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“Are they playing Queen?” I gasped, recognizingSomebody to Love.
“They’ll play whatever you ask them to,” he said, rolling up his sleeves.
One of the musicians chuckled, clearly not a stranger to Oliver Hart.
“Michael Jackson?” I challenged.
Without missing a beat, they slipped intoThriller.
“Sweet Child of Mine?” They paused, conferred briefly, then launched into the melody so seamlessly I thought I might cry.
My mouth fell open so wide my jaw popped, and Ollie lost it.
“You like it?”
“You’re perfect. Flamboyantly over the top for a woman content in yesterday’s pajamas and reruns—but perfect nonetheless.”
“You deserve over the top.”
“There’s nothing closeted about your romantic, is there?” I muttered, chewing on my lip.
“Aww, thanks.” His flat tone made me laugh again as he nodded toward my tacos. “Eat while they’re hot.”
“Bossy.”
“You like it.”
I did. I really,reallydid.
Many songs, five tacos, two pictures, and several dances later, Ollie finally ushered me back into the SUV, strung as taut as one of the quartet’s bowstrings. By the time Arthur dropped us at my building and Ollie walked me up, I was positive the man could brush a feather over my skin and I’d go nuclear.
So when we reached my doorway and turned to face each other, my heart was thundering like a war drum in my chest.
There was so much fondness—bottomless certainty—in his eyes that I forgot how to breathe.
“I had a great time tonight. I hope you enjoyed yourself.”
The memory of him whispering those words after making me fall apart in his arms ghosted over my skin.One night,he’d said. Hell, one night and I was already ruined.
“Ollie, that was insane.”
“My first thought was a Vegas show, but I figured if I flew you somewhere, you’d punch me in the arm.”
“Accurate.”
“So this was what I landed on that didn’t require stitches.”
“Well,” I purred, stepping in close and nearly groaning when his hands found my face and waist, “it pains me to admit it, but you were right on the money.”
He chuckled, one hand easing to the back of my neck while the other tugged me against him. His kiss was slow this time. Intentional. Luxuriously indulgent.
My hands slid up his chest and around his back, holding him there.
This—this felt so right. It didn’t feel like desperation or performance. It just...was.
Warm and pliant, and planting the steady flap of butterfly wings in my belly. Delicious and unhurried, as though we had all the time in the world.
A perfect exhale after a perfect night.