen to the wayside.”
“Is this your way of saying that I’m ruining your life?”
“Exactly.”