“You have any more of that?” I tip my chin toward the flask on his dresser.
Holt’s mouth lifts in a crooked smirk, and I think it’s probably the closest to an actual smile I’ve ever seen from him. He doesn’t give off any warm and fuzzy vibes, but at the same time, I feel safe with him.
I recall sophomore year after studying together in the library, he insisted on walking me back to my dorm after we realized it had gotten dark outside. He waited on the stoop, even though it was raining and he was without an umbrella, as I unlocked the door. He didn’t move from that spot until I waved at him from my second story window. Then he’d tipped his chin down and shouldered his heavy backpack and stalked away.
“Sure.” He rises from the bed and opens the top dresser drawer, producing the bottle from which I assume the flask was filled.
When he hands it to me, I twist off the cap and take a sip. I can already feel myself growing warm and slightly tipsy.
“So, what’s your story?” I ask.
“My story?”
I shrug. “Your major. Life plans . . . you know.”
I already know his major, but I don’t want to seem like a creeper. I also know he works part time as a bouncer at the off-campus bar called the Tavern, a regular weekend hotspot. He checks IDs at the door and breaks up fights when things occasionally get too rowdy.
Holt shifts his weight. “There’s not much to tell. I grew up in a small town in New Jersey, a few hours outside of New York. And I got out as soon as I could.”
“Family?”
He makes an annoyed sound. “I guess you could call them that. No one I’m close with.”
I nod once. Despite the image the Wynns like to give off, I know what it’s like to come from a dysfunctional family. “My home life was tough too. Probably not like yours, but still . . . tough.”
Holt doesn’t shrug or laugh off my discomfort when I say this. I’m certain he knows I come from money, and that my dad was the governor, so he could. He could pat me on the head and patronize me about my little privileged life.
Instead, he meets my eyes with a look of understanding. Not sympathy, not pity, but something like understanding. On some level, we’re sharing our secrets, and it’s more than I’ve done with anyone in three years at this school. Even with Gretchen.
Holt’s attention is yanked away by a scuffle in the hall and loud voices. I turn my head toward the door, listening, wondering if one of them is Alex’s. Wondering if it’s time to go. Then there’s a dull thud of someone being shoved into the wall and the sound of furniture scraping across the floor.
“Stay here,” Holt says as he goes off to investigate, leaving me alone in his bedroom.
Loud footsteps thump down the stairs, and I cross the room. When I peek into the hall, it’s quiet and empty. The voices are downstairs now, angry male shouts, though I can’t make out what they’re saying.
The door to the room Alex was in opens, and I quickly shut Holt’s door, tucking myself inside once again. The girl he was with says something and he laughs, then there are two sets of footsteps as they descend the stairs together.
I pull out my phone and see a text from Gretchen.
Where are you???
Upstairs, I reply with shaking hands.
I have no idea why I still feel nervous. On edge. Maybe it’s because I was almost caught for a second time by Alex?
But I know that’s not it. It’s because I’ve been basically hiding up here with Holt.
A reply comes from Gretchen.
There’s a fight outside. I’m leaving. You okay or do you need a ride?
Alex and his flavor of the night are gone. So, why am I still hiding out in Holt’s bedroom?
Making up my mind, I text a response.
I’ll be okay.
Suit yourself! Gretchen types back. Let me know if you change your mind and I’ll come get you.
I text her back the thumbs-up emoji.
Holt still hasn’t returned, so I pocket my cell phone and cross the room to his little wooden desk that sits under the window. There’s a notebook on top, and when I flip it open, I scan the page, trying to understand what I’m reading.
I’D HAD ENOUGH OF THE MINDLESS GAMES
THEN YOU APPEARED
WITH EYES SO BLUE AND HAIR SO SOFT
I’LL NEVER BE THE SAME
Song lyrics? Poetry? I’m not sure, but I don’t want to snoop. The sound of approaching footsteps pulls me away from the desk and whatever private thoughts are hidden away in Holt’s journal.
Holt bursts into the room, breathing hard. He’s holding his fist near his side, and his normally stoic expression is twisted into a scowl.
“Fucking frat boys,” he mutters under his breath as I cross the room to him.
“What happened?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he swallows hard, looking pissed off.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, appraising him with concern.
His knuckles are scraped, and there’s a drop of blood on the corner of his lower lip.
“I’m fine, Eden. You should probably go.” Holt’s tone is flat, and he won’t meet my eyes.
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
I touch the pad of my finger to his lip. I have no idea why I do it . . . I’ve never touched him before. Maybe it’s because I’ve never noticed his mouth before. His lips are full and soft, and I don’t like the sight of blood on his mouth.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Believe me, I’m fine.”
I wave him toward the bed. “You’re not fine. Sit down.”
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Acknowledgments
Thank you so much, lovely readers! You are the reason I get to continue bringing my stories to life, and I truly hope you enjoyed this series as much as I did. I’m starting a brand-new series and returning to the world of sports romance. I sincerely hope you’ll take this journey with me. The series is called Looking to Score, and Book One is titled The Rebel.
A huge amount of gratitude is owed to my lovely assistant, Alyssa; to my editors Rachel and Pam; to my agent, Jane; and to my audio production team. You’re all truly outstanding at what you do. And to my sweet little family . . . I couldn’t do it without you.
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Other Books by Kendall Ryan
Unravel Me
Filthy Beautiful Lies Series
The Room Mate