Time machines really did exist. Olivia just traveled back four years.
Standing in the living room, six stories high with a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean outside the wall of windows, she surveyed the achingly familiar space.
It was the same. Exactly.
Done in a sophisticated palette of cool whites and warm grays, it was more suited to a small family than a pair of newlyweds, the groom often absent. Olivia had designed it herself, transforming his sparse condo into a home.
And it was exactly the same.
Not a speck of dust or disorder showed, so he’d obviously hired a cleaning service, and she wondered if they ever questioned him about the bottle of cherry red nail polish on the coffee table or the pair of polka-dot slipper socks kicked off next to the sofa.
Or the silver house key, still attached to the heart-shaped key chain he’d given her the same weekend they’d met, sitting on the kitchen counter, right where she’d left it four years ago.
She could go on. There were signs of her everywhere, as if she’d just left to run a few errands that morning. The only thing that had changed since the last time Olivia stood in this spot, ordering Rosa to throw clothes into a bag as fast as humanly possible, was the door to the second bedroom.
Then it was open. Now it was closed.
“I know it’s fucked up, but don’t gloat too loudly, okay?”
Turning at the sound of his voice, she assumed he was commenting on the creepy preservation of their condo. Creepy, but sort of cute. Ash was far from chatty, so this petrified throwback spoke a thousand words. It put an unexpected dent in the thick layer of hate.
Instead, he held up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, the label brandishing his name. “I have no idea how this made it into our kitchen. Rosa’s my number one suspect.”
Our kitchen. Our.
“Not sure I’m buying your story.” At her nod, he poured a glass, using the hand-blown stemware they’d received as a cherished wedding gift. “It’s a good year, too. Not to worry, though. Your secret’s safe with me, soldier.”
He flashed a heart-stopping grin at her slip of the tongue, and Olivia rolled her eyes. Calling him by the flirty pet name contradicted her resting bitch face and showed a crack in her veneer.
A wide crack. And she’d only been here ten minutes.
Ringing the doorbell to her own home, she’d stood there surrounded by her bags, scrolling through a mental checklist of his wrongdoings. He’d opened the door in bare feet, unfazed by her surprise arrival, looking like trouble in nothing but worn jeans, a black T-shirt, and a cocky smile. The one that always made her wet.
“Welcome home, Livvy,” he’d whispered, his spicy male scent enveloping her.
Grabbing her seven bags with two hands, he’d deposited them in the master bedroom while she’d taken her household inventory.
Not another word was spoken until he’d popped the cork.
Sipping her wine while he slid the enchiladas into the oven and opened a bottle of Coors Light, they assessed each other, dancing around the obvious.
“I know you’re trying to set the stage and be a gentleman, but we both know where this is going. Getting me drunk isn’t necessary. I’m a sure thing.”
Leaning back against the counter, he crossed his arms, tilting the bottle to his grinning lips. Those stunning blue eyes hadn’t dulled a bit. “Can’t believe I’m gonna say this, darlin’, but me? Well, I’m not.”
Olivia scoffed. “I doubt you’ve become a born-again virgin. Care to elaborate?” When his smile widened, she added, “Maybe you’ve already gotten laid twice today and need more recovery time than I recall?”
“Oh, I want sex. Don’t doubt that for a second.” He took another pull from the bottle, ignoring her sarcastic comment and matching her drink for drink. “Just not right away.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because it’s where you belong. And we’ll get to the sex eventually. But first, I want what leads up to sex. I want drinks. I want dinner and conversation. I want to hear about your day and tell you about mine. Hear your hopes and dreams, and tell you mine. Share our secrets and know they’re safe. I want to know you again, Liv, and it could take a while.”
“Well, look at you.” She choked out a disgusted laugh. “You went and got yourself all romantic and shit. When did you have time for that? When you never had time for me?”
He sidestepped her questions. “And after a sufficient amount of conversation, I want the kissing.” He laid out his sexual agenda in a heated drawl, like the warm flow of 100-proof liquor. “Slow and lazy kissing, then deep and passionate kissing. Then rough and urgent, bite my lip and pull my hair kissing. Then groaning, grind yourself against my hard cock and beg me for it kissing.” Unwelcome moisture flooded her. “You like that kind of kissing, don’t you?”
She’d like it right now, and he knew it. Asshole.
Shrugging, she lied. “Sounds okay.”
