Then it would seem that at some point, Griffin has eaten a massive prick.
I keep the thought to myself. Little ears and all that.
“Holland?” Archie asks, looking like a miniature old man, sporting a fluffy white moustache as he sits in the overly large chair. “You’re sitting on the same chair as Uncle Griffin.”
“Yes, it’s called a couch,” she explains unnecessarily.
“Sofa,” he corrects.
“There’s space for you to sit here, too,” she says, tapping the empty cushion next to her.
“No, thank you.” He scrunches his nose, then wipes the milky froth from his face. “That might mean I’d have to marry you.”
“What?” Holland’s face turns immediately pink. “I’m not marrying anyone, Archie.”
“Are you sure? Aren’t you having a baby then?”
“What? No!”
“But Chrissy said that last time she saw anyone eat the kinds of things you do, they had a baby a few months later.”
“No, nononono. No baby,” Holland insists, her eyes moving warily between my sister and me. “Nuh-uh!” With another denial that sounds more like a noise than an actual word, she almost jackknives to her feet. “Thank you for a lovely evening,” she adds brightly as Griffin and I both rise to our feet.
“I’ll come with you,” he begins.
“No, you finish your coffee,” Holland insists, sending my sister a grateful look as she almost pushes a cup and saucer at him.
Suddenly, I find myself in front of her, taking her arm. “Let me walk you out,” I murmur in complete contrast to the way my fingers tighten on her upper arm. If Griffin protests, I don’t notice, basking in the relief her nearness brings to me as the pain in my chest dissipates. Not that Holland seems at all happy about my presence, which is a shame but not an eternal situation.
I love how small she is compared to me. Next to me. And I hate how it takes every ounce of my willpower not to pull her against me. To take her in my arms. Be the man forever at her side. I want to protect her always. Curl myself around her when she’s round with our child.
My steps falter—where the hell did that come from? Holland appears too annoyed to notice my astonishment.
“It’s fine,” she says through gritted teeth, swinging to face me once we’re out of the drawing room. “I know the way. I can get there perfectly well on my own.”
“No one is suggesting otherwise.” My cool tone is instinctual, though I have no idea where the words have come from, this armour I wear well. All I can think is how I want to get her alone. Strip her bare, strip her down to her soul. But a secluded corner of a hallway will have to do as we turn a corner, and I allow her to pull free from my grip.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
What indeed as I tip her chin.
“Have you no—”
“Morals? None it seems where you’re concerned.” The feeling of those neat muscles at her forearms sends a bolt of heat to my groin. I don’t hold her in my arms, but I do hold her as I lower my head, heedless of how she tries to pull away. She smells like flowers and looks so fucking incensed. But her shock tastes delicious, her pretence fracturing as the first brush of my lips. She gives in to a soft, quivering moan, her lips a decadent mixture of chocolate and wine.
I want her. Goddammit, I want her here and now as I feel her body shudder against mine, as though a draught had just run along the hallway. It’s the moment she gives in, relaxing into my kiss. My whole being is gratified—elated—by the way she responds to me, by the way she tilts her head, allowing me access to the silky skin of her neck. The tiny hitch in her breath and the way her body unconsciously moves with mine, she’s like a flower following the rays of the sun.
She makes it too easy for me, really. She moans softly, signalling the moment she truly lets go.
I force myself to release her. To pull away.
She is so beautiful. The way the light falls casts a shadow across her cheekbone, highlighting the moisture against the soft, fullness of her lips. Her lashes lie like dark crescents across her pale skin. She is everything I’ve ever wanted and never thought to dream of. As if I’d never see her walk past me on a street. As if I’d ever be able to resist her. Too easy, yet so regrettably hard as her eyes flutter open. I see the confusion there and suffer such a pang of regret.
“What . . .?”
“Yes, exactly. What are you doing?”
“Working my notice?” A crease forms between her brows. She looks more hurt than annoyed.
“No, Holland. What are you doing. Here. With him. And don’t give me any of that bullshit about dating him. You can barely stand to sit next to him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know a lot more than you give me credit for. I know you’re scared. I know that you think it’s me you don’t trust, but it’s more that you can’t trust yourself.”
“You know nothing about me,” she says, her gaze flashing.
“I know he doesn’t kiss you the way I kiss you. I know you don’t bloom like a flower for him, spread yourself wide on the kitchen table and beg for his touch.”
“You’re a pig.” She raises her hands as though to push me away, but I catch her arms.
“And you’re like a miser with a pocket full of pennies. You’re just not willing to part with the necessary, darling. Especially not with him.” She winces, and I realise my fingers have tightened, but fuck it, I won’t let go.
“I’m with Griffin now,” she retorts, her expression hardening. She tries to pull free from my hold. “Let go. You’re hurting me.
“I know, you’re just a delicate little flower,” I find myself growling.
“I didn’t say that.”
“A delicate, fucked-up, horny little flower.” I enunciate the words so clearly while she looks at me as though she’d happily punch me in the face. “A little flower who, if she isn’t careful, will end up being fucked by my brother.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A little flower that lies.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Face the facts, Holland. Your little act didn’t fool anyone tonight. But the longer you keep it up, the more danger you’re in.”
“Just because I won’t let you feel me up!”
“Wouldn’t you?” I drawl, despite my heart beating out of my skin. She’d have to touch me to know it, which isn’t going to happen this evening. But soon. “It didn’t seem too much of a stretch a few moments ago.”
“You are . . . despicable.”
Uncurling my fingers, I press my shoulders against the wall behind me. I might look like a bored aristocrat, but the cool plaster grounds me. Reminds me of my purpose as I slide my hands into my trouser pockets.
“This from the woman who would have the world believe she’d jumped from my bed to my brother’s while the sheets were still warm.”
We’ll call this an artistic liberty, and not just because we seem more suited to tables and walls. Not just artistic but also cruel, I decide, as, with a pang of regret, I watch the heat leave her eyes. Like a candle blown out. I brace myself, expecting some retort as she inhales deeply, her shoulders rising along with her chin. But no, she treats me with more grace than I deserve and possesses more dignity than a queen as she turns her back on me without speaking a word.