Livvy

livvy | choisie book 4

by Lori L. Otto

LIVVY

Copyright 2014 © Lori L. Otto

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Lori L. Otto Publications

Visit our website at:
www.loriotto.com

First Edition: December 2014

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Printed in the United States of America

dedicated to my parents

CHAPTER 1

When we walked into this restaurant, he was the only other person to recognize Livvy Holland. The short haircut was supposed to be a disguise and give me a little more privacy. Within three minutes, five other people knew my identity, the daughter of Jackson Holland II. Since we sat down ten minutes ago, four more people were informed. I hadn’t even had time to enjoy the brief anonymity, and I resent him for it. I decide to set a limit of fifteen people. After the fifteenth person, I’m getting a cab back to my dorm. I don’t care if it is a forty-five minute ride to campus.

“Sir, would you like another drink?”

“Yeah, make it a Dewar’s on the rocks,” Wayne says. “You sure you don’t want anything, Livvy?” He hands me the wine list, but my eyes never leave his as I shake my head in the negative. The waiter walks quickly to the bar as I take a sip of my water.

“You kind of ruined it for me,” I explain. “Now that they know who I am, they know I’m not old enough to drink.”
Not that I want to, anyway, but it’s the principle of the matter.

“Sure you can. That’s what money’s for,” he says with a laugh.

“Oh, am I picking up the bar tab tonight?” I ask brightly, blinking innocently.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, reaching across the table to put his hand on mine. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure they gave us good service.”

I smile at him, trying not to be so shrill, but he’s making it impossible for me to have a good time. “Well, this place is known for its good service. I don’t think we had to worry about that.”

“I just want the best for you, Livvy.”

“I understand,” I say with a nod. “Thank you.”

“Do you know what you’re going to get?”

“The vegetable risotto,” I tell him.

“That’s the cheapest entrée here! You can get anything you want.”

“I would like the vegetable risotto.”

“Are you going to get a salad?”

I glance over the menu, seeing something that makes me smile. “Yes, this peekytoe crab one, because the name’s too good not to try it.” I giggle to myself before looking up at him. His brows are furrowed and he looks too serious. “Peekytoe crab?”

“Livvy, those are throw-away fish,” he says. “You don’t want that.”

Fish?
I look at him in disbelief and sigh. “Just order for me, please,” I tell him. “Whatever you think I’d like. I’m going to the ladies room.” Before he has time to try to stop me, I grab my bag and go to the hostess station to find out where the restroom is. I consider leaving now, but I promised my roommates I’d give him a chance.

He’s cute, yes, but he spent the entire car ride here trying to impress me with useless facts–and some tidbits that he believed to be facts, but weren’t. I’d learned a lot from dating the smartest guy I’d ever met. It’s quite possible he’s ruined all other men for me.

In the bathroom, I pull out my powder and touch up my makeup. I stare at my reflection, still wondering when I’ll start feeling like myself again. I haven’t felt real happiness in months.

As I put away my compact, I glance at my cell phone, checking for messages or texts. I’d stopped feeling disappointment at the lack of communication some time ago. It’s just normal now. I expect nothing, and get nothing.

Wayne stands when I return to the table, helping me with my chair. “Thank you,” I tell him politely.

He takes a drink before sitting back down across from me. “Vegetable risotto and the crab salad you wanted–”

“Peekytoe,” I clarify, wishing he would just lighten up and say it. The name makes me smile again. If I just keep thinking of this crab, he may actually think I’m having a good time.
Peekytoe. Peekytoe. Peekytoe.

“Yes. That.” I look down at the wooden table so I can roll my eyes without him noticing. I wonder if I’ll be like him–lacking proper manners and a sense of humor–when I’m twenty-four.

I’d met Wayne on my first day of orientation. He’s a grad student, but had signed up to help introduce Freshman to the Yale campus. A native of Manhattan, he recognized me by my name, but not by my looks. The pixie haircut had been a surprise to everyone–even my parents. I got it the day before I left for college. Mom cried. Dad was shocked, but impressed that it had grown long enough for me to donate the tresses.

“Some little girl’s going to be very happy,” he’d said. I was sure he was right, but I had selfishly cut it in hopes of it making
me
happy. I wanted a fresh start. I
needed
one. I’d been sad for too long.

The new hairstyle didn’t make me any happier. In fact, it had the opposite effect. I cry a couple times a week, now for a
different
reason; a silly one, I admit, when I’m thinking rationally: I miss my long hair. My roommates keep telling me that the cut is very flattering. I think they’re just trying to be nice. We’re still in the ‘honeymoon’ phase, doing anything we can to not get on one another’s nerves in our small living quarters.