“Does the slide of my mouth across your body sound okay?” The quirk of his lips screamed utter male confidence. “Because then I want the soft, nibbling neck kissing. The warm, sucking nipple kissing. The pretty, jewel-adorned belly button kissing. Then, after all that’s done, I want my favorite kind of kissing.” His expression was straight-up sinful. “The hot, soaking wet, sweet-tasting pussy kissing.”
Letting out a breathy puff of air, she closed her eyes.
“And then I want sex.”
One touch from him, one strategic swipe of his finger, and she’d come right there.
“We’re not summertime fuck friends,” he stated harshly, his tone changing. “I’m on a mission to make you mine again. Considering I’ve implemented and carried out hundreds in my career, you should know, I don’t fail.”
Opening her eyes, she took him in.
Standing in front of her was a red-blooded man testing the limits of his zipper. The threadbare denim outlined a fully juiced hard-on that left so little to the imagination, it would get him arrested for indecency in all fifty states, plus Puerto Rico. A drool-worthy cockprint for the ages.
And he’d just unchecked the fuck buddy box.
Finding her voice took effort. “So basically, you want the girlfriend experience?”
“I want the wife experience. The whole enchilada.” Grinning, he nodded at her reluctant smile. “You see what I did there?”
Pleased with himself, he opened the oven and stuck a finger into the pan of enchiladas, bringing it to his mouth and licking away the steaming sauce. Grumbling about missing meat, he adjusted the timer and opened the silverware drawer.
Olivia’s loins tingled at the sight of his lashing tongue. There was no other way to describe it. She didn’t even know women had loins until that moment, nor did she know his poor manners could be so arousing. Rosa would be appalled.
Grabbing plates, he set the table, oblivious to her loin problem. “I’m bringing out the big guns, so prepare to be on the receiving end of my full arsenal of charm. According to Carrie, it’s severely lacking, but God knows, Liv, I’m trying.”
Good golly, he was. She’d almost had an orgasm without the benefit of touch. He was charming in spades right now.
And deep within, almost imperceptibly and certainly without permission, more hate chipped away.
Chasing the sexual tension from the room, she started the party on inane chatter. “You wanna hear about my day? Let me start it off by saying, your dad is a stubborn old geezer who resists change. He thinks he’s smarter than a computer-generated profit and loss report. Also, if Rosa’s been in this condo unsupervised and you have a box of condoms within her reach, you better toss them and get new. Apparently, she forbids them. I wouldn’t put it past her to pop a few pinholes, if you know what I’m saying.”
He stared at her, an odd smile tilting his lips.
“What?” She lifted a hand to her mouth. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”
When he hesitated, she thought he might not answer. “I’ve missed you,” he finally murmured, the words tugged from within. “I’ve missed us. Tell me you have, too.”
Knowing the amount of pride he’d swallowed to admit that, she bit her lip, unsure how to respond. How much to disclose.
Yes, she’d missed them. Missed the easy conversation. The frequent laughter. The transcendental sex, connecting them body and soul. But those were the big-ticket items. There were little things, too. His unexpected smile, meant solely for her, authentic despite the soul suck of war. His protective arms circling her, closing out the white noise of a hectic life, refilling her emotional cup.
But with good, came bad.
Constant worry for his safety. Little to no contact for weeks at a time. Rare visits home, some lasting days, others only hours. Watching him walk away, not knowing if she’d see him alive again, his destination unknown to the woman he’d made his wife.
Asher and Olivia Coleson were the perfect power couple. Tall, strikingly beautiful and charismatic, each wildly successful in their own right. Yet, they’d not succeeded in loving each other enough. They’d failed at their roles of husband and wife.
So, the answer to his question was yes. And no.
But Rosa’s enchiladas saved her the reply, the oven timer beeping a reprieve from the past.
It wasn’t until much later, when the dishes were done and mother nature was putting on a show, that it intruded again. The past was like that, Olivia was learning. It was a force that wouldn’t be ignored.
Sitting on the spacious balcony, a glass of wine and a bottle of beer on the table between them, they watched the best TV channel known to mankind. The sky was streaked with burnt orange, petal pink, and hazy shades of blue, a postcard perfect sunset. The hustle of the marina below was energetic, a steady stream of sailboats, fishing charters, and catamarans returning from sea. Tourists and locals alike strolled the waterfront boardwalk, stopping to admire a one-percenter’s luxury yacht or a daredevil’s cigarette boat, or to snap a quick, picturesque selfie. A jogger weaved through the crowds, led by a border collie wearing a red bandanna. A woman pushed a double-wide stroller like a boss, three small children on scooters tucked close by, barely keeping pace.
