Olivia

An hour later, Sam’s still not back. Every once in a while, one of my friends gives me a knowing, sympathetic glance. Shrugging off the silly feeling of rejection, I try to enjoy myself. It’s my weekend. I’m not going to spend it wondering where my new friend Sam is, because that’s just it—we’re just friends. We had dinner. It was only dinner.

Like he can read my thoughts, my ‘just dinner’ friend comes into view over the shoulder of Jean François, the twenty-something accountant who is desperately trying and miserably failing to pick me up. Sam practically prowls toward me with his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, and lips mashed in a thin line.

“What are you drinking? Let me buy you a drink,” Jean François slurs inches from my face, and I blink as a whiff of rye stings my eyes.

His self-important smile and cocky stance permeate the confined space between us. He’s annoying. Like Sam did earlier in the evening, the man’s leaning in, close to my ear, so he can be heard. His hand is on the back of my chair, and it’s not lost on me or on Sam that his thumb is grazing my exposed shoulder blade.

“Olivia.” My name is harsh on Sam’s lips.

My spine straightens in alarm and Jean François swivels to meet Sam’s dark eyes, also alarmed, trying to steady himself, in case he needs to prepare for an altercation.

Sam ignores him, eyes pinned on me, softening as he nears. When he weaves his hand into my hair at the nape of my neck, I relax, his gesture securing and reassuring. My body tingles on contact. My heart rate spikes and warmth blooms in my chest.

“I’m so sorry. Daniel Thibault is a potential investor and I needed to speak with him. Then as soon as he left, his daughter, Yasmine, fainted.” I fight to not roll my eyes. Of course she did. “She has no one to take her home.”

I cut him off, seeing exactly where this is going. “It’s fine. Take her home. Dinner was lovely. Thanks, Sam.” I’m polite but dismissive.

He rears back slightly, obviously surprised, then he’s inches from my face. “Come with me. We’ll drop Yasmine off and then I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

As much as I’d like to spend more time with him, it would only prolong the inevitable goodbye. Like ripping the band aid off, I prefer to end this now and get the sting over with.

“Sam, I’d rather not.” Also, while I don’t say it, I don’t like the woman and have no desire to spend another minute with her. “Tonight’s our last night and I promised to spend it with my girls.” Facing him, he comes closer, wedging himself in between Jean François and me, forcing the younger man to step back. “I enjoyed our meals and getting to know you. If I come back to Montreal any time soon, I’ll let you know,” I softly say.

A shrewd grin appears as his eyes sharpen, even more penetrating, like he’s looking inside me.

“Olivia, you’re so cute.” He chuckles. “We’re not done,” he firmly and loudly states, loud enough for Jean François to catch it. He kisses me, full on the lips. It’s tender, light, and over way too fast.

Before I can regain my composure, he’s gone. His taste—a mixture of the hops and barley from the beer he had earlier and something spicy yet fresh—lingers long after he leaves.

Waking at six o’clock in the morning is pure torture, particularly because we’d only just gone to sleep. Erin insisted we stay at the bar ‘til last call, then we dragged our sorry asses back to the hotel over two and a half hours ago.

“I’m too old for this,” Sin croaks from across the room. She’s slumped over the side of her bed, her blonde hair disheveled, head in hand.

“I need coffee,” Erin whines.

“You said it, you get it,” Tamsin and I groggily deliver in unison. Our directive takes me back to our school days when that was just our thing. Erin growls, tosses back her comforter, and stands. “Dammit, when am I going to learn to keep my damn mouth shut?”

Despite the achiness and fatigue, I giggle. Erin was always bad at this game. She stomps to the washroom with clothes in hand while we both flop back into bed. I’m so glad I packed yesterday—it means I have another fifteen minutes of shut-eye before I must get dressed.

By the time Erin returns with our coffees, Tamsin and I are as ready as we’ll ever be in our current state. I’m in comfy clothes—leggings and a baggy off-the-shoulder sweater—and my hair is in a messy bun.

