Trace + Olivia Series Boxed Set (11 page)

Shirtless and coated in a sheen of sweat.

I had never seen a man’s chest like Trace’s. It was lean and tan, but muscular, just like his arms. A light dusting of dark hair started at the bottom of his naval, and disappeared under the edge of his boxers, that I spied above the edge of his jeans.

I covered my eyes and turned around like I had caught him naked.

I was the epitome of smooth.

Not
.

His chuckle rumbled through my body and I let my hand drop. Slowly, I turned back around to face him.

He’d turned the music down, and leaned against the car he was working on, grinning cheekily at me.

“You’re early,” he pushed his hair out of his eyes. I was discovering it was a nervous habit for him.

“And you’re naked,” the words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.

His smile grew. “I’m not quite naked yet, but if you’d like to help me get there, that’s fine by me.”

Oh. My. God.

“I’m kidding, Olivia,” he added when I stood there with a stunned look on my face. “You’re definitely a preacher’s daughter,” he commented. “But you’re going to have to get used to my sexual innuendos if you’re going to spend time with me. I can’t help myself.”

Lord, help me. Please.

“Got it,” I replied awkwardly.

My parents really should have made Awkward my middle name. It suited me better than Camille.

Olivia Awkward Owens, it had a nice ring to it.

Trace wiped his hands on his jeans, and moved around the front of the car, with the part he’d been dancing with.

I followed him, watching as he fiddled easily with the car parts.

It looked complicated to me, but he made it seem easy.

“I’m almost done here,” he glanced over his shoulder at me. “And then we’ll cross off something else.”

“Uhmm,” I replied, trying not to look at his muscular back, and the way his muscles rippled as he worked on the car. Why did he have to be so good looking?

I turned away, bobbing my head to the music. I needed to stop thinking about how good he looked. He was my…friend and it was wrong to have these kinds of thoughts about him.

“Alright, I’m done for now,” Trace announced and I spun back around. “The owner won’t be by to pick it up till tomorrow night, so I have time to finish it,” he shrugged.

“Are you sure?” I asked, taping the toe of my right heel on the concrete floor.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he grinned.

A noise sounded at the front of the garage and I turned rapidly.

The sudden movement caused me to lose my balance and I started to fall.

“Whoa,” Trace grabbed my arm to steady me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, fiddling with a strand of hair.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Luca mumbled in his deep voice. He was dressed much like he was the first time I saw him. Jeans, vest, and a fedora. Apparently Luca and Trace stuck to very rigid dress codes. Except when Trace was making me drool by
not
wearing a shirt, although, he was definitely drool-worthy fully clothed.

Luca pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one.

I wasn’t sure if he ever actually smoked one, they seemed to be a part of the whole look he was going for. I still hadn’t figured out what the vests meant though.

A grin spread across Trace’s face, and he grabbed me by the hand, dragging me over to Luca.

“Looks like we can cross two things off tonight,” he smirked.

“Huh?” I was confused.

“Luca, give me one of those,” Trace held his hand out for a cigarette.

“But you don’t smoke,” Luca grumbled, “and these are expensive.”

“Luca,” Trace groaned. “Just do it.”

Luca mumbled something unintelligible but handed over a cigarette.

“Lighter,” Trace continued to hold out his hand.

Luca slapped the lighter into his palm. “I expect
that
back.”

Trace led me outside and released my hand.

It was chilly outside, in the forties, but Trace was still shirtless. I was sure he was doing it on purpose because his bare chest was all kinds of distracting.

“Here,” he handed me the cigarette.

I glanced down at it, perplexed.

“You put smoking on your list so stop looking at it like it’s going to bite you,” he told me.

“I don’t know how to hold it,” I explained.

“Oh, like this,” he fixed my fingers around the slender white cigarette.

He motioned for me to hold it up and I did.

He lit the end of it and waited for me to do something.

“I don’t know what to do!” I exclaimed, terrified that the thing was going to burn my fingers.

Trace chuckled and motioned for me to bring it up to my lips. “Just inhale.”

I did and it was horrible. Smoke flooded my lungs and I felt like I was being suffocated. I dropped the cigarette and Trace stomped on it to snuff it out.

Coughing, I gasped, “That was horrible.”

My eyes watered and I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Either I’d done it wrong or other people were nuts for sucking on those things. It was awful.

“You okay?” Trace asked.

“I’ll be fine,” I wiped my eyes and struggled for air.

I couldn’t get the horrible taste out of my mouth.

Trace took my hand, and led me to the other side of the building, the side I had never been on, and up a flight of steps.

He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door.

“This is my place,” he explained, leading me inside, and straight into a small kitchen area. He grabbed a bottle of water and handed it to me.

I swirled the water around my mouth and spit it out in the sink. I did that several times before rinsing out his sink.

“Better?” He asked, leaning a hip against the linoleum countertop.

“Much,” I smiled. “But I am
never
doing that again.”

He laughed. “I figured you wouldn’t.”

“Why do people like that?” I asked, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.

“Beats me,” he shrugged. “My grandpa used to smoke a pipe all the time, and let me tell you, that thing smelled horrible.”

I finished off the bottle of water.

Trace took it from me, and tossed it in a recycling bin, then handed me another.

“I’m going to shower,” he nodded towards the door that led to the bathroom, “and then we can get out of here.”

