Holden (Southern Moon Trilogy #1)

1. Holden

1

HOLDEN

T he bookstore smelled like old pages and dust, with just a whisper of coffee wafting in from the café next door. Housed in an old apothecary, some sections featured new bestsellers and some featured used books ranging from rare finds to dusty old dime novels. It was quiet, except for the soft shuffle of feet and the occasional sigh from people pretending to be more profound than they really were. I sat in my usual spot—nestled by a back window between two shelves of leather-bound classics nobody actually ever picked up. Hawthorne and Melville stared down at me like disappointed fathers, judging the cigarette tucked between my fingers. Holden Goodloe, rebel without a cause, and proud of it.

I liked this corner. It felt safe, hidden, like I could disappear into someone else’s words. I skimmed my tattered copy of Don Juan , my favorite lines underlined in various markings—some in pencil, some in ink—depending on how many times I’d come back to them.

Society is now one polished horde,

Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

If Byron had wandered Charleston’s streets, his pen would’ve sliced through its charm with a sharper edge. Far away from his nineteenth century London, the biting commentary applied just the same. Charleston, perched on the shores of South Carolina where the marshes meet the Atlantic, wore its charm like a mask. The flickering lanterns lining the piazzas and pastel-painted facades whispered of old money and gentility, but beneath the Spanish moss and cobblestone streets, it was bourbon-fueled gossip and garden parties curated with surgical precision. It was a city where the tides ebbed and flowed with secrets, and the Bores and the Bored thrived, swapping small talk as sharp as oyster knives.

“Excuse me,” a silken voice cut through the quiet. “Do you know where the poetry section is?”

I didn’t look up right away. I didn’t have to; I already knew it was trouble.

I’d seen her earlier. I’d followed her, actually—into a book club meeting at Press, the hybrid bookstore and coffee shop that was practically my second home. The twin storefronts on King Street connected inside, letting you flow between caffeine and literature.

They were hosting a Spring series marketed as a revisiting of classics you were supposed to have read in high school (but probably let SparkNotes do the heavy lifting). I figured I could stomach public discussion on The Great Gatsby if it meant watching her.

“I guess that depends on what you’re into,” I muttered, still tracing Byron’s words with my thumb.

“Well,” her tone dipped into a playful edge, “in an ideal world, something that bites me and then kisses me.”

That made me glance up. Her face matched her voice—trouble, in the best way.

She looked like she’d stepped out of a vintage film. Her warm chocolate-brown curls, loosely gathered with a clip, framed her face as a few strands brushed the shoulders of her faded Velvet Underground tee. A row of chunky silver rings glinted on her fingers above short, dark-polished nails, and her smile was like a dare—dangerous, magnetic, impossible to ignore.

High-waisted jeans hugged her body—long and lean like a dancer’s, with just enough softness to accentuate her curves—while her knotted tee revealed a sliver of her toned stomach.

Moon, written in an artistic scrawl, covered the side of her designer leather bag, the artistic script painted in bold blues and lilacs. The bright rebellion against the signature brown checkerboard made me chuckle. A girl who gave no fucks about vandalizing a thousand-dollar bag was my kind of paradox.

She stared through me with heather-gray eyes lined in silver, her dark lashes curled like punctuation marks. I felt nervous all of a sudden, like she was reading my fortune, my past, and all my secrets in between.

“Good luck with that.” I flicked ash into the coffee cup I’d been using as an ashtray. “Most poetry barely knows how to touch you, let alone leave a mark.”

She leaned against the shelf, arms crossed, her eyebrow arching like she’d just decided I might be worth her time. “And Byron? Does he leave a mark?”

She gestured at the book in my lap. “You looked like you were having a moment.”

“Byron?” I said, closing the book as I stared up at her. “He’ll kiss you slow, deliberate, like velvet dragging over bare skin—leaving you breathless. But his bite? That’s where it burns, sharp and electric, sinking in just deep enough to leave your lip swollen for days.”

“Well, when you put it that way, a date with Byron doesn’t seem too bad. It is a Friday night. You going out later?”

I scoffed.

“You must be fun at parties.”

“A real ball. How’d you know?”

She tilted her head, studying me like a painting she wasn’t sure she liked yet. “You a student at CSAL?”

I shrugged. “On the days I can be bothered to go.”

“Let me guess.” Her grin widened. “Broody literature major?”

“Wow, you’re psychic.”

“Not really, Heathcliff. You scream the tortured artist type.”

“Heathcliff,” I grinned, impressed with her literary reference—and her boldness in making fun of me. “Close, but drop me in Manhattan with cigarettes, cocktails, and some ducks, and you’d be closer.”

Her eyes widened, her grin sharpening. “Shut the fuck up. Your name isn’t actually Holden?”

