Chapter 45: Oliver Reyes Is Not A Charity Case!
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By the time I returned to Preston Hall, I was just a step away from losing it completely.
My feet throbbed, carrying the distinct ache of someone who’d been standing for eight hours on concrete, crammed into shoes that had been one step away from falling apart for three months.
My back had its own complaints, and my customer service smile, which had started off convincing and functional, had given up around the five-hour mark. It had been replaced by an expression that Maya said made me look like I was ready to bitch slap someone.
And that hundred-dollar bill in my pocket? It felt less like cash and more like an unsolved riddle that I was struggling to decode and not particularly enjoying.
Seriously, who even tips a hundred bucks on a four seventy-five latte?!
Rich folks were a different breed. I had suspected it for a while, but now I was ready to declare it as fact.
Actually, no...let’s be specific. Damien Lockwood was a different breed. He studied like a monk, kissed like he meant something, and apologized with the kind of directness that came from never having to beat around the bush.
And apparently, he expressed his emotions by leaving ridiculous amounts of cash at café counters and walking away.
As I walked home, I engaged in a mental tug-of-war that was going nowhere. On one side: a hundred dollars wasn’t just some abstract amount to me. It was groceries for nearly two weeks, if I played my cards right.
It meant one night of less panicking over hospital bills. It was a few days without having to think twice about whether I could afford both transport and food on the same day...a calculation I’d been making for so long that it felt normal.
But be honest...a hundred dollars would be my saving grace right now.
On the other side because of course there was: keeping it felt like accepting something I hadn’t asked for from someone I was already confused about. My pride was one of the few things that still felt intact.
And pride won the day, which is why I was marching down the Preston Hall hallway at nearly midnight like a worn-out gremlin who had chosen principles over practicality and wasn’t entirely comfortable with that.
I opened the apartment door and instantly stopped and nearly forgot why I was mad this time.
Something smelled amazing.
Not in a normal, everyday way, like someone making toast or heating leftovers at midnight. This was a smell that had no place in a student apartment...in a normal one at least. It was rich and warm, layered with garlic and herbs, crafting a sophisticated aroma that made my nose feel like it was experiencing a rare treat.
What was this Damien guy up to now?
I stepped inside slowly, against my better judgment, following the scent like a cartoon character lured by pies in windows.
The lights were low except in the kitchen, which was glowing with a warm, golden hue, someone clearly knew how to create an inviting atmosphere, which felt a bit overdone for a Saturday night.
And there, at the stove, was Damien, handling a pan with the casual grace of someone who had been cooking long before it was necessary.
Rich people knew how to cook?
I always assumed they had chefs and maids for that sort of thing to the point if you asked an average rich person to boil water, they’ll probably burn it.
I rolled my eyes...of course he looked good cooking. Of course he fucking did. The universe had decided that this was the perfect moment for him to stand in soft kitchen lighting, wearing a dark long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hair tousled just enough to look intentional.
He was stirring the pan with one hand while fiddling with something else on the stove with the other, as if he balanced cooking between studying and glaring at people for fun.
And the food.
There was real steak, properly cooked, not that cafeteria mystery protein that raised more questions than confidence.
Beside it was pasta in a creamy sauce, garnished with herbs that showed the kind of precision only someone who had done this plenty of times could achieve.
I stood at the doorway for three full seconds, my stomach registering a hunger before my brain caught up to the scene.
Then I remembered why I was there.
Focus, now!
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the cash, folded it again out of habit, and strode into the kitchen like someone fulfilling a duty they’d committed to.
Damien looked up as I entered, his gaze sweeping from my rumpled uniform to my expression with the quick, thorough attention he gave to everything as a smile grew on his lips. "Welcome home, Oliver."
I was almost blindsided by how he almost...kinda, maybe, probably looked happy to see that I was back that I once again forgot why I was here.
His eyes landed on the money in my hand.
Oh ..right.
I slapped it onto the counter beside him without ceremony. "What the hell is this?"
Not a question, but a demand for acknowledgment.
Damien glanced at the bill, then back at me, his demeanor calm, as if he’d already imagined several versions of this conversation in his head and was comfortable with all of them.
"That," he replied, "looks like money. Is this a trick question...or?"
I stared incredulously. "Oh, come on. Don’t play the rich person card by being clever instead of answering the question."
"I answered the question."
"You just described the cash. That’s not really an answer."
"You seemed to know what it was already." He responded. Someone hold me back before I actually end up bitch slapping someone today.
"Damien."
One corner of his mouth twitched in that irritating way I was learning to expect from him. "You seem upset. Nothing new there."
"I am upset. More specifically, I’m upset about this."
I tapped the bill on the counter. "A hundred bucks for a four seventy-five latte. Please explain."
Without missing a beat, he turned back to the stove, acting as if he weren’t in any trouble. "Your customer service was excellent."
I took a deep breath, trying not wring his neck. "No, it wasn’t. The service during which I nearly dropped the pitcher twice and told you get the fuck out?"
"Twice," he clarified, pleasantly. "It was engaging."
"Engaging?" I hesitated. "You genuinely think that?"
"You make some pretty entertaining faces when you’re under pressure."
Heat surged to my cheeks, completely unexpected and utterly unwelcome. I pointed a finger at him, trying to maintain my composure. "You asshole! You intentionally came in during my busiest shift, just to piss me off, I knew it!"
He was silent, which felt like an answer.
I shoved the bill toward him again, firmly. "Take your shit back."
He scrutinized it, then casually turned back to the pan. "No."