A Bird in the Oven Read online

  Contents

  1. Olivia

  2. Oliver

  3. Olivia

  4. Oliver

  5. Olivia

  6. Oliver

  7. Olivia

  8. Oliver

  9. Olivia

  10. Oliver

  11. Olivia

  12. Oliver

  13. Olivia

  14. Oliver

  15. Olivia

  16. Oliver

  17. Olivia

  Also by Kata

  About the Author

  A Bird in the Oven

  Copyright ©2020 by Kata Čuić

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written permission by the author. This includes, but is not limited to, the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. And yes, that includes the internet and social media. Especially those. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Art in any form is created from the blood, sweat, and tears of the artist. In this case, the writer. Please do not engage in piracy or plagiarism. Purchase from valid vendors. Create your own art!

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and goings on are the product of the author’s ridiculous imagination and/or life experiences and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead or otherwise, is coincidental. Kind of. Mostly.

  Proofreading by Alison Evans-Maxwell at Red Leaf Proofing

  Cover by Sarah Kil at Sarah Kil Creative Studio

  A Bird in the Oven

  Olivia Holland expected to be married and starting a family by the time she turned thirty. Instead, she lives in the condo next door to her best friend without even so much as a pet. It’s not as bad as it sounds, except on the nights that said best friend’s very active sex life keeps her awake with the noise of his head board slamming against their shared bedroom wall. Still, Ollie is her best friend in the entire world and living next to him has perks—a willing spider exterminator, furnace repairman, and computer guru.

  Oliver Cucinelli has a problem. A gargantuan conundrum. He truly loves very few things in his complicated existence—his job, his family, and his best friend, Liv. He’s happy to do anything she asks of him, from killing miniscule spiders to repairing her laptop. Which is exactly how he discovers that she has a severe case of baby fever. Ollie always knew Liv would outgrow him one day. He never expected it to be so soon.

  A night of neighbor-watching debauchery, an unfortunate misunderstanding with Oliver’s mom, and a healthy dose of panic later, Oliver comes up with the perfect solution to everyone’s problems.

  He’ll put a bird in Olivia’s oven. By Thanksgiving.

  1

  Olivia

  “Do you think he has undiagnosed ADHD? There’s literally no other reason I can think of.”

  Ollie sips his beer as he watches our neighbor with narrowed eyes. He’s always been the think before he speaks kind of guy—the one who studies quietly instead of making snap judgments the way I do.

  “Come on!” I cajole. “It’s ten o’clock at night, and he’s running his leaf blower! He can’t possibly see what he’s doing!”

  “I do not believe he has ADHD,” Ollie murmurs, tapping his beer bottle against his lips. “He exhibits no characteristics of lack of impulse control. I think he is simply meticulous about his yard.”

  I stare at him. “Oliver Leonardo Cucinelli. It’s October first. There aren’t any leaves in his yard yet!”

  Ollie grimaces at my use of his full name. He hates that it’s long and difficult for most people to pronounce. There are so many Italians in the Pittsburgh area that it really shouldn’t be a problem. I suspect people trip over themselves when they meet Ollie for the first time because he looks freakishly similar to another famous Italian from the area—Joe Manganiello. Only if Magic Joe was completely opposed to the idea of letting his hair grow out even a smidge and insisted on being clean-shaven at all times. Ollie’s hair is even beginning to gray at the temples, which frankly, only adds to his sex appeal.

  Why do men age like fine wine while women are left to just grow old?

  Ollie takes another sip of his beer as the firelight dances across his face and reflects off his glasses—another distinct difference between him and Joe that actually really works in Ollie’s favor. Women can’t resist a hot guy in glasses.

  He’s being awfully quiet tonight, even for him. Neighbor-watching is usually one of our favorite pastimes.

  “What about yesterday when he ran his mower for three hours? Our yards aren’t even that big!”

  In fact, our yards are practically non-existent in this condo community. Ollie and I actually have more yard work to do because we share a back yard. Our fire pit is smack-dab in the middle. Over the past few years, we’ve turned it into quite the staycation oasis. He set up a pergola. I strung it with multi-colored lanterns. He bought a state-of-the-art smoker. I created beautiful garden beds. Actually, Ollie dug the beds for me and hauled all the soil and mulch. But I planted the prettiest flowers!

  The leaf blower goes blessedly silent.

  “He probably ran out of battery,” I whisper.

  Ollie twists the top off another bottle of beer from the cooler.

  Okay. Now I’m worried. He never drinks more than one of anything.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “I said nothing is wrong.”

  He might be telling the truth. Ollie rarely lies. He also has times when he goes so far into his own head that I can’t reach him there. When it’s because he’s using his genius to work out a complex problem, I don’t mind. This doesn’t feel like one of those times.

  “Is it because you’re turning thirty next month?”

