Oliver rolled onto her, pinning her beneath his weight. The man was amazing—five minutes really was all he needed. She giggled as they struggled to get the sheet out from between their bodies.
Then, holding himself over her, his smile faded and was replaced by a look of such intensity that it took her breath away all over again. “God, Renee, you destroy me,” he said before he captured her lips with his and it was a good thing he was kissing her because she didn’t know what to say to that.
Oh, what a mess. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the scars, about why she and Clint had always been at the Lawrence house instead of their own. But the longer she kept quiet, the more he’d feel like she hadn’t put her faith in him when he did find out.
And the longer this not-dating thing they were doing went on, the more time he spent with her, the bigger the implosion would be. She knew all of that and, sadly, she was too selfish to put a stop to it.
Because Oliver was the best thing that had happened to her in a long, long time. So she kissed him back and wrapped her legs around his waist and, after he rolled on the condom and plunged into her, she dug her fingers into his bottom to urge him on because she wanted him.
She might not ruin him. Not like she’d been ruined. But his personal life would become public fodder and his business would take a hit. Because of her. Because of this.
But at least he knew it.
Hopefully he’d never find out about the rest.
* * *
After two and a half weeks of playing house, Renee was more than ready for a change of scenery.
Not that she was complaining. She’d managed to produce not just a decent chocolate chip cookie on a consistent basis, but had also turned out surprisingly edible sugar cookies and even a batch of snickerdoodles. She was giving Lucille a solid 75 percent of the credit for that, but still. Oliver was taking cookies to work to share with his staff on an almost-daily basis. She had no idea how he was explaining that, but no one had died of food poisoning so it must be okay.
The amount of satisfaction she felt when she opened the oven and pulled out a sheet of nearly perfectly round cookies that not only looked right but tasted good was amazing. Even better was when Oliver came home and, after a kiss—okay, sometimes after a lot more than kissing—he’d try a cookie and tell her it was good. The first time he’d pronounced a snickerdoodle she’d made all by herself “really good,” she was so happy she’d actually started crying.
Stupid hormones.
The day he’d brought home the underthings she’d ordered, they never made it to the cookies. Hell, they didn’t even make it to the bedroom—not at first anyway. The only time Oliver had hesitated was to ask if the oven was off.
It was.
The day the box of clothes arrived from Chloe, Renee spent the whole afternoon playing dress up and video chatting with Chloe about what worked and what didn’t, what Renee liked, what she might change. She got two tunic tops that might last her a few months and two pairs of super-skinny-leg jeans two sizes larger than she normally wore that fitted comfortably with the addition of a rhinestone belt. Chloe had even included a pair of boots—because everyone wears them and you should break them in now, she’d said.
Which is how Oliver came home one night to find her in boots and not much else.
They barely made it to the hallway that night.
She baked and learned how to wash dishes and do laundry and clean up after herself. She pestered Lucille for information about babies and pregnancy and also how to vacuum when the older woman came every Monday to clean the condo. Renee watched baking shows and kids’ cartoons and whatever else struck her fancy, including a kung fu movie with subtitles.
And when Oliver came home from work, they had fun together. There hadn’t been any breathless updates on the Preston Pyramid Princess being spotted in Texas so Renee didn’t dread leaving the house. They went to late showings of movies and picked up carryout food—she’d never eaten so much barbecue in her entire life but it was glorious—and when she announced that maybe she’d like to learn how to crochet, he took her to a craft store.
He didn’t ask about the scars again and she didn’t tell him. But then again, he didn’t ask about her former husband or her family and she wasn’t about to taint their time together by bringing any of that crap up. She was surprisingly, amazingly happy right now. If only they could stay this way.
It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. Renee knew this like she knew her name. The way she burned for Oliver was something white-hot and clear—but, like all raging infernos, it would burn itself out soon enough. After all, she’d once believed that Chet loved her beyond distraction, and see how that had turned out?
She knew Oliver wasn’t the same kind of person Chet had been. She knew that. But it was hard to unlearn a lifetime of lessons. A few really great weeks didn’t change things, not in the long term. Her family was still toxic and she might be called back to New York City at any moment and there was still a pregnancy to deal with. She had no idea how long she and Oliver could share a bed and a condo before things got awkward
