I wake at dawn, when light is at its softest, bathing Olivia in a muted glow of delicate pinks and purples.
Her eyes open, and she smiles at me, groggy.
“Hello.”
I smile back.
“Hi.” I dive in for a kiss.
She squeaks and puts a hand up to her face. “I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Yes. Fresh breath is very important,” she mumbles behind her hand.
She’s adorable. I want to explore every part of her again, but we need to talk. I put it off last night, letting myself be selfish, letting myself live in the moment for this one time, but I can’t anymore. I need to tell Olivia about Remington. She may never want to see me again, but Daisy is right. I can’t keep lying to her.
“Be right back,” she says and drags the white sheet around her, wrapping up like a mummy.
While she’s in the bathroom, I go in search of a coffee machine. If I’m going to have this conversation with her, she needs caffeine.
“Bless Ronan,” I say when I spot an espresso machine and a basket filled with pods. There’s even creamer in the fridge. It’s some kind of vegan faux-creamer, but it will do.
The coffees are ready when Olivia emerges from the bathroom. She’s dressed, wearing last night’s dress, but she’s still wearing the bedsheet like a wrap.
“Here,” I say.
She takes her coffee and makes that sweet sigh she always does at the first sip. I love that sound.
We wander out to the porch, with its incredible view of the water. It’s where we started before our night, and now here we are again.
At least I didn’t take her virginity. I wavered more than a few times last night, but I couldn’t be with her in that way and have lies between us. Even if she said she only wanted one night, she deserves my honesty.
I’m ready to give it to her. I can only pray she doesn’t hate me.
I open my mouth, trying to find the words.
“I lied to you,” Olivia says in a rush.
“W-what?” I say, for a moment, wondering if those words came out of my mouth and not Olivia’s.
“I can’t take the guilt. I have you here under false pretenses. I lied to you.” Her eyes are somber.
“Okay,” I drawl out.
She taps her nails against the coffee cup. “I’m just going to get it all out at once. Rip it off, like a bandage. There’s no stalker.”
“What?” I ask, looking at her like she’s lost her goddamn mind.
“I mean, I guess there kind of is. Yes, one of your obsessed fans wrote mean letters to me. But she didn’t start the fire. The arson investigator concluded that the fire started from faulty wiring. So, all this really wasn’t necessary.” She waves her hand. “The guards, staying here overnight, staying with you in Malibu, even.”
“When did you find out?” I ask. Nothing is making sense.
“Yesterday, before we came on our date. But I was afraid if you knew, then we wouldn’t have a date, that you’d leave or send me back to San Francisco right away, and I just really, really wanted to have one last night with you. I’m so sorry I lied and didn’t respect your choices enough to tell the truth.” She watches me with sad eyes. “I can’t regret what happened last night, but I wish I’d told you before. It wasn’t right of me to keep things from you.”
She is sorry she didn’t respect my choices enough to tell the truth. How ironic.
Those words rip into me like a serrated blade.
“You could still be in danger,” I insist.
She shrugs. “Maybe. But doubtful. There’s a big leap between sending nasty notes and trying to murder someone.”
“You could have told me, Olivia. Worrying about you, thinking someone was trying to kill you, it was like my worst fear coming to life.”
Guilt chases me. I have no room to chide her for hiding something from me. She’s feeling guilty about a small lie that she quickly came clean about. While I’ve been lying to her ever since I walked into her café, longer even.
“Ijustwantedtospendmoretimewithyou.”
“What?”
“I just wanted to spend more time with you,” she repeats, slowly this time. “To give us a chance to be more.”
“Olivia.”
“I know, I know. You don’t have to say anything. It’s embarrassing enough to have to admit that I have this one-sided crush.”
“It’s not one-sided. If you recall last night.”
“I know I should have told you as soon as I got the call. It was really stupid. I’ll make arrangements to leave first thing tomorrow.”
“Hey.” I take her hand. “I don’t want you to leave, at least not like this. You didn’t need to hide something from me to stay. I love having you around. Too much. I love seeing you at the kitchen table every morning around coffee. I love running with you and watching that sweet ass of yours when you stretch. I love skinny-dipping with you, and I more than loved last night.”
I need her to know that this time has meant something to me.
As if she can read my mind, she watches me warily. “But…” she says.
“But I need to show you something,” I say.
“What? Where?” she asks.
“We need to go back home, to Malibu.”
CHAPTER 34
Olivia
Chase drives me back to Malibu in distracted silence. I want to ask so many questions, but it’s like he’s shuttered behind glass, so I sit and try not to worry.
When he leads me into his cottage, for a fleeting second, I think it might be to go to his bedroom, that what he has to show me is in his pants and he’s just being extra dramatic about it all.
But all I see is a lovely room with a huge desk and wall-to-wall bookshelves.
I turn to Chase in silent inquiry.
“It’s my office,” he says. As if that explains what we’re doing here.
I walk farther into the room. Admiring the floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
Despite my unease, I allow myself to be distracted. Bookcases say so much about a person, and every little scrap of knowledge about Chase is like a precious gem. I collect them like a jewel thief on the prowl.
I run my hand over the smooth, whitewashed wood that holds a plethora of titles, a cornucopia of choice, from ancient Chinese philosophy to the history of cowboys. I wonder if that title was for the role of a Montana rancher he played last year. One section holds a collection of classic pulp fiction titles and spy thrillers, including the entire collection of Ian Fleming’s James Bond. Hmm, I wonder if that’s his genre of choice. Like Remington, I can’t help thinking.
“Why are we here?” I ask. “What do you have to show me?”
He doesn’t say anything. He’s leaning against the wall next to the desk, his head bowed, as if bracing for something.
My eyes dart to his desk, and that’s when I see it.
A Remington.
It sits near the middle of the desk, just above his laptop, and is surrounded by a few stacks of paper.
I walk over to the old machine. It’s not just any Remington.
I know this typewriter.
I touch the T, where the letter is worn down and barely visible. I run my hands over the familiar chip on the N in Remington. I know every scratch and scrape on this typewriter because it used to be mine.
It’s my pen pal’s now.
So, how is it here?
It’s like looking through the viewfinder of one of Nanna’s cameras. Everything is blurry, and then with a few adjustments, suddenly, it all comes into focus. That’s how the idea, the inkling, the bone-deep knowing hits me. It comes rushing in all at once and clear as the margin bell on this typewriter.
He’s Remington, that voice inside me says.
But still, I look for evidence.
And there it is, in a stack of familiar letters, letters I wrote.
I riffle through them, reading, my face burning at how the breezy tone of my first few letters turns increasingly friendly, laced with intimacy and admissions about my life, my feelings. Desperately lonely, needing a friend and confidant, I shared my soul in these letters.
To a mysterious stranger.
I’d had no fucking clue.
Anger, confusion, shock rise up in me.
My Remington, my best friend for years, is Chase James. Has always been Chase James.
And he’s been lying to me this entire time.
Was this his idea of a joke?