“‘Gonna tell me what we’re doing?” I coaxed.

“Nope,” he grinned. “I told you before, you’re never going to know which one I’ve picked. It makes things exciting.” He motioned to a nice beige couch. “Sit down and relax. Watch TV. I don’t care,” he shrugged, heading into the only bedroom.

“Okay,” I mumbled, sitting down, and looking around at the darkened space.

In front of the couch were two crates, flipped upside down to create a makeshift coffee table. A bowl of skittles sat on top. Across from the couch was a nice sized flat screen TV.

Trace came out of the bedroom with clothes in his hands and flicked on a light. “You don’t need to sit in the dark, Olivia. Make yourself at home,” he smiled and closed the bathroom door.

I heard the shower turn on and breathed a sigh of relief.

My feelings for Trace were quickly escalating and even though, at this point, we’d known each other for almost a month, it seemed too quick to be falling for someone. But could you put a time limit on something like that?

This was bad.

I couldn’t fall for Trace. He was my…friend and he could do
so
much better than me. He could have any girl he wanted, not just because of his looks, but because of his personality too, and I needed to stop pining over someone who would never be mine.

Friends, I told myself. We. Are. Just.
Friends
.

I buried my face in my hands.

I couldn’t let Trace know I liked him. There was no way he returned my feelings and he’d just give me some song and dance about how we’d never work. That’s what most guys did, right? I didn’t have any experience and was basing my assumption off of movies. Which was stupid because movies always got it wrong.

I took a deep breath before I had a panic attack.

I used to have them all the time as a child but I had grown out of them. Now, would be the worst time
ever
for them to return.

The door to the bathroom opened, steam billowing out, effectively cutting off my internal tirade.

Droplets of water clung to Trace’s dark hair, making it appear black instead of brown. He’d shaved, but short prickly stubbles of hair still remained. I liked that he was never clean-shaven. I always thought that the guys with smooth cheeks looked babyish.

“I’m ready,” he announced, running his fingers through is hair rapidly, trying to dry it.

“Okay,” I stood, running my hands down the front of my jeans.

He locked the apartment behind us and led me to his car.

“I can drive,” I pointed to my car.

“Nice try,” he grinned, “but I’d have to tell you where we’re going and that’s not going to happen.”

“Fine,” I slid into his car. “I don’t care.” Which was a lie. I did care, very much. It seemed completely unfair that he wouldn’t tell me where we were going. But I knew there was no point in arguing with him.

He hadn’t driven far, when he stopped in front of a small building, in the old part of town.

“That was fast,” I looked up at the building, reading the sign.

It was an art gallery.

“I’m learning to paint?” I grinned, excitedly.

“Yeah,” he eased out of the car and jogged around to open my door.

“This is going to be so much more fun than roller skating!” I squealed and Trace chuckled in response.

“I suck at this!” I exclaimed, causing the other people in the room to turn, and glare at me.

It was mostly older people there, aside from Trace and me.

“It’s not that bad,” Trace glanced from his canvas to mine.

“It looks nothing like it!” I pointed to the purple blob I had painted and to the purple vase it was supposed to look like. “Yours looks good compared to mine!”

Which was pretty sad, because his sucked too.

“You can’t expect to learn to paint in one evening,” the teacher breezed over to me. She looked at what I had done and wrinkled her nose. “Then again, there are those who can
never
learn.”

“I take it I’m in the never category?” I huffed.

She didn’t bother to answer.

I tried to pretty up the mess I had made on my canvas but it was hopeless. Completely and utterly hopeless. It was obvious I didn’t have an artsy bone in my body. At least, when it came to painting and drawing…I could write pretty well. But then again, it was impossible to judge yourself.

I was tempted to say, ‘Screw it, let’s get out of here,’ but I knew that wouldn’t fly with Trace.

Plus, he was completely engrossed in talking with the old man beside him. Apparently, the man had served in one of the wars and was telling a curious Trace all about it.

I cleaned my paintbrushes off and then placed the canvas on a drying rack.

“You done?” Trace asked when I sat back down on the stool.

“Yeah,” I sighed grumpily. “I’m never going anywhere near a paintbrush again. I’m an insult to artists everywhere.”

Trace chuckled. “That’s not true and this is only a beginner’s class. I think you’re supposed to suck.”

I frowned.

“Olivia,” Trace swiveled in his stool to face me and leaned down to my level. “You don’t have to be perfect. It’s okay to suck at things.”

His words were like a stab straight to my heart, even though he hadn’t meant them that way.

He was right. I didn’t have to be perfect. But when you’ve been striving for perfection, all your life, it’s hard to let it go.

“Hey,” Trace whispered, lifting my chin up. “Don’t be sad. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings or anything.”

“I know,” I mumbled. “And you’re right. I don’t have to be perfect but with my dad…”

“You’ve always tried to be,” he added. “It’s okay to mess up though, Olivia. I thought you wanted to live? You can’t live if you don’t mess up. Life’s all about mistakes, and sometimes, those things you
think
are mistakes, turn out to be the thing you were searching for.”

I nodded at his words. They made sense.

“Life isn’t about perfection,” he added, “perfection doesn’t exist.”

“I know,” I replied, playing with the ends of my hair.

“Do you?” He questioned, his green eyes studying me. “Because I’m not sure you do.”