Chapter Three
For a moment, his lips pressed against hers, warm and dry, and the sharp scent of his aftershave filled her nose. A shudder worked through his body, and he froze before he took a step back, colliding with the open truck door. “What the hell was that?”
Holly smothered a sigh. Like she hadn’t anticipated him – his – being difficult. When it came to Calvert men, Tick was easy, while Colton defined complex. Refusing to prevaricate, she jumped in. “It’s not uncommon for an evening out to end with a kiss.”
His shoulders firmed into an impenetrable wall. “We’re not that kind of friends.”
She arched a brow. “Maybe we should be.”
“You cannot just grab me and do that.” He shook his head, neat dark hair gleaming under the streetlights. And that perfectly pressed shirt, the pale blue cotton fresh and crisp. She really wanted to muss him up a little. “If the situation were reversed–”
“Fine, let’s handle the consent issue.” Lifting her chin, she held that dark gaze. “May I kiss you, Colton?”
His jaw tightened, a nerve flicking in his cheek. He jerked a hand toward the cab. “Get in the truck.”
She snorted so hard her nose stung.
“Holly, so help me.” He stabbed a finger toward the driver’s seat. “I will get behind that wheel and send a Lyft for you.”
He would, too. One thing she knew about Calvert men – they said what they meant and meant what they said.
A tendril of excitement unfurled. She knew exactly how far she could push Lamar.
He was her friend, as dear as Lorraine, and she poked at him, like flicking Oscar’s tail in the office.
She’d get a reaction out of Tick, like Oscar would roll over for a tummy rub, precisely three circles before his sharp little claws came out.
Tick was nothing if not straightforward when it came to reading him.
Colton was all layers of meaning, line shifts and enjambments, so the point of no return wasn’t as sharply defined. She wasn’t convinced finding that point and going past it wouldn’t be as satisfying as the final couplet of a Wilfred Owen poem.
“Coffee shop, Colt.” She snapped her fingers and sensed the wave of fury that rolled over him, the concussion after a detonation. “Now.”
He clenched the truck roof so hard his knuckles whitened. “We just had dinner.”
“Well, now we’re going to have coffee.” Spinning, she barely remembered to check for traffic before sauntering across the street, boots clicking a sharp tattoo. Silence hung behind her, but she refused to glance over her shoulder.
Surely he’d follow her.
Surely.
She’d die if he didn’t.
The truck door slammed, and boots scraped on the asphalt in a frustrated rhythm, growing closer behind her. With an effort, she kept her shoulders straight, fending off an urge to sag with relief. A small, secret smile curved her lips.
“This is crazy.” He flung the snarl over his shoulder, long strides taking him past her so he could open the door for her. One arm braced along the edge, he waited, long and lean and vibrating.
That frisson of excitement sparked through her all over again.
Telling him to calm down would be counterproductive.
As she stepped by him, she brushed her bangs to one side.
He followed, close enough she caught another whiff of his aftershave, spiked with the unique warmth of his body.
That was a little exciting, too, a grown-up version of those early days spent being his analysis partner in AP Lit, when they’d sat close together, arguing over context and meaning.
The warmth of him, that deep voice . . .
she’d definitely envied Marissa Lanier her place as his girlfriend.
Jada Prescott had come after that, their senior year, and they’d lasted until after graduation.
Then there’d been some girl at ABAC, some soft little redhead, who’d broken up with him right before that weekend he’d messed up so badly with Allison Barnett.
That weekend had broken his heart, and he hadn’t been the same.
By then, well, she’d been over that junior-year crush. Somewhere along the way, she’d given her heart to Scott, for years now even though another weekend had broken hers, even though each year had torn it a little more and she’d never found enough breathing space to tape it back together.
But all that was then.
“What do you want?” His posture remained tall and taut, jaw tight, but his voice rang even and quiet.
“The strong drip roast.” He knew she didn’t do frou-frou coffee, so why was he even asking? “Oh, hey, get us an apple cake doughnut to share. I’ll grab us a table.”
The cool look he slanted at her said she could act normal all she wanted – he was still peeved.
Well, he’d get over it.
He stalked to the counter, and she cast a quick eye over the available seating. Hmm, yes, the curved booth in the corner, away from the small group gathered around a young man playing guitar and the two other couples celebrating date night.
