If We Were Perfect - Ana Huang Page 0,32
that she hadn’t heard him come home.
He glanced up, then froze. His eyes swept from the top of her head to her toes, taking in the sleek blue dress that hugged her curves and the silver heels that added three inches to her height. It was her favorite first-date outfit; it never failed to make her feel like a million bucks.
Olivia’s skin heated beneath his perusal.
“Hot date?” Sammy drawled. His tone was light, but his gaze was dark.
She clutched her purse, willing herself not to tremble. Her breasts ached and her stomach swooped, but that must be first-date jitters. It had nothing to do with the man sitting less than ten feet away. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Not with Stripper Boy, I hope.”
“His name isn’t—” Olivia shook her head. “Never mind. It’s not him. It’s with someone else. He’s in tech. He’s nice. His name is Malcolm.”
Why was she telling him all of this?
Sammy’s mouth curled up. “Malcolm?”
Oh, for Christ’s sake.
“Don’t start,” she snapped. “Farrah already gave me grief for it. I’ll have you know, Malcolm is a perfectly respectable name.”
“Of course it is—for middle-aged professors who smoke pipes and wear jackets with tweed patches on the elbows.”
“I don’t have time to argue with you. I have a date to go on.” She turned on her heels and stalked toward her front door, Sammy’s laugh ringing in her ears.
“Have fun with Malcolm the Tech Guy!” he called after her.
Argh! She was going to strangle him in his sleep one day. She really was.
Malcolm the Tech Guy turned out to be as respectable as his name—and as boring. Olivia had screened him thoroughly after the Wesley debacle, but what came off as humble and intellectual online turned out to be mind-numbingly dull in person. To make matters worse, he’d chosen a horrible restaurant for dinner. She took one bite of her chicken, decided there was a seventy-five percent chance it’d give her salmonella, and spent the rest of the meal drinking while Malcolm rambled on about some app he was developing.
Needless to say, she declined his invitation for post-dinner drinks.
Two hours later, Olivia trudged up the stone path toward Sammy’s house, exhausted and annoyed. How hard was it to find a decent, dateable guy in a big city? She wasn’t asking for a harem. She just needed one.
“I would’ve had a better time with my Kindle and vibrator,” she muttered as she unlocked the front door.
Thankfully, the house was dark, and she didn’t have to do a reverse walk of shame in front of Sammy. The last thing she needed was for him to see her come home after yet another failed date. The Wesley incident had been bad enough.
Olivia showered, changed, and climbed into bed, but she couldn’t fall asleep. Her stomach kept growling, pissed that she hadn’t fed it all night. It was too late to order takeout, so after an eternity of tossing and turning, she tip-toed into the kitchen to search for any goodies that might be in the fridge.
She was rummaging through the shelves, looking for something that wasn’t raw or liquid, when a voice behind her caused her to jump and slam the fridge door on her finger. “What are you doing?”
“Fuck!” The curse exploded out of her mouth as pain lanced up her arm.
Sammy was by her side in an instant. “Let me see that.”
“It hurts,” Olivia whimpered.
He examined the injury, his touch gentle as he cradled her hand in his. “No bleeding and it doesn’t look broken. There’s just some swelling and bruising.”
“Just?” Fine, she was being a big baby, but her finger felt like it might fall off, so excuse her for being dramatic.
Sammy flashed a crooked smile that hit her like a ray of sunshine through her fog of pain. “Rest and regular icing should take care of it until it heals—unless you smash it again. Word of advice: don’t.”
“Thanks, Dr. Obvious.”
His smile broadened, and Olivia’s heart fluttered in response.
Traitor. It had no business fluttering. It was an organ, not a freakin’ butterfly.
He made her rinse the injured area beneath cold water while he prepared an ice pack.
“What are you doing up so late, anyway?” He pressed the ice to her finger, and she sighed at the cool relief.
“I was hungry.” Olivia tried not to stare at his bare, muscled chest. Now that the pain had subsided, she realized Sammy was wearing her favorite outfit—gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. If she looked hard enough, she could see the outline