Before I can take the little green thingy that keeps the coffee warm out of my lid, there’s a knock at our door. Erin’s closest and flings the door wide open; Sam stands in the doorway, looking like every woman’s fantasy. His brown hair is slightly wet, likely from just showering, and he’s clean shaven. His black faded jeans mold to his long, sculpted legs and his white fitted t-shirt defines his firm, broad chest. The pièce de résistance is the leather jacket casually slung over his shoulder. He looks like he just walked off the runway. Be still my heart. If I weren’t hungover, I’d think my lightheadedness was because of him.

“Sam,” Erin cheers. She’s obviously had her mandatory espresso shot before the coffee she has in her hand. She’s way too chipper for having gotten only two hours sleep.

“Ladies.” His voice is deep and smooth.

His eyes flit from Erin to Tamsin, then rest on me. Just a look from his piercing eyes has me undone. With my lack of sleep, no makeup, and grungy attire, I’m in no shape to face him.

Erin grabs her suitcase, rolling it ‘til she stands directly in front of Sam. “Lover boy, you blew it last night. Good luck,” she states with a pat to his pec.

Sam arches his brow and Erin matches his expression in jest as she walks out of the room. Sin is right behind her.

“Tamsin,” Sam warmly says with a tip of his chin.

“Sin,” I call to her. She veers back to look at me questioningly. I don’t have to ask— it’s in her face. “It was you.”

“Me? What are you talking about?”

“I thought it was Erin who told Sam our room number the other day, but it was you, and you told him when we were leaving today.” Her face flames and that’s all the confirmation I need. “What happened to chicks before dicks?”

Sam coughs, eyes wide, shocked at my crass comment. Sin laughs and winks at me.

“Exactly,” she responds, like that answers everything, before leaving us alone.

Sam enters the suite, shutting the door behind him.

“Hi.” His tone is low and heavy.

I fidget with a loose strand of my hair, trying to weave it back into my haphazard bun. Covering my hand with his, he steadies then lowers it. With his other hand, his finger twines around the wayward lock, intent on wrapping my hair around his finger.

“So soft and shiny,” he rasps. “I told you last night, we’re not done.” His voice is soft like silk against my skin, and shivers cascade down my spine.

“Sam, this was two people getting to know each other over a couple of wonderful meals. It’s time for me to go home.” One side of his mouth quirks upward and he shakes his head at me. “Besides, you’re too young,” I add, like that says it all.

Sighing, he releases my hair to rest his hands on my shoulders. “Olivia, it’s only a number. It doesn’t matter.” He gently squeezes.

“It matters to me,” I try again, more firmly, hoping he gets my point.

“Why?”

He’s observing me like he’ll find the answer in my eyes, in the way I hold myself. The weird thing is, I’m not able to answer. My reason is something intangible. I can’t name it or put words to it; it’s a feeling, gnawing at my insides.

It’s my insecurities. It’s not only his age, although that definitely bugs me. It’s that he’s young and beautiful. He can have whoever he wants. He could leave, and while that’s true of any relationship…he’s younger, and it feels like that makes it more of a possibility.

“I’m not ready for a relationship,” I declare, gentle yet boldly honest.

My words contradict the growing disquiet at the actuality of my fears. Having been married for twenty years, being single and now faced with the prospect of dating is causing some serious jitters. That’s natural, isn’t it? Yet standing in front of Sam, this man who likes me, it seems weak and stupid. Stupid to walk away from the possibilities.

“Okay.” His hands soothingly glide across my shoulders, up the sides of my neck. His thumbs caress my jaw as his nose delicately rubs against mine. A small whimper passes my lips and my eyes flutter close. I’m a fool.

“What if we just take it one day at a time? Let’s not label it. We’ll just enjoy it,” he says.

My eyes open. His intense pale ones are so close, inches from me as his forehead comes to rest against mine. Our lips are practically touching.

