I want to be close to her. I need to be close to her. Even if she wants nothing to do with me, even if I have to watch as another guy comes to her door, I need to be near her. So I’ll be wherever she is.
And Olivia’s in New York. Sort of my worst nightmare, but it’s a good fit for her. With all that polish and brains, she belongs in a Manhattan high-rise, not locked away in the middle of nowhere. I was a complete shit to want that for her.
And that’s why I’m here. Because Olivia needs to be here. And I need Olivia, however I can have her.
I halfheartedly start unpacking a box in the hope that by the time I’ve settled in, I’ll know what to say to her.
But I know it won’t be that easy. When you chose your pathetic solitude over the girl you love—yes, love—you don’t just go knock on her door and tell her you want her back. You need flowers, or a public apology, or…
“I like what you’ve done with the place.”
My heart drops to the floor, as does the mug I just started to unwrap.
Olivia.
I close my eyes and swallow. I order myself to turn around and face her, but I can’t seem to move.
“You really should lock your door,” she says. From her voice I can tell she’s coming closer. “This is a rough neighborhood.”
Somewhere in the back of my brain, alarm bells are going off at her too-casual tone. In my mind, the best-case scenario was her rushing into my arms. And I thought the worst-case scenario was her slapping me. But I was wrong. This is the worst-case scenario. This indifferent, could-be-talking-to-a-stranger tone is so much worse.
The noose tightens around my heart. I’m too late.
I turn around to face her.
She’s still dressed in what I assume are her work clothes. Black dress pants, plain black heels and a cardigan. Pink.
“Olivia—”
Shit. Shit. My voice sounds like gravel.
She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that I can barely speak. She doesn’t seem to realize that my arms are literally shaking with the need to hold her, my throat aching with the need to tell her I’m sorry.
And that I love her.
No words come out. I’m too scared of fucking it all up. Too scared that she’ll tell me what I already know: I’m not worthy of her.
She finally meets my eyes, and my heart sinks at what I see there: nothing.
No joy, no anger. Not even pain. Her eyes are empty, and so unlike the expressive green eyes I dream about every night.
“So what’s the plan?” she says with a shrug and a little smile. “You were just going to move next door like the creepiest of stalkers, ask the neighbors about me in secret, and then what?”
I don’t know.
I miss you.
I love you.
Please love me back.
“Hi,” I say.
Oh my God, Langdon.
Her eyebrows lift. “Hi?”
I shove my hands into my back pockets to keep from reaching for her.
“Surprise?” I say instead.
This time her eyes narrow.
Okay, definitely not going the way I hoped.
“I meant to do some big gesture,” I say in a rush. “I haven’t figured it out yet. I was maybe going to go to your office to serenade you, except I can’t sing. I was even thinking I could dress up like Andrew Jackson, but that’s only because Ethan suggested a costume, and—”
She holds up a hand. “Hold on. Just stop and back up. Ethan? Is that how you found me?”
“My dad knows his dad—”
“Of course he does. Freaking rich people,” she mutters.
“—and I heard you’re working for Mr. Price.”
“You have my phone number!” she shouts, all semblance of the calm, indifferent Olivia disappearing. She’s pissed.
And she’s not done with her tantrum. “You have my phone number and my email, and you’ve already shown an admirable prowess for stalking people on social media. Stalk me that way!”
“I know,” I say. “I just—”