Chapter Twenty-Two
December
“You’re officially the best son ever.” A hand on his thigh, Holly leaned in to murmur against Colt’s ear, only loud enough for him to hear with the excited chattering of the Municipal Auditorium’s crowd around them.
“Made your future mother-in-law happy.” With a chuckle, he shifted in his seat, draping his arm along the back of hers, engulfing her in warmth and cedar and ocean salt.
The smallish seats, covered in rich goldenrod velvet, meant his leg brushed hers every time he moved.
A single brow crooked, he cast a glance down the row at their mothers and Mrs. Lenora.
“Not to mention my future mother-in-law.”
She made a noncommittal noise of amusement, unsure as always how to respond to those oblique references to their mothers.
Two months in, Mr. Take-It-Slow hadn’t proposed, hadn’t given her a ring, hadn’t even told her he loved her, but he talked like their being married was a done deal.
The disconnect made her want to gut him some days.
With one finger, he traced an idle pattern on her biceps, sensation spiraling out from the simple touch, the way her body reacted whenever he touched her. “We should try out that new coffee shop on Broad after.”
“Sure.” She shrugged, eyeing the way he circled his other fingers over the left front pocket of his jeans.
He’d picked up the habit in the last few days, as well as an edginess that made her nerves sing.
His antsiness made her antsy, especially since the spat they’d had earlier in the week, when he’d folded her scrubs straight out of the dryer instead of hanging them.
That had come on the heels of him fussing the night before because she hadn’t unloaded the dishwasher at his place before work, had been scattered and left their dishes in the sink after he departed.
Maybe the new had worn off for real, taking the honeymoon effect and hormones with it.
Maybe his being married to her was anything but a done deal, and he was too freaking nice to say anything since he’d promised her he wouldn’t leave.
Or maybe he was hanging around because the sex was still hotter than July.
They were good together, finetuning the physical aspect of their relationship. Fantastic sex didn’t mean he loved her the way she needed to be loved, though. She’d learned that lesson really, really well.
He cared about her, yes . . . but she needed more, a more she didn't have the language to ask for.
His thumb nudged her bottom lip, dislodging her teeth from the soft flesh. “What are you worrying about?”
She darted a glance at him, not quite meeting his insightful gaze. “Just thinking.”
“Huh.” That monosyllable that said so much and so little at the same time made her want to disembowel him tonight, too.
He couldn’t just tell her how he felt? His hand tightened on her arm in a gentle squeeze and let go.
The tender little reassurance brought a hot prickle to her eyes, and she blinked hard, grateful for the lights going down, the music picking up as Rick Springfield took the stage, because he saw so much and the vulnerability lately was gut-wrenching.
And she had no one to work it out with verbally.
Lorraine and Barb wouldn’t get it – they’d both been teenagers when they’d fallen in love, and face it, David and Del defined sappy devotion.
The last thing she wanted was Mona worrying because Holly was doubting the durability of the relationship that thrilled her mama.
Normally, Tick would be her go-to, but talking about Colt with him was a no-go.
She could only imagine how that conversation would play out.
Instead, she was slowly driving herself insane and probably taking Colt with her because she was so on edge that everything he did – or didn’t do – made her nuts.
Like this evening out. The idea was perfection, because his date ideas always were, personal and considerate.
He’d snagged great seats, included their mothers and her mama’s best friend because, of course, they all loved Rick Springfield from their youth.
He’d swapped his truck for Pete’s Mercedes SUV and played chauffeur, so no one had to worry about parking.
He’d made Mona happy, and she loved that, loved him for it.
And wanted him to love her back, more and more every day.
She wound her fingers tightly together in her lap, hands clenched the way her heart did when she considered that he might not . . . ever.
Sensation prickled over her cheek, and she turned her head to find him watching her, a slight frown wrinkling his brow.
“What’s wrong?” he mouthed, and she shook her head.
“Nothing.” She blinked again, and his sigh vibrated into her shoulder moments before long fingers untangled her hands so he could wrap his fingers with hers.
With a slight tug, he urged her to her feet and into the aisle.
Conscious of the hundreds of people around them, she resisted his pull. “Colt.”
No one was watching them, though, least of all their mothers, every female eye in the house trained on the man singing about not talking to strangers. He was almost Mr. Gene’s age, but the man was still hot.
