His hand’s cupping the side of my face now, and his eyes are right on mine. Not on the wound. “How sure?”
I force a swallow, and he focuses on my throat before coming back up. I say, “Very.” And try to pull back, but he doesn’t let me go. “I have a lot of experience with concussions.”
His eyes widen just a tad, because he knows exactly what I mean. I was young—too young—when I had to learn the difference between a contusion, a concussion, and all the other injuries my mom’s boyfriend “lovingly” gave her. “No, you have experience helping someone with a concussion. You haven’t had any yourself, have you?” He raises his eyebrows, waiting for a response.
“Have you?” I retort.
“Please,” he scoffs. “I was the star of my high school football team, remember? Or did your concussion give you memory loss?”
“The football team sucked, and you were far from the star,” I quip. “I’d say you were average at best.”
“You only watched me play once!”
“Yeah, I was one and done,” I say through a giggle. “You were quite the disappointment, Holden Eastwood.”
He doesn’t reply. He just stares and stares. And I stare back. And the longer we hold each other’s gaze, the quicker our smiles spread. So does the warmth in my chest. Because this—this familiar back and forth between us—it feels right.
It feels like I’m flying.
Soaring.
“So you’re okay?” he asks, and suddenly his hand is moving, from the side of my head, across my cheek, and down to my neck. I can’t take my eyes off his. Even when I feel my breaths becoming shorter, my mouth becoming dryer. He doesn’t stop at my neck, though. He moves lower again—his rough, calloused hand moving to my shoulder, my collarbone, beneath my tank.
My exhales are nothing but tiny spurts of air falling from my lips, and now his other hand is on my waist, his fingers curling, grabbing at the fabric and shifting it just enough to palm the small of my back.
I get lost in the contact, the electric charge between us, and I forget who I am. Who he is. Where we are. What the fuck we’re doing. “Holden,” I whisper, and I don’t even know why I say it… what it means.
He inches forward, and I do the same.
“Babe! Where are you?” Brianna calls from inside the house.
We pull apart, like the Red Sea. An ocean of distance between us.
“I’m outside!” he says, standing to full height.
I stay seated.
Brianna steps out, looking flawless, of course. I look away when she rises to her toes and kisses him. Like I probably would’ve kissed him. What the fuck am I doing?
“I have to go,” she says. “I’ll see you soon?”
“For sure. I’ll call you later.” This time, he kisses her. Like he probably would’ve kissed me. And now the question becomes: What the fuck was he doing?
We don’t look at each other. Don’t say a word. Not until we hear Brianna’s car pull out of the driveway far enough that we can no longer hear it. “Grab your stuff,” Holden says. “I have someone coming to look at the damage on your RV.”
13
Holden
I should not have touched her the way I did, but—
But nothing.
I shouldn’t have touched her, period.
The problem? I want to do it again.
What’s even worse is that I don’t know if I want to because of pure lust or… out of spite.
I recognize how fucked up it is that I get some kind of sick, twisted joy from knowing she has such a visible reaction to me.
“Your girlfriend’s beautiful, Holden,” she says, breaking the silence I’ve been drowning in since we got in the car. Granted, it’s only been a few minutes, but it feels like an eternity. Even her fucking voice sets me off… the way she says my name. And why she even feels as though it’s okay to have Brianna’s name in her mouth, I do not know.
“I have eyes,” I murmur. “I’m fully aware of how my girlfriend looks.”
Jamie sighs. “Well, the statement was either going to be your girlfriend or your truck.” I can feel her agitation. Good. “Your truck’s beautiful, Holden!” I’m too busy focused on the road that I don’t see her when she says this… but I can picture it: the exaggerated smile and gritted teeth that come with her usual sarcasm.
I fight back a chuckle. “Thanks.” Then I grip the wheel tighter, trying to reign in my emotions. It is a nice truck—one I don’t deserve. The white Ford F-450 stands out like a sore thumb in a struggling, small farming town like Blessing, and most days, I’m almost ashamed to drive it. “It was a graduation present from my mom and her husband.”
After a beat, she asks, “Your mom got remarried?”
She got married a few months ago, but with her husband’s work schedule, they only recently left for their honeymoon. Three months, around the world, first-class. Because the great Joseph Kovács wouldn’t accept anything less. I peer over at Jamie, nodding. “Yep. To Joseph—Mia’s dad.”
“Oh.”
She probably doesn’t even remember much about Mia or how I felt about her dad. It’s not as if we dated yesterday.
“I thought you hated him.”
So she does remember. Huh. “I don’t have to like him,” I state, glancing sideways at her. “But my mom does, and that’s all that matters.”
She doesn’t respond, which is good because I’m not in the mood to answer questions on that topic. When her RV comes into view, she sits taller, makes a hissing sound.
Yeah, it isn’t good.
And seeing it in the dark last night is nothing compared to how it looks in the light of day. “You called all these people?”
“All?” I scoff. “There are three people there, Jamie.” And no, I only needed to make one phone call.
She keeps quiet as I slow my truck, stopping on the opposite side of the large tow truck. I get out and wait for her at the rear. When she joins me, I tell her, “Wait here.”
“What?”
I roll my eyes. “Wait. Here.”
“Hey!” Maggie calls, walking toward us with the first-aid kit we keep in the office. “You must’ve had some night, huh?”
I sure did.
I glance at Jamie, but she doesn’t respond, too busy looking at the wreckage.
Maggie’s gaze flicks to mine quickly before focusing on Jamie again. She stops right beside me when she says, her words for Jamie, “Holden said you have quite a gnarly gash on your head, so I’m just going to check it out real quick.”
“It’s really not necessary,” Jamie mumbles.
“Maybe not, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, right?”
“Really, it’s—”
“Just let her look at it,” I groan. “I will not be responsible for any brain trauma you may have developed because you’re too stubborn to—”
“Holden!” Maggie snaps. I roll my eyes at her, too, though I’m not sure she can see it through the glare she’s throwing my way.