  He sighs and sprawls out, his limbs hanging like limp spaghetti noodles over the edges of the super comfy Adirondack chair that he made, and I painted a lovely teal color. “Age is just a number. You are more concerned about turning thirty than I am. You have that, the…baby fever.”

  I didn’t realize it was that obvious. “You’ll be fertile until the day you die. I have a ticking biological clock.”

  He rolls his head to stare at me. “I researched that common misconception, and it is not completely true. With modern medicine and better health than humans have ever experienced in history, women can bear children at a much later age than was previously possible.”

  “Okay, Mr. Smarty Pants.” I slump in my chair, too. “I might be able to have a child until menopause, of which the average age of onset is fifty. You could father a child when you’re seventy! You can’t deny the numbers are stacked against me while being wildly in your favor.”

  He frowns. “No. I cannot deny the numbers.”

  “Ha!” I’ve been best friends with Ollie since grade school, and I know he can never argue with solid data. I also know that if I keep guessing, eventually he’ll give in and tell me what’s eating at him. “Did you have a fight with Isabel?”

  He quirks an eyebrow then corrects me, “Isabella.”

  Oh, I know her name. I know all their names. I just don’t like them.

  Living in the condo next door to my best friend has certain advantages. If I scream randomly, he knows to come over and kill the tarantula I found hiding in the bathtub. When the pilot light goes out on my furnace, I don’t have to wait for a repair guy to relight it because I’m too scared to blow up the whole thing.

  Sharing an entire wall from basement to second floor also has serious drawbacks. Like, the one time I found out his last girlfriend, Sasha, screams like an attacking bald eagle when orgasming.
I’m just not patriotic enough to appreciate that, I guess. Or the time his headboard was hitting the wall so hard, it knocked down the painting hanging over my own bed. There’s nothing quite like getting a concussion at two in the morning.

  Those reasons are bad enough, but what I really dislike about the parade of women who date my best friend is that they don’t appreciate him. Not really. They’re smitten by his sexy appearance coupled with his quiet, almost bumbling way with words in spite of his advanced vocabulary. They’re really taken in when they find out he makes bank working for Google. They start with hearts in their eyes and imaginations filled with white wedding gowns, but they all end the same—disappointing.

  “What was it this time? You had to pull all weekend working, and she’d made plans for you to brunch with her friends?”

  He scoffs and takes another pull of beer. “She wanted to adopt a cat together.”

  I stare at him, incredulous. “You’re allergic to cats!”

  “I know that.”

  “Does she?”

  “She does now.” He pouts. “Apparently, that is a deal-breaker for her.”

  See? Disappointing.

  “Well, good riddance.” At least I’ll get a break from sleeping with earplugs for a while. “She wasn’t right for you anyway.”

  He smirks but keeps his gaze firmly on the fire. “You say that about all of them.”

  “Pick one who doesn’t eventually prove it true,” I mumble.

  “My mother is going to be disappointed,” he admits. “I do not share your concerns about aging, but Mom worries about me turning thirty, too. She wants a daughter-in-law and grandchildren, and she believes I should have started a family years ago. She will likely experience severe distress when she realizes she’ll have to rearrange the seating for Thanksgiving.”

  “Your mom is already planning for Thanksgiving?” It’s nearly two months away. I’m only making plans for how to decorate for Halloween at this point.

  Ollie pins me with a flattened expression. “You know how she is.”

  I do know. Because I’ve been friends with Ollie so long, I know his entire family. They’re Italian, so there’s an army of them. Every holiday is a major event when you have to feed that many people at one time.

  He leans forward and rubs his forehead. “I can imagine her words. Why do you keep doing this? When are you going to admit—” He snaps his mouth closed when a lone figure appears within the circle of our light from the darkness. “Hello, Mr. Hooper.”

  The older man smiles at us. “You kids having a good time? It’s a nice night for a fire.”

  I snicker at the idea he’s calling us kids. Mr. Hooper can’t be more than fifty.

  “We are. Would you care to join us?” Ollie offers.

  I cut a sideways glance at him. We don’t know Mr. Hooper from Joe Schmoe. He only moved in a few weeks ago. Our suburb isn’t exactly dangerous, but there is an unreasonably high turnover of tenants here. This guy could be a vampire, and Ollie’s just given him the requisite invitation to murder us.

  “Nah.” Mr. Hooper thankfully waves off Ollie’s suggestion. “I was actually wondering if you have a battery I can borrow.”

  I repress more snickers. Called it.

  “What brand of blower do you have?” Ollie asks.

  “One of those bright green ones. A…Ryobi?”

  “I have the same. You may borrow my battery.” Horrifyingly, Ollie rises from his chair and strides away.

  Mr. Hooper and I stare at each other in awkward silence. Surely, he won’t murder me even though we’re alone. It’ll be way too obvious it was him when Ollie returns to my lifeless body.

  Mr. Hooper rocks on his heels, seeming as awkward as I feel. It might be a ploy to get me to let my guard down though. “Your yards look fantastic. You’ve done a really nice job here.”

