A story of two enemies attached and captivated by lust and value.
"You act like you can't stand me...But the moment I get my hands on you, you're like putty."
18-year-old Addison Westbrook swears up and down that he hates Oliver Beckett. Even with...
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Crickets...
Addison could practically hear the crickets, along with the movement of Oliver's knee in the drivers' seat bouncing up and down.
"Are you okay?" Addison questioned. They'd been sitting in the car for at least 5 minutes now, and Oliver has yet to speak or drive for that matter.
Is it normal for things to be so awkward?
"Yeah, I'm just...I'm really nervous." He let out an uneasy chuckle. "I don't why."
"Same, it's fine."
"Yeah..." Oliver nodded, and the crickets were back.
"So are you gonna start the car or..?"
"Oh shit, yeah."
...
About 15 minutes later, they pulled up to a little brick building.
Not a restaurant.
Oliver glanced at Addison and parked. "Ok, so I know I said we were going to a restaurant." He grabbed some folded fabric from the backseat. For a second, Addison assumed it was a picnic blanket, but then Oliver grabbed two pairs of gloves. "But the restaurant ended up being expensive."
Addison failed to bite back an amused grin, "I'm serious. The chicken tenders cost more than me, Addison."
"Ok." He chuckled, "It's fine...So what is this?" Addison signaled what he held in his hands.
Oliver's face immediately brightened, "Here's your apron, and I got gloves, so you don't get hurt."
"Hurt doing...?"
"You'll see." As they walked up to the building, Oliver slipped his hand into Addison's, "I got the idea for this when you almost burned down our bedroom the other day." He let go of his hand and fished a key out of his pocket, "So when Jordan told me his mom would lend me this place for the night, I felt obligated, you know? In the best way possible."
"You never have to feel obligated-" Addison paused at the sweet smell greeting them when Oliver opened the door.
He could already feel a sneeze coming on, but he ignored the sensation and soaked in the casual, yet flowery sight before him.
"Do you like it?"
He was speechless.
Not because of the place in general, but the genuine effort he saw in the design of the place. Anyone could tell that it was done by Oliver. It was perfect.
Perfectly imperfect.
The room was nearly empty with tripped-up fairy lights lining the ceiling.
They were flickering on and off, and the flowers hanging from them were practically falling.