She slipped onto the padded bench and studied him while he ordered.
One corner of his mouth hitched in a polite smile at something the teenager working the register said while he reached back for his wallet.
The girl turned away to pour coffee and gather their doughnut, and Colt propped his elbow on the tall shelf next to the counter, hip cocked to the side.
Holly smiled. The way he stood and moved? That might be poetry in motion.
With a nod, he accepted their tray and turned, sweeping a glance over the room until his dark gaze landed on her.
Her breath caught in her throat at the intensity in those eyes.
Even angry, he looked at her like she was a particularly beautiful poem, like he sought out the rhythm and rhyme and sound of her.
So different from how Scott had looked at her as time passed, like a bad habit he wanted to excise as much as he wanted to indulge, the way Tick looked whenever someone lit up a cigarette near him, mingled disgust and longing. She wanted to be wanted, but not like that, not anymore.
Covering the distance between them with long, purposeful strides – my Lord, the man’s thighs in snug denim – he set the tray on the table and grabbed a chair from a nearby table, placing himself opposite her instead of beside her on the bench.
Well, he was going to be difficult then. What had she expected, a speedy capitulation? The man had no quit in him, so no, she hadn’t expected him to make it easy.
With a winning smile, she reached for a cup. “Thank you.”
“I reacted badly.” Mouth grim, he peeled the plastic top off his own coffee. “I apologize.”
“I acted without forethought.” That wasn’t strictly true . . . she’d spent much of the evening watching his mouth, wondering what kissing him would be like. The brief taste and feel of him only left her wanting more. She dared a cheeky grin. “And without seeking your consent.”
He didn’t give, expression hewn from stone, fingers a tight curve around his cup. “We’re not that kind of friends.”
She lifted both shoulders in an inquisitive shrug. “Why not?”
His body stilled, pupils dilating before he blinked. “Holly.”
Sensing his momentary short circuit, Holly jumped in for the advantage. “My name isn’t a solid thesis or reasoning, Colton. If you’re averse to us being more than friends, you have to put an argument out there.”
Tilting his head slightly away from her, he narrowed his eyes, a familiar figuring-this-out expression, and she bit back a smile. He was adorable when he was seriously stumped, always had been. And since he wasn’t stumped all that often, she had to enjoy it when she could.
“Reason one.” She leaned forward on her elbows, counting on her fingers. “We’re both single. Reason two, we have a lot in common, including our values. Reason three, I’m pretty sure we’re mutually attracted–”
“Holly.” This time, her name emerged as a pair of strangled syllables. Oh, he was struggling for real. Giddy triumph swept through her. He had no counterargument.
For a long moment, he continued to stare at her, his dark gaze closed and impassive, and her sense of wellbeing cooled somewhat.
Maybe she was wrong, and he didn’t want her.
Maybe the ideas she’d been harboring for two weeks, the liberating options she’d lain awake thinking about while staring into the dark of her bedroom since he’d brought Ralph in and she’d looked at him with fresh eyes, free of the constraints rising from her futile longing for Scott because she’d decided to finally let him, let the idea of them, go .
. . maybe those ideas and options didn’t exist except in her own imagination.
The heavy, dark slashes of his brows drew into a tight vee. “You don’t really mean this.”
“I do.” Needing something to do with her hands, she lifted the doughnut and broke it in half, arranged her piece neatly on a napkin before her. “I’ve been thinking about it – about us – a lot lately.”
That frown cleared, slashes winging up a moment before he expelled a breath, a huff of a laugh dripping with cynicism and insult, old hurts and memories.
Realizing where his thoughts had gone, she drew herself up, vibrating. How dare he think that? “Don’t you even.”
“Been used as a substitute for him before.” He lifted his cardboard cup in mocking salute.
“No, you were used as a weapon to hurt him.” If Allison had wanted to bring Tick to heel, her plan had backfired spectacularly.
Whatever her intent, she’d done spectacular damage to both of them.
Chasing any of that wouldn’t help Holly now, though.
She leaned forward again. “For me to use you as a substitute for him, I’d have to want him, and I don’t. I never have.”
“Right.” He stretched the word into two disbelieving syllables. Slumping into the chair, he extended his legs and crossed his arms over his chest, elbow on his wrist while he sipped. “You two were all up in each other whenever he was home, right up until he went to Texas.”