  “Thank you.” I have no idea how else to respond to that.

  “Wouldn’t it make more sense to move in together instead of paying double the rent?” He scratches his chin like this is the kind of small talk normal people make.

  I sputter on my mouthful of beer. “Oliver and I aren’t together!”

  “Huh. Could’ve fooled me. Is it one of those modern arrangements? What do they call it? Polyamory?”

  “What?” I practically scream. “No!”

  Ollie returns to the scene, a questioning expression on his face. He hands over the battery pack to Mr. Hooper while addressing me. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine, fine,” Mr. Hooper assures him. “Thanks for this. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.”

  Within minutes of his departure, the leaf blower roars to life again.

  Ollie reclaims his seat. And his beer. “Why were you yelling?”

  “He thinks we’re a polyamorous couple!” The horror. Not that I’m judging, but that kind of lifestyle isn’t for me.

  Ollie’s eyes flit back and forth at the air like he’s seriously contemplating that idea. “Did he perhaps mean platonic?”

  This is why questionable women always get the best of Ollie. He wears rose-colored lenses. The man absolutely refuses to see anything but the best in people.

  “Why did you give him your battery pack? You’re usually so clingy with your tools. You don’t even know him well enough to know if he’ll actually return it.”

  Ollie shrugs. “If I need it, I know where he lives. I will simply ask him to return it. Also, I assured you at least another hour of entertainment for the evening.”

  I bark out a laugh. He really does know me so well. “What’s the catch?”

  There’s always a catch.

  He smiles around the bottle that’s already at his lips. “I am going to nurse my broken heart tonight, and you are going to put me to bed when I’m too drunk to do so for myself.”

  “Are you sure you’re not depressed about turning thirty soon? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds a hell of a lot like you want to relive your college glory days.” I don’t mention that Ollie put my drunk ass to bed plenty of times.

  “From where I am sitting, you are approximately a week away from visiting a sperm clinic.”

  “Jerk!” I make a mental note to clear my web browser history.

  He winks and drains the rest of his second bottle.

  2

  Oliver

  When I groan, the warm body beneath me groans, too. She pats my head that is resting on her stomach. Likely because she knows I have a massive headache.

  “Not yet, Ollie. Go back to sleep,” she mumbles.

  I crack open one eye to glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. It’s already ten, but Liv likes to sleep in on the weekends. To be clear, she sleeps all day.

  It is perhaps a form of masochism, but I tighten my grip around her waist and nuzzle my cheek against her flat stomach. My whiskers catch on the fabric.

  Ugh. I need to shave, but I need aspirin and a large quantity of water before I touch my face with a razor.

  In spite of all these perseverative thoughts, for precisely four minutes I lock down all the discomforts pecking at my brain and enjoy the quiet morning with the woman who is sprawled out like a starfish in my bed.

  Her body is warm and soft beneath me. Sometime after I passed out, she must have grabbed a t-shirt out of my dresser. It looks way better stretched across her breasts than it ever has on me. I will likely never see it again. She has a closet full of the hoodies she constantly borrows from me then never returns. I do not reclaim them. It brings me great joy to see her wear my clothes.

  My arms fit around her waist like they are meant to be here all the time. The last man she dated thought I touched her way too often, but that is not the case. At all.

  I do not usually pull stunts like I did last night to get some alone time with her. I do not have to. We live next door to each other. We have been best friends since fourth grade. We went to neighboring universities. She has always been a part of my life, but I am terrified that time is slipping away.
r />   She joked about it last night around the fire—tried to project her feelings onto me—but she is taking this big 3-0 business seriously.

  The last time her laptop crashed, she asked me to fix it. No problem. Computers, their operating systems, and their maintenance are one of my strongest skill sets, and I do not mind donating my time to Liv. Then I discovered exactly what overwhelmed her system. Pages upon pages of online dating site registries, cookies from every artificial insemination clinic in the tri-state area, not to mention a couple of very virus-infested porn sites dedicated to women’s tastes.

  She really does have baby fever.

  She also has a shortage of adequate candidates to impregnate her.

  Guilt is added to my other physical irritations. I have always been relieved that Liv does not often bring men home to her condo next door. Only one time I heard her moans of pleasure through our shared bedroom wall, and it was an experience I immediately knew I never wanted to repeat.

  That was not enough to stop me from jerking off into my own hand while I pretended I was the one creating those sounds.

  To be clear, my rock-hard dick insists now would be an opportune time to finally sink into Liv and make her moan.

  Unfortunately for me and my poor cock, that is a line I cannot cross. Before she notices my morning wood, I peel myself away from her and walk to the bathroom.

  Aiming is rather a moot point with a raging erection. I acquiesce for not spraying the ceiling. My mood is plummeting as everything continues to irritate me and not go as planned. I have just barely tasted the minty relief of my toothpaste when a sing-song greeting from downstairs freezes me in place.