The same lips, the same eyes, and the same, well, everything that hooked me before.
Yeah, I've fallen for this whole look of his before, and it is certainly not happening a second time.
"How are you with chocolate chip cookies? Cakes with cartoon characters drawn on top? I'll have to double check to see if I know any five year olds with birthdays coming soon."
He such a prick.
"Slightly more involved than that, actually, but I guess I'll have to show you later, sometime in the kitchen." I roll my eyes as I turn back to stare out at the grey London rain.
I can hear him chuckle behind me. "You haven't looked me up, have you?"
I turn back, "Excuse me?"
"Looked me up; googled me or the restaurant or whatever."
"Of course I have," I say, "‘Jolie, home to London's hottest young sous-chef'," I say with air-quotes, rolling my eyes. "Yes, Oliver, I've looked you up." I hate telling him that, as if this little shit could possibly need his ego stroked anymore.
Oliver grins; leaning back in his seat with a smug look on his face as he laces his hands behind his head. "Oh, no-no-no, darling, that's yesterday's news."
I frown, "What are you talking about? Are you not at Jolie anymore?"
He chuckles, just slowly shaking his head as he turns towards his father, "Oy, dad, you didn't tell her?"
Barney looks up from his whispered little conversation with my beaming mother and frowns.
"What's that boy-o? Oh right, the switch." He glances my way and shrugs apologetically; "Sorry my dear, guess I didn't get the chance yet." He jerks his head at my mom, "Far too occupied with this lovely bird here, you know!" My mother whoops and laughs as he turns to tickle her.
I ignore the nauseating display and narrow my eyes as I turn back to Oliver, "Tell me what?"
He lets out a contented sigh, cracking his knuckles loudly before slipping them back behind his head. He slouches down in his seat and kicks one foot up onto his knee, looking at me with this absolutely shit-eating grin. "Well, ‘the kitchen' you were just referring to?"
Oh God, now what?
He grins widely, "It's not home to London's hottest young sous-chef anymore, luv." He winks at me. "It is now officially home to London's hottest young chef." He winks at me again. "No ‘sous', in case you missed that."
Please be kidding.
A lump forms in my throat as what he's saying starts to sink in. He leans forward, raising his eyebrows at me, "So, ‘the kitchen' you were just referring to is actually my kitchen now." He grins as leans back and throws me the world's cockiest, smuggest smirk. "Looks like I'm your new boss, sweetheart."
If I thought London was grey before, I suddenly have a whole new appreciation for that particular color as we enter Shoreditch, the old industrial-turned-hipster neighborhood in East London.
Of course, it's still not distraction enough to take my mind off Oliver's little news, or that smirking grin he's managed to flash me anytime I happen to turn that way the entire car ride here. By the time the taxi pulls up in front of Barney's massive townhouse, I've been in England for all of one hour and eighteen minutes, and I have no idea how I'm possibly going to survive being around this little shit-bag at both work and home for four solid months.
The house is honestly ridiculous, too. A huge four-story townhouse right on Hoxton Square Park. The place looks like the house from Mary Poppins, or the Darling's house from Peter Pan, complete with wide stone steps and the huge wooden double door crossed with iron, like some sort of urban fairy-tale castle.
Except this is quite the opposite of a fairytale, and the only thing "princely" about Oliver is that arrogance he seems to carry around with him in his back pocket.
Welcome home.
Inside, though, is anything but old-looking like the exterior. The whole place looks like one giant bachelor pad, which makes sense I guess, considering the father and son who live here. The decor matches Barney's gaudy clothes in terms of price over style; all flash and glamor instead of anything with actual taste. Giant pop-art paintings of martini glasses, black and white photographs of lingerie models and a damn swing in the living room.
I mean, honestly.
Your new husband has a swing in his living room, mom. I mean, alarm bells much?
Barney seems to follow my confused look and chuckles, "Oh, that!" He snorts out a laugh, "Well, you know we didn't ‘ave much when Ollie was comin' up; no money for a swing-set or nothin' like that." He shrugs at my mom, "First thing the little shit does when I buy the place is have that damn swing screwed right into the ceiling." He glares at Oliver and shakes his head.
Well, shit. Of course I feel like a completely callous bitch thinking it was some sort of weird sex swing after hearing that.
"Never even uses the bloody thing, at least not while I'm around."
"Oh, but I use it all the time when you're not, dad." Oliver is nodding his head and grinning, but he suddenly looks my way when our parents look away and makes an exaggerated thrusting motion with his hips while grinning lewdly at me. He mouths the words "sex swing" at me as I wrinkle my nose and look away.
Gross.
"Well then, let's get you to your rooms so you can relax, eh, girls?" Barney claps his hands together before he grabs my suitcase and heads for the stairs. "Your mum and I are downstairs, where the master suite is, but I've got you," he grunts as he hefts my suitcase up the stairs, "I've got you up here."
There are three doors at the top of the second staircase; one a bathroom, and the other two closed. Barney opens one to a plain, if not nice and well-lit, room painted all white with large windows. "This is you, my dear."
Well, this isn't so ba-
"And if you need anything, Ollie's right next door."
What.
Barney chuckles, oblivious to the look of horror on my face as he turns to my mother, "Keep the young folks together and away from us, eh, darling?"
Oliver is leaning against the doorframe to my room, smirking at me and rubbing his jaw with his strong-looking hands. "Oy, you need anything, sis, you just knock, yeah?" His eyebrows arch. "Thin walls, you know," he says with a knowing wink that only I seem to pick up on.
Barney clears his throat and checks the ridiculous looking watch on his wrist, "Well, shall we decide on dinner? I'm starved."
"Oh that sounds lovely honey," My mother says, smiling and taking Barney's arm.
Honey? I find myself glaring at their backs as they walk way. I mean, jeez, how has this whole relationship of theirs gotten to this point without me even knowing? Was I seriously that wrapped up in school and my own life not to see this? And lovely? When the heck did my mom start using decidedly British words like lovely?
They're halfway down the staircase when I turn back to a smug looking Oliver, "What?"
"Oh, nothing, it's just your face right now."
I frown. "What about it?"
"It's so...angry," he says with a chuckle.
"I'm fine, just jet-lag," I mutter, stepping into my room.
He follows, of course, and I turn to give him a look. "Okay, so you live here?"
"In my house? Yes, Chloe; strange I know. It must be a European thing to live in your own home."
I roll my eyes, "No, I mean, it's your dad's house, and aren't you like this big hot-shot chef now?"
He grins, "Hot shot, huh?"
"You know what I mean," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "Why don't you have a place of your own?"
Oliver makes a face, "You know what rent is like in this fuckin' city? Forget it, sweetheart. Here, I got a whole floor to myse-" He smiles thinly at me. "Had a whole floor to myself, with two stories between dad and me." He grins as I give him a quizzical look before he leans into me, "Plenty of space to keep the screamers from waking him, catch me?"
I wrinkle my nose. "Screamers?"
"Oh yes chef!" He starts to moan loudly in a high-pitched female falsetto voice, "Oh chef, you're so naughty!"
I blush bright crimson and shake my head "Okay, okay! Enough, I get it. Jesus Christ."
"Oh, they say that a lot too," he says with a grin.
Cocky little shit.
"Don't worry though, luv, I'll try and pick you up some earplugs or something."
"Oy!" Barney calls from the first floor, "You kids mind eating in or did you want to eat out?"
Oliver sticks his tongue out at me and curls it lewdly up and down as I make a face and look away.
"Either one dad!" he yells, "I'm a really big fan of either."
*****