With his normal inexorable patience, Colt drew her up the aisle with him to the lobby, where the bored security guards gave them a less-than-interested glance. Her heels clicked on the polished marble, a contrast to the authoritative thud of his boots.
She tried once more to tug free of him. “Colton.”
He refused to let go, but stopped before one of the tall windows, bringing her around to face him. Finally, he dropped her hand, only to cup her face in both palms. “What’s the matter, Hols?”
The diminutive did her in, coupled with the concern and affection in his solemn dark eyes — concern and affection when she wanted so much more. Her eyes filled.
“Please don’t do that.” With a rough groan, he dropped a kiss on her mouth and folded her close, rubbing her back. The soothing comfort didn’t help because he rubbed Laura’s back the same way during a meltdown. “Babe.”
Eyes scrunched shut, she buried her face against his throat.
“Holly.” His sigh rumbled under her chin. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m just hormonal. You know what I’m like right before my period.” She was actually a couple days past the predicted date on her phone, but that was normal. Lorraine could plan a calendar around her cycle, lucky duck. Holly? Not so much.
Another exhale vibrated up from his lungs, and she cringed. Yeah, she wouldn’t fall in love with her either.
He stepped back, swiped a thumb under her left eye so she cringed again, and gave her a gentle shove toward the door to the beer garden. “Come on.”
“Colt, no, they’ll wonder—”
“Pfft.” He reached by her to push the door open, navy blazer stretching taut across his shoulders.
A hint of his subtle aftershave, the source of that cedar smell, wafted over her with the cool rush of outside air.
“They don’t even know we’re gone, and if they do, they don’t care. You want a glass of wine?”
Sure, because alcohol and premenstrual hormones made an amazing mix. “No, sparkling water or something is fine.”
“Give me a second.” He squeezed her arm. “Be right back.”
Reaching for his wallet, he strode toward the bar, weaving through the empty tables scattered about the small garden.
Of course the pretty little area was empty.
All the normal people who could control their emotions were inside, rocking out to “Jesse’s Girl.
” She watched him go, helplessly drawn to the fit of snug denim on his butt and thighs.
She enjoyed looking at his rear end almost as much as she loved flexing her fingers into the muscles there while he thrust inside her.
Brushing a finger under her lashes, she crossed to the iron-and-brick fence, looking toward the riverfront park.
Holiday lights sparkled everywhere, mocking her, and she rested her elbows on the shallow ledge there, designed to hold a drink, maybe a tapas plate.
She released a shaky breath. She had to get it together.
A hard arm snaked about her waist from behind, and he held a sparkling clear-and-red drink before her. “Here.”
She wrapped her trembling fingers around the icy glass. “What is it?”
“Hell if I know.” Humor rumbled in his bourbon-and-honey voice. He hooked his chin atop her head. “I told the guy I needed something classy and nonalcoholic.”
“Classy.” She sipped, sweet and sharp and cranberry flowing over her tongue. “Yep, that’s me tonight.”
“Hey.” He nudged her lower back with a knuckle. “Cut that out.”
She subsided, soaking in the sturdy warmth of his chest at her spine, the strength of his arm across her belly, the hit of sugar and juice and fizz in her drink.
Damn it, he made everything perfect, and she was just a perfect mess.
Silence hung about them in a shimmering bubble, undisturbed by the throb of muffled music from the auditorium and the chatter of voices from the sidewalk. She relaxed into him. Being with him made everything better, even her puffy, sore-boobs PMS days.
He brushed a kiss over her temple, then rubbed his chin on her hair. “I love you, Holly.”
She froze. “What?”
“You heard me.” His chuckle puffed against her hair. “I love you.”
Wrapping cold fingers about his wrist, she elbowed his gut, trying to spin in his embrace.
His right arm took the place of his left, holding her against him while his left hand fumbled near her hip.
“So I didn’t plan on this tonight. I didn’t really have a plan, except not to do something stupid and public like Andy, who went down on one knee then pretended to tie his shoe.
” His left hand appeared before her, a diamond ring sparkling between his thumb and index finger.
“But I’d be honored if you wanted to be my wife. ”
Stunned, she stared at the fire sparking through the gem, the rich gleam of gold.