His breath is hot against my neck. “No more Chad.”
“Huh?”
A spatter of goose bumps slip across my skin, and it has absolutely nothing to do with being cold.
My core tightens as Holden’s body ripples behind me. An arm comes around me, caging me against him and the mattress. I hold my breath for fear that I might moan.
“No. More. Chad,” he whispers.
“What do you mean, ‘No more Chad’?” I ask with my eyes pinned to the blue curtains framing the window.
“I mean that I’m sick of hearing about him.”
“Well, when we talk about marriage and behaviors associated with our experiences in relationships, he’s my frame of reference.”
Holden sighs and lies back against the pillows. Just as I sigh in relief that I can breathe again, his hands guide me backward too.
My head lands on the curve of his shoulder. My brown hair splays in a harsh contrast to the white shirt stretching across his broad shoulders.
Instead of doing anything that could remotely be construed as having underlying motivations, he just lies still. He brushes the hair out of my face with one hand. The other wraps around me and holds me to him. That palm, his right one, is heavy on my abdomen. But he doesn’t move it. Doesn’t drag it north to my breasts or south between my legs.
A quiet peace tucks itself in around us and brings us closer together. I have questions—so many questions—but I don’t ask them. It feels like I might be jinxing myself if I do.
We lie together in the still of the night. Eventually, he lifts his left hand and shuts off the lamp.
“Thank you,” he whispers. “For tonight. For everything.”
“You’re welcome.”
He pulls me closer and rests his head on top of mine.
The Honey House sways in the wind, as if it’s luring us into a sweet slumber.
His breathing evens out as his chest rises and falls to a consistent, smooth rhythm.
I close my eyes, surrounded by Holden, and try to sleep. I try to ignore the solidness of his body, the comfort his proximity brings. I attempt to block out the way his leg crosses over mine at the ankle.
But, most of all, I try to ignore the idea of Holden staying in Honey Creek. Because against my own good advice, my hopes are soaring. And that has never gotten me anywhere good.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HOLDEN
What’s this?”
Sophie’s voice makes me jump.
I turn around to see her standing in her robe. She leans against the doorway, her hair a wild mess piled on the top of her head, a curious, sleepy look on her face.
Her cheeks are pink, and there is a line extending from her temple to her jaw from having her face pressed against my shirt all night.
I like it. I like it too damn much.
The feeling clouds my head and mixes with the remnants of the conversation I had with my father yesterday and the day I’m about to have with Montgomery. I need to focus.
Clearing my throat, I turn away from her. “I made breakfast.”
“You did?” Her bare footsteps patter against the wooden floor. “What did you make?”
“Breakfast quesadillas.”
She peers over my shoulder. “Never heard of it, but it looks delish.”
“My mom used to make them. As a matter of fact, she used to put everything in a quesadilla.” I slide one onto a spatula and transfer it to a plate. “Here you go.”
“What’s in it?”
“That’s no way to say thank you,” I tease.
She pulls her eyes from the plate and up to me. “Dare I say that I didn’t know you can cook? So I’m . . . nervous.”
“I’m a man of many talents.” I shake the plate. “Here. Take it. I gotta get going.”
A light in her eyes dims as she does as I ask.
“What about Dr. Montgomery?” she asks. “I got up early to make him breakfast.”
“Already took care of that.”
She slow blinks. “I thought y’all were leaving at eight?”
“Well, I got up around six to go to the bathroom, and he was up. We thought we’d just get the day started early.”
“Oh.” She looks down at her plate. “Well, thank you for breakfast. And for doing my job.”
“Guess you owe me.”
She grins as she heads to the table but doesn’t comment. It’s just as well.
I carry the pan to the sink and give it a quick rinse. The small cut I got while slicing the onions this morning burns under the water.
That’s what I get for being a pussy and letting my hands shake.
I grab a towel and dry them off, careful to blot and not rub the injury. If Sophie weren’t watching from the table, I’d inspect it more closely. But I’m not about to raise her suspicions that I’m anything but steady by showing weakness.
Steady. My insides ripple with suppressed laughter at myself.
I’m never good on little sleep. And although I slipped into dreamland without a problem, staying there proved to be much more difficult. Hell, even if I could’ve gone back to sleep, I probably wouldn’t have. I couldn’t have appreciated having Sophie nestled up beside me, her hands wrapped up in my T-shirt as if she were holding on to me for dear life, if I hadn’t been awake. I’ve never felt so . . . wanted. Needed. Content with all that. Happy about it, even.
But if today goes well . . .
The knot that took up residence in my gut last night twists a little tighter.
I have no idea how today will go. Will I pass his inspection? Will he be able to see me in the future of Montgomery Farms? Will he think I might be a good fit?
Will I feel like Montgomery Farms is the right fit for me?
I force a swallow and try to clear my brain.
“This is really good,” Sophie says. “I’m definitely impressed.”
“It’s an Arizona specialty.”
“I approve.” She blows on another bite before putting it in her mouth.
Footsteps down the hall redirect our attention. In a few seconds, Dr. Montgomery appears in the doorway. “Well, good morning, Mrs. McKenzie,” he says.
“Good morning, Timothy.”
“Thank you again for letting me stay. I left my card on your desk for you to please invoice my secretary.”
Sophie nods. “We were happy to host you. You can stay again this evening, if you’d like.”
Dr. Montgomery looks at me for a split second and then back to Sophie. “I’ll be heading to Kentucky today for my final interview. But I might just bring my wife back here for a visit this fall. She’d love it.”
Sophie gets to her feet and walks across the kitchen. She busies herself at the island. Out comes a container and a big apple pie that she got from Birdie for dessert last night. Only no one ate any of it.
“Here you go,” Sophie says, handing the container to Dr. Montgomery. “You can’t leave Honey Creek without Birdie’s apple pie.”
He looks quite pleased as he takes the container from my wife. “I do love me some apple pie.”
“I hope you have a safe trip.” She stands next to me. “And I hope we get to see you again soon, Timothy.”
There’s a ribbon of trepidation in her voice that I’m afraid to linger on too long. Whatever it is has a straight shot to that knot in my stomach and pinches it until I almost bend in half to relieve the discomfort.