“Guilty,” I said with a shrug.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “That’s a bit on the nose. I’m Moon, by the way.”

“Like the ball in the sky?”

“Like the ball in the sky,” she deadpanned.

I tilted my head slightly, really looking at her now. Her face was striking, all the delicate angles softened by full lips painted in a soft neutral that highlighted the faint dimples appearing when she smiled. Her silver earrings, clustered up her left ear, glittered like constellations, with a crescent moon charm dangling behind her curls.

“You go to CSAL too?”

“I do.” Her lips curved into a sly smile. “I moved here for their musical theatre program. It suits me, I think—free spirited, artsy, always chasing a spotlight.”

“Fitting. The moon’s always putting on a show—just enough light to draw you in, but never close enough to catch.”

“Oh, so you want to catch me now, Heathcliff?” She gestured toward the café. “I was just about to grab a coffee. Want to come?”

I should’ve said no. Every instinct I had screamed at me to stay in my corner with my dead poets and my cigarettes. But the way she looked at me—it felt like a challenge.

“Sure.” I started standing before I could talk myself out of it.

As we stepped into the café part of Press, the air wrapped around me, warm and heady with the smell of coffee and cinnamon. Press was always buzzing but never loud, its sounds more like a hum of turning pages, quiet chatter, and the rhythmic hiss of the espresso machine.

The space felt like a time capsule, mismatched in a way that somehow worked. Old mahogany shelves lined the walls, crammed with books and knick knacks—ceramic owls, antique clocks, and half-burnt candles in brass holders. The tables were just as mismatched, ranging from scuffed oak to sleek, modern surfaces, paired with a hodgepodge of chairs and armchairs that looked like they’d been scavenged from a hundred different homes.

Moon strode up to the counter like she owned the place, her silver rings glinting as she tapped her nails rhythmically against the glass display case.

“I’ll have a double cappuccino,” she told the barista, her voice light but confident, like she knew she didn’t have to ask twice.

The barista, a wiry guy with glasses and an apron too clean to belong in a place like this, grinned as he started making her order. The way he smiled said he’d seen her here plenty of times, enough to know what she liked.

I lingered behind her, my gaze sliding down to the curve of her waist and landing on the round, perfect swell of her ass. Her jeans hugged her so tightly, and fuck, my hand tensed at the thought of grabbing it.

Moon glanced over her shoulder and smirked, catching my eye. “Are you just gonna stand there and brood, or would you like to order?”

I blinked, caught off guard for just a second. The gangly teenage girl at the cash register tilted her neck to look up at me when I stepped forward. “Dark roast. Black.”

The girl stared, her hand hovering awkwardly over the register. Her gaze flicked to my face—my chestnut hair, slightly tousled, my cheekbones that always made me look a little sharper than I felt, and my eyes, pale green with flecks of amber. She lingered on them, and I could see the moment her breath hitched. Moon did too.

The girl stammered slightly as she keyed in the order, her hand brushing against mine as she handed back my card. She flushed pink, her lips slightly open like she wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. Moon caught the whole thing and let out a chuckle, shaking her head as we walked away from the counter. “You’ve got a real fan there, Heathcliff,” she teased.

I raised an eyebrow at her. “You jealous?”

She led the way to a small table tucked near the window.“Should I be?” she asked, her voice light but laced with challenge.

The table she chose was surrounded by two armchairs that didn’t match but looked equally worn, the fabric on the edges smoothed and faded from years of use. Moon dropped into one of them, leaving me the one closest to the window.

We weren’t quite sitting across from each other—it was more diagonal, our chairs angled just enough to make the space feel intimate. She set her cappuccino on the table and leaned back, crossing her legs as she stirred the foam with the tip of her spoon.

As we settled into the café, Moon toyed with a sugar packet on the table, her silver-ringed fingers catching the light.

“So, what’s your deal?” Her voice cut through the soft hum of the café as she settled into the chair across from me. Her elbows rested on the table, her fingers absently tracing the edge of her cup.

I raised an eyebrow, leaning back in my chair. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, her expression light but curious, her voice softening just enough to make me pay attention. “You just give off this 'I’m too cool for everything' vibe. Some of it’s the look—your classic white Oxford with a few buttons undone, your sleeves rolled in this effortless nonchalance. And the hair. You have that perfect disheveled ‘I didn’t do anything to my hair, but it just naturally falls like that’ guy thing. But some of it’s just you. You’ve got this quiet intensity, like you’re constantly observing the world, deciding what deserves your attention. It’s compelling, honestly, but also infuriating.”

I tilted my head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “So you think I’m cool?” I prodded, my tone half-teasing, half-disbelieving.

She rolled her eyes, with a trace of dry amusement. “No. I said ‘too cool.’ Big difference.”

That earned a soft chuckle from me, quiet but real. “I don’t think I’m ‘cool,’” I set my empty cup on the table. “I just don’t really care about the shit most people think is important.”

