11. Crackerbox #2
My fist comes up between us and I dig one knuckle into Holt’s sternum. “And third, if I want to tell you to fuck off, I most certainly will. I was about to dismount crazy Bessie all by myself. There was no need for you and your hero complex.”
Holt’s eyebrows shoot up and he chokes on whatever it is he’s trying to say.
“You heard me. Don’t think I haven’t noticed why you don’t like me.
” I don’t wait for him to disagree, because even I don’t want to make such a polite bastard as Holt lie.
“I don’t simper, or swoon or wait quietly for a man to notice me.
I don’t ask permission. If something needs doing, I get it done.
I don’t know if you’re just a throwback from the 1950s lifestyle or you get a hard-on for weak women, but either way, I don’t care. ”
“I do not have a…” He waves his hand in the general direction of his crotch. His impotence in even being able to say the word ‘hard-on’ surprises a laugh out of me.
Which has Holt smiling.
And as angry as I am, and as much as I want to punch all those reporters and stomp on their cameras, my vagina does a little dance at the flash of Holt’s pearly whites.
My vagina is such a whore.
I let out a big sigh, which blows a lock of hair out of Holt’s face. His smile widens.
To win the war, sometimes strategic retreat is necessary.
Taking the anger out of my voice, I instruct, “Seeing as the kitchen is demolished, you need to order something for dinner. I don’t like Indian food.
Anything else will do.” Then I turn my back on Holt and finish marching up the stairs.
At the top landing I look over my shoulder, catching him staring at my ass.
“And Holt?” His eyes jump up to mine and he blushes.
“That whole ‘getting on my knees to thank you?’ Not going to happen.” He looks down and rubs the back of his neck.
Which is also flushed. “In fact, me being on my knees at all is probably a hopeless fantasy. But you on yours before me?” Holt’s eyes snap back to mine so fast, I’m sure he’s given himself whiplash.
I stretch out the moment, pursing my lips and tapping my chin in contemplation before letting a slow, sensual smile stretch across my face. “Now that might be a mental image I could get behind. Or on, as it were.”
Holt
The mental image of Jules riding my face as I kneel between her legs has me rooted to the spot.
That is, until the cough. A timid, female cough.
I take a deep breath, trying to slow my racing heart and stop the blood rushing to my crotch.
To my hard-on.
There, I can say it. Never mind that I didn’t say it out loud. It still counts. I can’t help it if I grew up not liking foul language. I heard it from my mother enough, I didn’t need to add to it.
And no matter what Jules thinks I think of her, she’s still a woman.
When I’m feeling halfway under control, I face the door to find Melissa standing in the open frame, clutching a bunch of binders and looking at the hardwood floor.
I take one step forward, trying to simultaneously shake my leg and adjust the evidence from my fight with Jules so it isn’t so noticeable.
“Melissa. Can I help you with something?”
I wonder how long she’s been standing there.
“Umm… I’m here to give Ray instructions for tomorrow?”
“Yes, that’s fine. Good.” I wave my hand ineffectually toward the kitchen, where I know Ray is working. “Thanks.”
Still looking down, she makes her way through the remodel landmine, moving quickly, as if the thunder of hammers and power sawing in the other room is the key to her salvation.
Yeah, she’d been standing there for quite some time.
My text message alert sounds and I have to wedge my hand in my back pocket to get it out. Say what you will about cowboys and tight jeans, but they serve a purpose. My phone would’ve slid out while riding Angelo if the denim wasn’t practically painted on my rear end.
One swipe of my thumb and I’m kind of wishing my phone had fallen out.
An angry wail echoes down the stairs. “God damn it, Holt!” Jules’ screech has me hustling outside toward my truck.
I hit my number two speed dial, wedging the phone on my shoulder as I unearth my truck keys from another jean pocket.
“Did you like the pic I texted?” Rose asks, not bothering with hello. “Très romantique, big brother. That one is my personal favorite, but some of the others are swoon-worthy as well.”
“Others?” I wince at the high pitch of my voice. Don’t panic.
“Oh yeah.” There’s some shuffling and muffled voices. “Okay, okay, I’ll ask.”
“Ask what? Who are you talking to?” Getting the door open, I hop into my sun-baked truck.
“Trish. We’re getting our nails done. That’s where I got the Twitter alert on my phone. Color me surprised to see your face flash across modern day social media while getting my feet massaged.”
“Twitter?” I really thought Jules had been overreacting earlier about the reporters capturing the rescue.
“Trish wants to know how pissed Jules is right now.”
When the truck starts, warm air blasts my face. I adjust the vents before saying, “I don’t get it. You all are acting like I did something wrong. I saved her life . Isn’t that a good thing?”
Rose scoffs. “Then you don’t know Jules.
I’m pretty sure she would rather die than be publicly saved by anyone.
Especially a dude. She’s working in a heavily testosterone dominated world, Holt.
Plus, she’s got some weird bad press lately.
It wasn’t much, and no one paid attention, but now this?
” Rose hums ominously. “You think she wants to look like she can’t take care of herself? ”
“Well, obviously, it would have been better if the reporters hadn’t taken that picture. But really, she can’t stay mad forever, right?”
My question is met with silence.
“I mean, I’m only asking because Jules and I have to work together on this wedding. That’s all. No skin off my nose if she wants to throw a fit over a silly picture.”
“Uh huh.” I hate how my sister has such a strong bullshit detector. “Did you even look at the picture I sent you? I mean, that’s the most flattering one of both of you, but even then you can see the death glare on Jules’ face.”
I pull the phone from my ear and manage to get back to my text messages without hanging up on my sister.
She’s right. The photo, well-lit by the waning afternoon sun, was taken just after I managed to haul Jules off her saddle.
The sunlight filters through the dust cloud swirling around Angelo’s hooves and my arm is locked tight across Jules’ abdomen, pulling her in close. It’s actually quite an amazing shot.
If you don’t count Jules’ glare, furrowed brow, and the mutinous set of her jaw.
Rose’s voice is muffled as she directs yet another question to a giggling Trish in the background. “I know, right?” Louder she asks me, “So, did you just call for insight on your screw-up, or were you after something?”
Truthfully, I was hoping Rose would tell me that she’d only gotten the picture through her many and varied connections around Houston and that it wasn’t, in fact, going viral like Jules had feared.
But as that ship has sailed, and I still feel bad for blaming Jules for the reporters in the first place, I might as well hit Rose up for help with a peace offering.
Just, you know, to keep things friendly for the wedding planning.
“I don’t suppose you know what kind of take-out Jules likes?” I ask, remembering Jules’ dinner request. Or demand, rather.
But the silence that stretches out over the airwaves has me shifting in my seat. There is nothing more disconcerting than a quiet Rose.
“Rose? You there?”
“Oh, I’m here. I’m just thinking.”
“I was afraid of that,” I mumble.
There’s some more unintelligible conversation between her and Trish before Rose finally answers me. “Pizza. You can’t go wrong with pizza. But not just any pizza. Boondoggles’ Florentini pizza.”
“Boondoggles? Are you kidding me? That’s an hour away.”
“Sure is. Quick question, though. Exactly how angry is Jules for this little impromptu PR moment? ’Cause I’m thinking it has to be pret-ty bad if you’re asking me for help.” Rose chuckles at my silence. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
The air conditioning on my old truck finally kicks in and I drop my head to the steering wheel, letting the cool air blow over my neck. Phone still at my ear, I ask, “What was the name of that pizza again?”