You Looked Down on Me Once Now You Look Up (Patricia and Oliver) novel Chapter 373

That night, Oliver crashed at the villa.

The housekeeper was finally back from her vacation, and Grandma wasted no time putting her to work, making sure the dinner table was piled high with food. Living in Springfield, seafood was never a problem, and since Patricia and Chelsea both loved bold, spicy flavors, the menu was all about tangy, spicy seafood—enough to make your lips burn and your mouth water.

Atticus, who’d been stewing all day, finally brought out the wine he opened earlier. He was clearly in a mood, and the only way he seemed to deal with it was by pouring drink after drink for Oliver. Oliver didn’t protest. He knew he’d messed up and whatever Atticus handed him, he just knocked back without a word.

By the end of dinner, both men were slumped over in their chairs, looking like they might just slide onto the floor. None of the women could hope to move them, so the driver had to step in and haul both “giants” upstairs.

The bedroom door had barely clicked shut before Patricia moved to help Oliver out of his shirt. But just as she reached for the buttons, a knock sounded. Grandma came in, leaning on her cane, and gave Patricia a gentle scolding. “Don’t push your knee, sweetheart. If you need help, call us. Don’t try to carry him on your own.”

“I know, Grandma.”

“It’s late. You should get some rest.”

Once Grandma left, Patricia looked back at Oliver, sprawled unconscious on the bed. She let out a helpless sigh. She was about to go get him some water when a hand suddenly closed around her wrist. Warm fingers slid down to lace with hers.

“Pattie…” His voice was hoarse.

“You’re awake? I’ll get you something for the hangover.”

“Okay.”

When she came back with water and some medicine, Oliver was propped up against the headboard, eyes closed but breathing steady. She handed him the pills and he swallowed them without a fuss.

“If you can’t handle it, you really shouldn’t drink that much,” Patricia said, her tone half teasing, half worried.

“Atticus needed to let off steam. I couldn’t exactly say no,” Oliver replied.

“Wow. Six bottles of baijiu between two people. I hope they don’t end up drinking themselves to death.”

“It’s the holidays. Don’t jinx it,” Maggie said sharply from behind her.

Chelsea sniffed, a little embarrassed. “Is my dad alright?”

“He puked. He’s stubborn as ever—never wants to admit defeat.”

“I’m guessing Oliver’s not much better off.”

One was determined to pour, the other just as determined to drink. Atticus had always had a temper, but Oliver—usually so smart and self-controlled—what on earth had gotten into him tonight?

Later that night, after all the drama, Oliver passed out cold, not even bothering with a shower. He didn’t move a muscle until the next morning, when Patricia woke up to see him sprawled across the bed, one arm draped over his eyes.