“Tell me about your summer,” he says as we wait for our salad course.

“I painted a lot,” I tell him. “That’s really all I did this past summer. I have nothing interesting to report,” I explain with a shrug.

“Well, what did you paint? Like, a house? A room?”

“No. It’s fine art. This series about... um,” I start. “Well, it chronicled a relationship, from its inception to its demise.” I swallow hard and look away from him, hoping he doesn’t see the pain I feel.

“What kind of relationship?” he asks.

I don’t understand his question. “A romantic one?” I ask, unsure.

“That sounds pretty grown-up for a seventeen-year-old,” he says.

“
I’m
pretty grown-up for a seventeen-year-old,” I affirm. “Does my age bother you?”

“Not one bit,” he says. “I prefer a younger woman. But you’ll be eighteen... when?”

“A few weeks.”

“Then you’ll be an
adult
,” he says raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Mm-hmm,” I respond, wondering what he’s insinuating but not caring enough to ask.

“Your peekytoe crab salad, Miss Holland,” our waiter says with a grin.

“Do you laugh every time you say it?” I ask him casually.

He chuckles easily. “I do. I love when people order it,” he says. “How can you not smile?”

“My thoughts exactly. Thank you.”

“My pleasure, Miss Holland. And your foie gras, sir.” I look away from his dish quickly. Had I known he was going to order that, I would have voiced my disapproval. I suddenly lose my giddy smile
and
my appetite.

“Have you had foie gras before?”

“No,” I tell him, crinkling my nose as I shake my head. Although my dad used to enjoy it, my mother had convinced him to never eat it again. Once I heard the reasons, I never even considered it.

“It’s delectable.” He scoops some on his fork and holds it over the table. “Try it.”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re not one of
those
people, are you?”

“No,” I say, not wanting to get into a debate over fatty duck liver. I realize quickly my disapproval wouldn’t have convinced him to choose another starter, anyway.
How am I going to get through this dinner?

Peekytoe. Peekytoe.

I smile as I take a bite of my salad, repeating the phrase in my head.

“You have a beautiful smile,” Wayne says.

“Thank you.”

As we eat dinner, things become a little less awkward. Despite our differences, he knows everything there is to know about Yale, and I’m grateful for the tips he offers. He seems to relax more, too, when he’s finally being himself and not just trying to impress me. By the end of the meal, I feel okay with our evening together. He suggested that I choose a dessert for us, and after tasting the delicious lemon treat and voicing my love for it, he let me finish it by myself.

On the ride back to New Haven, he tells me about his thesis. I’m sure I could understand what he was talking about if it interested me at all, but I find myself daydreaming, seeing a color in my mind and wondering how I can mix paints to make it. I check the time, realizing it’s too late to go over to the studio tonight. They’re open all night, but I don’t feel comfortable enough around campus yet to wander around in the middle of the night.

Wayne walks me up to the door, holding my hand in his. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with dread, realizing his friendly gesture is probably his way of warming me up for something more. I have no desire to kiss him. I still see the foie gras–and even if he hadn’t eaten that, I still wouldn’t want to kiss him. I’ve only ever wanted to kiss one man. Unfortunately, I’d kissed one man too many already, and
that
was apparently the kiss of death in my first real relationship.

“I had a nice time, Livvy,” he says in front of L-Dub, the building that houses my dorm.

“Yeah, me, too. Thank you.” He takes a step closer to me. My instinct is to take a step back, but I don’t want to be rude. I look around the courtyard in hopes of finding something that will distract us both. I barely catch his movement out of the corner of my eye, but manage to turn my head to the side just in time to feel his lips on my cheek. He was going for the lips, and although I feel my skin heat up with embarrassment, I’m glad that I stopped him.

When he pulls back, he acts unfazed by my denial. “Can I call you sometime?”

I shift on my legs and look away from him briefly. “I think foie gras is bad.” It’s the least personal rejection I can think of in the moment, and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He was nice enough, but isn’t anywhere near the person I want to be with.

He looks at me curiously. “Does that mean I can’t call you?”

“It’s... you know,” I stutter. “It’s morally wrong.”

“Gotcha,” he says as he moves away from me. His hand finally lets go of mine. “Good night, Livvy.”

“Goodbye, Wayne.” My eyes follow him as he makes his way across the yard, eventually disappearing behind the large building. Drawn to an empty bench nearby, I take a seat, pulling my jacket tighter. The wind on my neck still feels foreign to me. I reach back, kneading my fingers into tense muscles at the nape. I’d been so nervous about this date all day. Now that it’s over, my earlier worrying seems pointless. I wonder if I would feel differently if Wayne had been someone I liked; someone I cared to see again. Had it been Jon...