Her gaze sharpened, and she leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting more firmly on the table. “Is that what it is? A lack of caring? Or are you just really good at pretending you don’t?”

She was watching me too, like she was trying to piece me together—figure out if I was worth her time. Most people pretended they had the world figured out, but Moon wasn’t like most people. And something about her felt like she’d see through any bullshit I threw at her.

“I think you care more than you let on.” The way she looked at me, like she was reading between the lines, made my chest tighten.

I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes slightly. “So, what are you really asking?”

She smiled then, quick and playful, like she was letting me off the hook just enough to keep me guessing. “So, what are you really doing here?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Here as in this coffee shop, or here as in life?”

She laughed at that, her grin widening. “Either.” She leaned closer, her elbows now firmly planted on the table. “You seem like the kind of guy who does a lot of thinking but not much doing.”

I let the silence stretch, turning her words over in my mind. “Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what I should do, what I want to do. Not just…do what everyone expects me to.”

I kept my voice steady, but even as I said the words, I felt the weight of them settle between us. She didn’t push, didn’t break the moment with something clever or flippant. Instead, she just watched me, her expression unreadable but open in a way that made me feel like she might actually understand.

And for once, I didn’t mind being seen.

“Why’d you really join the book club, Holden? Don’t tell me it was for The Great Gatsby .”

“It wasn’t,” I admitted. “I saw you going in.”

Her eyebrows arched, and her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Bold.”

“Figured if it sucked, I could leave early.”

“And?”

“Fitzgerald doesn’t suck,” I said. “The club? Jury’s still out.”

She laughed, low and smooth, leaning forward like she was letting me in on a secret. “You know, I’m not even a Gatsby girl. I prefer The Beautiful and Damned .”

I tilted my head, smirking. “Ah, I see. So which one are you—the beautiful or the damned?”

Her heather-gray eyes locked on mine like she had the answer and was daring me to guess. “Aren’t we all a bit of both?”

“Touché,” I murmured, the corner of my mouth curling. “So you think I’m a little beautiful,” I teased with a cheeky grin.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a languid grin that sent a ripple through me. “You’re definitely a little beautiful, Heathcliff.”

I stared into her eyes, the silver lining catching the light, and couldn’t help breaking the banter with honesty. “In this scenario, I think you’re the beautiful one. And I’m the damned.”

She sipped her cappuccino, her lips curling into a wry smile as she set the cup down. “Well, you got half of that right. But I like my men a little damned. Makes saving them more fun.”

“Well, fuck me.” My eyes widened as I shook my head, the grin spreading across my lips. “You make salvation sound like foreplay.” I leaned in, my voice dropping low, letting the weight of the words settle between us. “The kind that starts slow—warm, sweet, teasing—until you’ve got a man begging to sin all over again, just to see if you’ll save him twice.”

Her fingers paused mid-motion against the rim of her cup, her eyes darkening as they met mine. “And would you beg?” she asked, her voice soft, almost taunting.

“Do you want me on my knees?” My lips curved into something wicked as I let the words hang between us, daring her to answer.

She didn’t hesitate. Leaning in, her breath brushed against the shell of my ear, her voice low and smoky. “Oh, I’d take you on your knees, Heathcliff,” she murmured, pulling back just enough, her silver-lined eyes locking onto mine. “But you wouldn’t be praying for salvation. You’d be begging me to sin.”

She flicked the sugar packet onto the table like a gambler laying down a winning hand.

“You’re something else, Moon.” My gaze dragged over her, lingering on the curve of her neck, the line of her collarbone, and the subtle shift of her hips. “The easy confidence. The poise. The sexy banter laced with sweetness. Not to mention how stunning you are. And your style. It’s such a nice change from Charleston’s pearls and pastel cardigans.”

I paused, looking at her with a faint smile. “You’re this perfect mix of wildness and charm. And it’s doing me in.”

Moon’s eyebrows lifted just slightly, as if caught off guard, but the spark of delight in her eyes was unmistakable. “I’ll take it.”

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, her voice dipping just enough to draw me in. “So I guess you’re not unshakable after all? A guy who acts like he’s above it all, but deep down? You’re just waiting for someone to call your bluff.”

I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. “And you think you’re the one to do it?”

Her eyes gleamed as she sat back, her fingers toying with the rim of her cup. “I guess we’ll see.”

She stood, her silver-lined eyes holding mine for a fraction longer, daring me to look away. “Maybe I’ll be seeing you, Heathcliff,” her tone feather-light but threaded with intent. “Let’s see if you leave a mark.”

I watched her walk away, her steps unhurried, her dancer’s body graceful and light. There was something in the way she moved; it felt like the pull of the tide—steady, inevitable—and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to resist or let it take me under.