There was just something about Oliver. That quiet, unshakeable grace he carried—it was impossible to miss.
Patricia could tell he wasn’t in the best mood, even if he tried to play it cool.
But she kept things casual, her voice easy. “So, what’s next?”
“Just dump the cans into the bowls,” Oliver said, barely looking up.
She nudged, “Open eight, okay? Otherwise it won’t be enough.”
Oliver sighed and got to work, patience wearing thin as he handled the little chores. “Marian’s gone? And Sara too?”
Patricia shot him a look, half curious, half teasing. “Didn’t you make them work late tonight?”
Sara had been grumbling all day about how crazy Uncle Oliver had banned them from leaving the office before ten. She and the others had joked that it was just an excuse so Oliver could have more alone time with Patricia. Honestly, it was the only thing that made sense.
Oliver kept his head down, ignoring the question.
It wasn’t until Patricia slipped her arms around his waist from behind that he finally glanced down.
She pressed close, her fingers tracing slow circles over his stomach. With a soft, playful whine, she said, “Come on, be nice. Let Sara and the others leave a little early, please?”
“Sara’s been complaining to you?” he asked, eyebrow raised.
“As if,” Patricia replied, grinning. “She’s not like that at all.”
Oliver gave a low, skeptical laugh.
If Patricia really believed Sara was innocent, there were only two reasons: either Sara was a world-class actress, or Patricia was just pretending not to see things.
Anyone with a pulse could see what Sara was really like.
Once he finished with the cans, Oliver grabbed a bowl in one hand and reached for Patricia with the other, leading her outside.



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