Six stories up and the people-watching was good.
“You still wear it.” Sprawled in a lounge chair, Ash lifted his chin, indicating her wedding ring. “I noticed the day you came by the office. You had it on. And again at Sam’s, too. You still wear it.”
Olivia couldn’t say why she still wore the ring she’d been so happy to receive six years ago, despite their bitter estrangement—instigated by her, no less. A sense of rightness, maybe. A longing for what should’ve been, probably. A wish for what could be, possibly. The only time she ever slipped it off was while conducting Coleson Creek business away from the vineyard. She was VP of sales due to her acumen and ability, not because she’d married well. Trey Gillis had mistaken her bare finger for an open invitation.
“What, this old thing?” Teasing him, Olivia angled her hand toward the light, a rainbow reflecting brilliantly off the three-carat diamond. “I’ve had it for years.”
“And you will for a shitload more.”
“Well, it is beautiful,” she replied, deflecting. “Matches most of my outfits. You have good taste in jewelry, even if you did spend an asinine amount of money.”
“It’s only beautiful because you’re wearing it.”
She snorted. “Is that right?”
“That’s right.” He refilled her glass and opened another beer. “Butt ugly on its own.”
Slipping the ring off, she laid it on the table between them, inspecting the insured piece of jewelry with suspicion.
Gasping, she clutched her chest. “Oh, my God, you’re right! It’s hideous!” Leaning away, she covered her eyes. “It’s so awful, I can’t even look at it. Oh, my eyes. It hurts my eyes.”
Shaking her head at him, she put the ring back on and admired her hand, thrilled she’d made him smile.
“Never take it off again. Promise.”
And there it was again. The past.
“I can’t promise you that.” She drained the glass and poured her fourth, tapping the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc dry. “And even if I could, you know we’re not good with promises.”
She didn’t need verification that his platinum band was absent, but she looked anyway.
Wearing only his black Rolex, he had a tattoo she’d never seen before, covering the inside of his thick forearm from the crook in his elbow to the bend in his wrist. A faded American flag, colored in subdued reds and blues, rippling in the breeze. A cluster of braided tassels ran along the pole side, the golden strands flowing across the face of the flag. Ink he’d gotten after The Unit.
“I see you don’t wear yours,” she noted, watching the flaming sun dip into the horizon.
Pausing with the bottle halfway to his mouth, he set the beer down and brushed past her without a word. Entering the master bedroom through a sliding glass door on the far side of the balcony, he came back out palming his dog tags.
Dropping the chain on the table, she saw the ring nestled against the silver tags, right where he’d always kept it. The Unit didn’t allow outside decoration. On my finger when I’m home, on my heart when I’m not. He’d pledged that to her the day after their honeymoon ended, slipping the ring onto the chain, slipping the chain over his head, then grabbing his duffel and slipping right out of her life.
Rolling her lips, Olivia fought tears. Damn it, she always got sentimental when she drank Sauvignon Blanc. She had a higher tolerance to Chardonnay.
Sliding the ring off the chain and onto his finger, he admired his hand, mimicking her. “Tell me the truth, Liv. Does this make me look fat?”
Laughing before she could help herself, she batted his hand down. “Yeah, you need to hit the gym. When was the last time you went? Like, eight whole hours ago?”
He snagged her hand, threading their fingers, and her breath caught. Other than the butterfly touch in his office the other day, it was their first physical contact in four years. Palm to palm, fingers solidly entwined, a perfect glove fit.
And it brought it all back.
The mostly good years, the few bad weeks, the very ugly days.
“Do you know,” she asked, watching the sun sink further into the bay, “that a wedding ring on a man isn’t a deterrent, but instead, an actual turn-on to nearly half the single female population?” She peeked at him, his face shadowed by late day stubble and the advent of dusk. “Of course, if a man doesn’t wear one, he still has the other half to choose from.”
Ash dropped her hand like a hot potato. “Is that really the question you’re asking? If I know the dating habits of home-wreckers? Or are you asking if I’ve fucked around on you?”
She shrugged. “Just sharing a bit of trivia.”
“The answer is no, I didn’t know that wedding rings were pussy magnets. I let my Cosmo subscription lapse. The answer to your other question, the one you didn’t ask, is also no. Can you say the same?”
