Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(27)

“Mitchell O’Connor, at your service,” Mitch says, making his way across the yard.

Oh, God. It’s a train wreck. I can’t stop it. I can’t stop watching. My worlds are about to collide.

So far, I’ve managed to avoid introducing the poker guys to Oliver, to avoid meeting anybody who matters to him either. It’s simple enough, seeing as I’ve always pretended Oliver isn’t my neighbor at all.

When the guys come for poker, I rush them inside like I run a speakeasy, desperate for them not to see him, positive they’ll know there’s some kind of connection, let alone one that I resent so deeply. And whenever Oliver’s small yard, a mirror of mine, is packed with people laughing, shouting—the sounds of family, the smell of home-cooked food and belonging, wafting toward me—I close my windows, lower the blinds, and turn up the stereo until it’s drowned out.

It was only a matter of time until those evasion tactics failed me. I should have been prepared. I was not.

“Oliver Bergman,” he’s saying as Mitch shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I throw back the rest of my seltzer, wishing it was something stronger.

“Ollie,” Mitch says, patting his hand, “a pleasure to meet you. Gavin’s said great things.”

The fizzy water rushes down my windpipe, making me cough.

Oliver flashes him an amused smile. “I doubt that highly.”

“You kidding?” Mitch claps a hand on Oliver’s arm and glances back at me. “Says you’re a real rising star that he’s honored to share the field with, isn’t that right, Gav?”

My eyes are watering as I smack my chest, but I still manage to glare murder at Mitchell.

Oliver doesn’t buy it, and he shouldn’t. Our eyes meet, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Something’s different. That infuriatingly upbeat smile, that dogged optimism oozing from his pores, is gone. In its place is a blue-flame fire in his eyes, insouciant posture, a sinister edge to his smile.

Is that fucker smirking at me?

Mitchell clears his throat, wrenching me from my thoughts. “Well, I better be going.”

“I’ll drive you.” I stand out of my chair so fast it flips back.

Mitch glances from the chair to me and raises his eyebrows. “No, you won’t.”

“Yes, Mitchell,” I say between clenched teeth. “I will.”

A honk sounds out front. Mitch grins. “No you won’t. I’ve got plans. And my ride is here.”

“Plans!” I yell, indignant. “What was dinner with me, then?”

“Ah.” Waving a hand, Mitch starts walking toward the front of my house where the poker guys are piled into Lou’s ’55 Chevy. “You don’t want to spend all night with a bunch of old guys who can drink you under the table.”

Except Jim, at least, who honks the horn and hollers out the front passenger window, “Hurry up, slow poke! I’ve got a Shirley Temple calling my name!”

“Ollie,” Mitch says, throwing him a wink. “Great to meet ya. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“You too,” Oliver says on a smile.

Jorge catcalls from the back. I flip him the finger. “Tossers!” I yell.

I get a bunch of shit hollered my way for that. Oliver bites his lip, hands in his pockets as he watches them pull out. I turn back, and our gazes collide.

“Who are they?” he asks, jutting his chin toward Lou’s Chevy as it takes the bend and disappears. “They seem like fun.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “I play poker with them.”

His brow furrows. “You play poker with a bunch of grandpas?”

“They’re feisty grandpas,” I grumble defensively.

He smirks again—that damn smirk!

“What?” I snap.

Oliver shrugs. “Just didn’t picture you as a poker player. Or a hang-out-with-fun-senior-citizens type. Then again, I can’t say what I do picture you as, other than miserable.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Did something…rude just come out of your mouth?”

“Is it rude if it’s the truth?”

A surprised laugh bursts out of me, deep and rusty. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. “Wow. Okay.”

Oliver leans against his house, arms folded across his chest. “Just because I haven’t said it, doesn’t mean I haven’t been thinking it, Hayes.”

Well, welcome to that club. I clear my throat and stare down at my shoes. “Fair enough.”

There’s a thick quiet between us. I watch him inhale a deep tug of air, like he’s about to say something. But he doesn’t.

And he shouldn’t.

Because I should. I’m the one who owes him an apology. An explanation. I know this. I’m a fucking jerk sometimes, but I’m no fool. It’s been one thing to create distance, be aloof, demanding, terse—to use my seniority as an excuse for holding everyone at arm’s length. But I know it got away from me. I took it too far on the field the other day and at my house. I lashed out at him. I lost control, snapped, spoke like an overbearing ass. And I shouldn’t have. I should have kept my cool.

Instead, the warning voice inside me whispers, you burst into flames and came so fucking close to pinning him against the wall and kissing him until neither one of you remembered your own names.