“Olivia, you see, I like you. I want to explore this. I don’t want to walk away, and age, distance, you name it—it doesn’t matter, not to me. I want to get to know you.” Each word strokes my heart, touches me and floods me with warmth.

The irony of this situation is not lost on me. Sam easily and willingly shares with me. He has no hang-ups or trepidation being honest about his feelings or showing affection. I’ve spent years with a man who couldn’t give me that, a man who stopped showing me that I mattered, and now, here I am contemplating turning my back on Sam, a man who is giving me just that.

I swallow the lump in my throat. As I inhale deeply, his scent wafts over me. My lips touch his, feather light, as I whisper, “Okay. No labels. Let’s just take this nice and slow.”

As soon as my terrifyingly honest words leave my mouth, my heart rate spikes and I break out in a cold sweat. Before I can overthink it, take it back or panic, he slides his hands deeper into my hair. Weaving his fingers along my scalp, gently but insistently, he tugs me closer to him. My breath hitches and shallows at the press of my chest against his.

My nipples tingle, my nerve endings on fire. His assertive move ignites my craving, the one I’m so desperately trying to suppress. Like a match to a bonfire, his touch kindles my desire, starting small and mounting, smoldering deep within me.

My fists clench his tee, anchoring myself to his hard body as my knees weaken, sway, then buckle when his mouth seizes mine, blistering and consuming. Pulling me closer, he clutches me tightly, his tongue hard and demanding, coaxing my lips apart. Willingly, I give him entry, losing myself to his mind-blowing kiss.

He kisses me until I’m breathless, demolishing all kisses before. Virgin lips. Never been kissed. Taken. His lips mark me. Consume me. Raging want and a mighty need build within me as a deep moan escapes my lips.

Sam slows and his lips stop moving but remain on mine. Pressing his forehead against mine, his eyes open at the same time mine do. The wonderful crinkle at the corner of his eyes hint at his imminent smile before the upturn of his mouth against my lips. His look is reverent, like I am the sun, the moon, and the stars.

“Olivia, we’re just getting started,” he gruffly claims against my mouth, kissing me with his words.

Carefully releasing his fingers from my hair, he steps back. His release leaves a vacancy and a chill, not only at the nape of my neck, but deep in my core. The need to stay connected is strong. Sam places his hands on my shoulders, and the icy void vanishes.

His thumb rubs a small patch of skin on my neck. Unable to simply walk away, I kiss his scruffy cheek, not daring to go near his lips. As much as I want to, we will never leave this hotel room if I do.

With another light kiss to my forehead, he releases me. The distance is vast and icy. I shiver, quickly brushing it away before he grabs my suitcase and takes my hand.

As the hotel door inches closed behind us, I shriek, remembering my coffee. Diving for the narrowing crack in the door, Sam reacts quickly, wedging his foot in the opening. With my coffee in hand, I smile with gratitude.

In the elevator, we’re still close, hand in hand, comfortably silent. Apart from my quickening pulse and my jittery stomach, everything is normal, though I’m still reeling from our knee-weakening kiss.

With my first sip, the dark, hot elixir hits my tongue; my taste buds rejoice and I release a low, satisfied moan. Sam snaps his head my way, want ablaze in the depths of his eyes. His gaze lands on my mouth.

“Sorry,” I whisper, embarrassed. “It’s my first taste of coffee for the day and I so need it.”

He chuckles. “I get it. Just go easy on me. You’re leaving and your sounds, first in the room, and now…” He pauses as I look on in eager anticipation. “You’re killing me over here. What I’d like to do to you…”

His words linger without further explanation, like a tease and a promise. It’s my turn to rake my eyes over his face, stopping at his lips. I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking about the same thing: our kiss, the best kiss of my life.

Unable to resist, I latch onto his shoulders, on my toes, and pull him in for another soul-searing kiss. His mouth captures mine and for a fleeting, breath-catching moment, I worry how I’ll be able to cope without this for the weeks we’ll be apart. We haven’t even begun and I’m already hooked.