Page 11 of Billion Dollar Vow (The Lincoln Brothers #4)

Oliver

I catch the door before it slams in my face, my heart pounding harder than I’d like to admit.

She opens her mouth, then closes it, before slamming the door behind me.

“Is there a problem?”

“No. Just go sit down,” she says, as the toaster pops.

“What’s for dinner?” I tease, noticing she’s changed from jeans into baggy light gray sweats, hair in a messy ponytail. The casual look suits her; she seems softer somehow. She glances up at me, eyes lingering a beat too long, like she’s reading my thoughts.

“I’m making myself some toast. You can make your own or order something.”

I bite back a smile at her bluntness. I should probably feel bad about invading her space, but there’s something about the way her eyes flicker to mine that makes me think maybe, just maybe, she doesn’t mind as much as she pretends to.

She moves to the counter in front of me and grabs the peanut butter.

“No jelly?” I ask.

“No. I prefer it without. Now, go sit down and stop watching me,” she says, waving her hand dismissively.

I lean against the counter, unable to tear my eyes away despite her command.

I spot paint smudges on her hand as she spreads the smooth peanut butter over the toast and takes a big bite, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again.

I wonder if she even knows she does that.

The little moment makes my chest tighten in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

Maybe I should’ve thought this through more before showing up.

Being alone with her feels more dangerous than I anticipated.

There’s always been something about Karley.

This easy way of pulling people in without even trying.

I remember when Declan asked me to help make her feel welcome, back when they had just reconnected.

It wasn’t supposed to be anything more than that.

Just a favor. But the banter started quickly, and before I realized it, talking to her became my favorite part.

I chortle at her adorable reaction. “I think I’ll make some toast.”

“Help yourself,” she says, her tone lighter now. Maybe she was just hungry.

I’ll keep that in mind. Karley gets snappy when she’s hungry.

I wander around the kitchen, grabbing a plate and some jelly from the fridge. I feel her eyes on me as I move, and when I glance up, our gazes lock for a brief moment before she looks away, continuing to eat. She makes it clear she’s not going to start a conversation.

“What are we watching?” I ask, glancing across the room at the TV screen.

A sigh escapes her. “I’m watching something that will hopefully make you leave.”

“Is it reality TV? Because I hate to break it to you, but I secretly love that shit.” I wink.

“It’s a drama rom-com called Nobody Wants This .”

I reach for the cupboard door, and her eyes widen slightly as I lean in. “Sounds amazing. I can’t wait to watch it after I eat.”

I smile to myself as I grab a plate.

“God, you’re annoying. I don’t know why my brother likes being your friend.”

I move to grab a knife when my toast pops, and I spread on the peanut butter and jelly. On impulse, I hold it up to her lips. “Try it with jelly.”

She pushes my arm away. “I know what peanut butter and jelly tastes like.”

“But I make it the best.”

She arches her eyebrow. “It’s peanut butter and jelly. It’s not difficult.”

I wink again, trying to rile her up more, hoping a little fun might soften her. “You’d be surprised.”

She huffs, her cheeks flushing, and I expect her to snap at me. “Fine. Give me your amazing toast.”

She closes her eyes, parting her lips before she takes a bite, then opens her eyes, her bright blue gaze assessing me critically.

After she swallows, she replies, “As I thought… No difference.”

I hiss, pretending to be offended. “Harsh critic. Maybe you should be on MasterChef ?”

“I have no desire to do that.” She spins around, putting her plate in the dishwasher, and moves to walk past me.

“Wait up,” I call. My heart races. This isn’t going how I planned. I seem to be upsetting her when my goal was just to hang out with her until Declan gets home.

She pauses, her eyebrows knitting. “What?”

I step forward and swipe my thumb gently across the corner of her full bottom lip, ignoring the slight hitch in her breath. She pulls back and wipes her mouth roughly herself. “I got it,” she says, turning and heading into the living room. I finish my toast, watching her walk away.

My mind drifts to that night at the party; her hopeful expression just before she leaned in, the hurt in her eyes when I pulled back. I’d been trying to do the right thing; she’s Declan’s little sister.

“Oliver!”

“Sorry. I’m coming.”

