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↶*ೃ✧˚. ❃ ↷ ˊ-
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In the dim ambience of the restaurant, nervous energy coursed through Ollie's veins, manifesting in the subtlest of tremors. His fingers drummed an erratic beat upon the linen tablecloth, while his foot, clad in polished leather, tapped an erratic, impatient rhythm on the floor.
His eyes darted towards the entrance, seeking a familiar figure, and they were momentarily fixed on each passing face before then flitted back to his fidgeting fingers in a futile attempt to seek any kind of distraction from the knot tightening in his stomach. Each movement seemed exaggerated, each glance more furtive, as if he were attempting to escape the confines of his own skin as an unspoken tension hung in the air, wrapping around him like a vice, rendering him a portrait of palpable unease.
He'd been nervous and excited.
He'd been frightened and exhilarated.
He'd felt like a massive loser yet he'd also stood victorious.
He wasn't sure what to feel, for there were far too many damned emotions flooding the depths of both his consciousness and his subconscious all at once.
And he was a racing driver, not a swimmer, and especially not a diver.
All Ollie knew was that as soon as he'd washed away the sticky residue of the sparkling wine sprayed—and poured—all over him after winning Monza and changed into the dress suit that was still so warm from his flash-ironing was that he needed to at least arrive first for his dinner with the woman he loved and only then he could let himself worry about fighting for his ever-growing feelings for her.
But the execution of his plans proved to be a far more intricate endeavour than the seamless scenario he had envisioned in his mind.
Anxiety stabbed him, permeating his very bones and its tendrils pierced through his being, coiling tighter than the tension he would feel before a high-stakes race. Every ticking of his watch without Rosetta's arrival stretched like an eternity, amplifying the unsettling sensation within him as he felt his breath come in shallow bursts, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of his racing heart.
His teeth worried his bottom lip incessantly, his gaze involuntarily drawn to the door for the umpteenth time. And, by some stroke of fate, there she stood. The satin of her black dress clung elegantly to the contours of her athletic frame, the golden strands of her hair braided into a neat bun at the nape of her neck while her bronzed skin glimmered as she slid her coat off her shoulders.
Rosetta was nothing short of celestial, and he found himself utterly and completely powerless, his eyes held captive by her ethereal presence, unable to tear away even if he tried.
