Page 12 of Olivia’s Only Pretending (Sweet River #3)

“That’s what Ryan always called my love of reading romance.

My ‘little guilty pleasure,’” I said, monotone.

I’d always cringed at the scene he’d make at the bookstore when I grabbed anything that wasn’t critically acclaimed, or the way he’d roll his eyes when I’d carry a love story around in my tote bag with us.

“Why?” Victor was confused because Victor didn’t have a condescending bone in his body.

“It embarrassed Ryan that someone he dated would read romance.” I shrugged.

“It’s not that. I just personally can’t read books like that—the characters are always so immature?—”

“Oh, sure,” Victor said with a grin. “Because people in love are known for acting rationally and maturely?”

Ryan cleared his throat. “It’s not just that. Those books tend to be overly sweet, like sweet as sugar?—”

Victor slipped his arm around my waist. “Well then, better steer clear of me. When I fall for a girl, I’m a total sap. I’ll give that girl a toothache.” Victor looked down at me playfully. “Ain’t that right, baby girl?”

I tried to bite back the laugh that bubbled up.

Ryan took a long gulp from his drink, eyes flicking between us. “I have a few more people to check in with.” He paused, then turned to leave. “Good luck with your book club.”

After he’d disappeared into the crowd, I turned to Victor, shaking my head with laughter. “ Ain’t that right, baby girl? ” I said, mimicking his voice through a grin.

A proud smile spread across Victor’s face. “That was pretty good, huh? He couldn’t stand me.” He beamed as if that was the greatest achievement.

A farm-style oak dining table. A headboard built from a refurbished barn door.

Mahogany bookshelves with ivy etched into the side.

I was sliding through a folder in my phone titled Victor’s AMAZING Creations with an older professor named Charles with gray hair and thick black glasses.

“Okay, okay, but see, I love this coffee table.” I zoomed in closer to tiny ornamental carvings of leaves on the table legs. “Look at this detailing!”

Victor was blushing beside me. He grinned down at his plate. Our meal was being catered by a restaurant, the Vintage Table. Their famous fall dish was roasted mini pumpkins stuffed with an herby wild rice blend.

I’d devoured mine, and Victor had been telling me on the drive over how he hoped and prayed they would serve those “life-alteringly good little pumpkins,” but instead had only nibbled on his.

Probably because showing off my Victor Fan Girl album was one of the only moments in the evening that he hadn’t been the life of the party.

I’d sat beside him, starry-eyed. He’d told the best history puns ( had he googled these beforehand?

) , asked the right questions that led to fun dinner party conversations, started one heated debate about the Sea People, and somehow, using his Olivia-whisperer skills, he’d pulled me, the department’s resident introvert, into all of it.

I’d worked at this school for years, and yet tonight was one of the first times I’d felt my department had seen the real me. How I snorted when I laugh. Funny tidbits about me that Victor brought up. All these little pieces of me were tightly tucked behind my polished Dr. Rhodes persona.

I closed my phone screen. “See? He’s underselling his talent.”

“Well, Victor, you got the president of your fan club, right here,” Charles said, pointing to me.

A small votive flickered in the middle of the table.

“I am a fan. Deservedly so.” I gave Victor’s shoulder a squeeze.

Victor leaned closer, lowering his head near mine, whispering, “You’re doing it again.” His breath was hot against my ear. “You sound like my … you know.” Girlfriend.

A nervous laugh escaped me, but that was the goal, right? Then why did it feel dangerous? Like a secret I was accidentally sharing with my table of coworkers?

“Okay, you two,” June, my colleague and friend, interrupted Victor and me, patting both her hands on the table. “How did you meet? I know you were friends for a while.” Her gaze bounced between us. “What’s the story here?”

The table is long, and our conversations had mostly been confined to my end of it. But after June’s question, we caught a few new listeners from the other end. Ryan’s ears even perked up.

I swallowed, my mouth instantly dry. I’d been okay letting people believe what they wanted to believe and play into it a bit, but I didn’t want to outright lie. Should I speak up now? Tell them the truth? Set everyone straight?

I glanced up at Victor, who looked calm, unfazed as he’d been all night.

He cleared his throat before beginning. “It’s a good story, actually. See, her sister was working with my boss. It was a … well, let’s say, tenuous working relationship at first, so my boss had asked me to show up to one of their coffee meet-ups to help smooth things over.”

“And I showed up to be nosy,” I added, following Victor’s lead. “I wanted to check out who my sister had been griping about.” The table chuckled in response.

Now, Victor’s eyes were on me. “But the minute she walked in the door with …” He waved a hand in front of me.

“ This face. These freckles. She had on a tank top and jeans. I still remember the paint she had on her arms. I think I stopped breathing when I saw her.” He shivered, as if the memory affected him.

The table laughed. But his voice was serious, eyes still on me. “I completely abandoned my boss, Adam. He asked me later where I went, but I had gotten in line with Olivia, pretending I couldn’t decide on what milk alternative I wanted just to keep her talking.”

I’d forgotten about the first oat milk versus almond milk chat. Now the memory came back to me—how we’d discussed that whole latte he ordered, oat versus almond, vanilla versus caramel, foam or no foam, all of it.

“That entire milk debate was fake?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. Was he being honest, or was this for the charade?

“Olivia, have I ever used oat milk again?”

I hadn’t ever noticed that it’d always been whole milk since then. But the debate had been fun. Discussing anything with Victor was fun.

“I even looked up articles?—”

“Yes, you did. It was adorable. Your knack for research kept you in line with me longer. I loved it. Still use that tactic to keep you with me longer.”

How many pretend research assignments had I been on?

“We wound up talking about that old house of hers. I was intrigued by this smart, stunning woman covered in paint, saying she was going to knock out a bunch of walls. I liked her, liked knocking out walls, so I couldn’t resist weaseling my way into more of her life.”

“I’m grateful. I definitely needed help with those walls.” I held up my hands as if in defeat.

“I harbored a crush, but she was obviously way out of my league?—”

“Don’t say that.” I shook my head. Victor was in a league of his own.

“It’s true, though. It’s why I didn’t push it. Somehow, so easily, we became best friends. We talked about everything. We built things together. She’s basically a stepmother to my dog, Watson.”

“When did you two … become more?” June asked.

The table hushed, leaning in to hear Victor. Even I was enraptured, waiting to hear what he’d say next.

He took a deep breath, dark eyes locking on mine. “We kissed. It was a good kiss. The kind of kiss that made me think: hey, maybe I’m not the only one that feels that there’s something here . Now … here we are.”

Someone whooped. There was a ripple of “oohs” and “ahhs” around the table. My heart skipped like a record, stuck on the fact that this story didn’t sound fake at all. Every part was real, except maybe how he felt after our kiss.

I wasn’t sure if he was enhancing the story for our ridiculous charade, or if our kiss had messed with his mind like it had messed with mine.

If our kiss left him with aftershocks. If he relived it in the space between dream and sleep. Because I did. Eyes closed, blankets over my head, Victor’s lips stained on mine.