I leave my plate and move into the living room. I keep getting distracted by the little things she does, like the way she wrinkles her nose when she’s annoyed at me, or how her eyes brighten when she’s about to deliver a smart remark. I need to focus.

I move into the living room where she’s curled up on one sofa, while the other is empty.

I choose to sit next to her, knowing it will annoy her. Our thighs touching.

“No need for personal space,” she mutters under her breath, but a small grin tugs at my lips as I lean back.

We sit in comfortable silence until I notice she’s huddling.

“Do you want a blanket?” I ask.

“Sure, that’d be nice.” I get up to grab one from the closet. “Maybe take off your shoes. You’re making me uncomfortable in that suit.”

I look at her, noticing a slight pink flush on her nose.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I ask, slipping off my shoes, loosening my tie, and pulling it off.

I untuck my shirt and undo a few buttons before heading back.

Her eyes drop for a moment, but she quickly darts them back to the screen.

“Is that better?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.

She nods, her throat bobbing slightly. “Hurry up, I want to watch the whole episode before I shower and head to bed.”

We watch one twenty-six-minute episode in a silence that gradually shifts from awkward to relaxing. I steal glances at her when she laughs at certain scenes, noticing how different she is when her guard is down.

She turns it off and sits up. “That’s it for me tonight. I don’t know when Declan will be back, but don’t watch the show without me.”

The casual comment catches me off guard; it’s the first hint she might be okay with hanging out with me again. “Same goes for you.”

She frowns. “This is my house.”

I shake my head with new confidence. “I can come back every night until we’ve watched the whole season. I’m invested now.”

The truth is, I like the show, the easy silence between us, and just unwinding after a long day. I haven’t done this in so long, and I suddenly feel like I could do this every day.

She spins around, calling over her shoulder. “So strange, but whatever. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

I watch her walk away until I can’t see her anymore.

I can hear her turn on the shower, and my mind drifts to her…

specifically, her body covered in water and her hands rubbing soap…

. Fuck. Oliver, no. I shake my head, realizing I’m tired.

I shouldn’t be thinking about her like that.

I need to be figuring out how to find a wife in a few weeks.

My head rests where hers was. Her scent lingers on the sofa, a mix of her perfume and soap. It’s an unusual blend of floral meets caramel.

The house is quiet, except for the faint noise of the TV, left on whatever channel she flicked it to before she left. As I lie here, I wonder if she’s already finished showering and tucked up in bed. I can’t tell because her door is closed.

I pull out my phone and scroll through my social media.

It’s the same shit… family photos, my mom sharing random recipe posts, or worse, Grams uploading baby photos of us.

I exit the app and switch to Instagram. This is more interesting, with a lot of art, specifically paintings that align with me.

But even here, I can’t escape posts from snotty wealthy people flaunting their shopping sprees, which I’m sure are a result of maxed-out credit cards.

But a post from Liam, five minutes ago, makes me sit up straight.

I run my hand through my hair as I take in the image of a candlelit dinner at Le Bernardin, one of New York’s finest restaurants, where you rub shoulders with the elite. It’s the kind of place with a year-long waitlist unless you’re an A-list celebrity. The caption reads, Date night.

He said he was single today. He must be gearing up to find a partner to show off.

That bastard is trying to one-up me. But I’m one step ahead because I’ve already told Mr. Warne that I’m engaged, so the transition to ‘wife’ is more believable.

I’ve started making a mental list… a small wedding ceremony, purchase quality wedding bands, and a suit. And the most important… a wife!

In the business of buying art galleries, it’s all about charm and deception to get what you want. Usually, I have charm in abundance, but lately, it seems I’m losing my touch.

I close Liam’s picture and search for the artist I’ve been trying to find.

Still nothing. I get that they’re introverted, but I just want one meeting to discuss a collaboration.

No one else has these paintings, so it would be exclusive to me and this up-and-coming artist. They don’t even have to show; I’ll be the face for them.

But I can’t host an auction or a viewing without their collaboration.

I first saw their painting at the school, but my mom has no clue where it came from; she’s never seen anyone paint the flower where a signature should be.

I’ve looked online at every possible option, and I even hired a private investigator.