“Of course,” she shot back, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Great, then.” He spread his arms wide. “Not only did we clear the air on that subject, I don’t have to run out and eliminate a few pencil-dicked scumbags. My beer won’t get warm and nobody has to die. It’s a win-win.”
Laughing, she lifted her face heavenward. “Christ, why do you have to do that? I’m trying to be mad at you. No, wait,” she corrected, pointing a finger at him, “I am mad at you. There’s no try.”
“Don’t be. Don’t be mad at me anymore.” He knocked on the side of his head. “My punishment is in here, and I accept it every single day. I live it. I deserve it.”
The air grew thick with memories, a snappy comeback lodged in her throat. She searched the boardwalk for the mother of five pushing the double-wide stroller, pulse spiking as she scanned the crowd, not seeing the woman nor the small, but sturdy bodies on scooters.
They were gone. As if they’d never been at all.
“We both made mistakes.” That was the most difficult four-word confession in history.
Blaming Ash for everything was easy—fury trumping agony, for the sake of sanity.
Taking a deep breath, she looked at him with a crooked grin. “For instance, I made a mistake and drank too much wine tonight. Then I made another mistake and asked you a loaded question.” She motioned around them. “And then I went and made things all weird up in here.”
“You never could hold your alcohol. It’s ironic, considering your line of work, but real handy for me because you get horny when you’re tipsy.”
She made an impatient sound, her arms falling slack. “You see? There you go again, being all precious and charming. Did I fall into a rabbit hole?”
“Now you’ve crossed a line. We need to set some ground rules.” Stern faced, he drained the last of his beer and plunked it down next to her empty wine glass. “The first rule of Operation Ash and Liv Rebooted is, no name calling. I’ll accept charming, but not precious. No fucking way. That’s reserved for cats wearing shark costumes riding Roomba’s.”
Her jaw dropped. “Ash and Liv… rebooted?”
“Every mission gets a code name. I briefly considered Ash and Liv 2.0 and Ash and Liv Part Two.”
“Or dos, if we’re thinking of Rosa.” She sat forward. “Wait, I know. We could fly to Paris and say, deux. Ash and Liv, Part Deux. That’s my vote. Plus, it’s fun to say. Rolls right off the tongue.”
He cleared his throat, all business. “So, any ideas are welcome and all will be taken under advisement. And yes, I’d like to go to Paris with you, and we’ll talk more about that at a later date. But I’m in charge of the mission. I’m always in charge of the mission. It’s kinda my thing. Which also means I’m in charge of the mission name.”
Bless his heart, he was serious. He wasn’t joking.
And he was totally precious.
“Sir, yes, sir!” she replied in a low roar, saluting him. “Liv, of Ash and Liv Rebooted, reporting for duty, sir! I apologize in advance, but I come unprepared, sir! I will need you to assemble and load my weapon, thank you, sir!” Mumbling out the side of her mouth, she added, “And you may wanna duck, ‘cause I have terrible aim.”
And then she laughed until her ribs hurt, high on an entire bottle of wine and the permeating sense of peace invading her body.
When he grumbled, “Let me know when you’re done laughing so we can get back to the rules,” she howled some more, tickled by his puffed-up show of testosterone.
“Okay, okay,” she said, composing herself, waving a hand over her flushed face. She shouldn’t be laughing. She should be hating. “What’s the next rule?”
“You didn’t make things all weird up in here, as you put it. I want our dirty laundry aired so I can fix it, but I don’t want you to feel awkward or uncomfortable. So, rule number two is, when things start to get weird, tell me and we’ll change directions. Voila,” he said, snapping his fingers, “no more weirdness.”
“Agreed. Now my turn. Rule number three. No talk about anything beyond this summer. As far as we’re concerned, the world is ending when September rolls around. Everyone drinks poisoned Kool-Aid.”
“I already told you, Liv. I’m banking on a future.”
“Fine,” she said easily. “Bank on that all you want. I’m banking on a fresh start for myself. We just don’t bring it up. All marriage and divorce discussion is tabled until this fall, and we enjoy the summer. Just three months of easy living and hard f—uh, I mean sex.”
“I know what you mean,” he drawled.
The sky now navy and dotted with stars, he looked out over the lit harbor, considering her offer. Finally, he sighed. “Okay. It’s a deal.”
They toasted on it, his empty beer bottle and her dry wine glass clinking a sweet melody, signaling round one of Ash and Liv Rebooted.