Chapter 13 Hollis
Holy shit.
I mumble the words under my breath as I take in the activities around me.
I don't know what I expected when I agreed to accompany Larissa to her stepfather's event, but I think it was all along the lines of something like a football banquet.
A table of food with caterers, even. I figured there would be a stage for people to get up and talk about a bunch of shit nobody really cares about.
This is not that.
A large ballroom in a ritzy hotel in Savannah sits in front of us. It’s filled to capacity with men and women whose Audis and Mercedes surround my Mustang in the valet.
I look down at Larissa.
That fucking dress has given me a hard-on since the moment I saw her. It was difficult to hide in front of her cousin, and it made the car ride here uncomfortable. Every time I look at her, I have to battle not throwing her over my shoulder and carrying her out of here.
The fabric is soft and hugs her body in a way that makes me jealous. Her exposed shoulder showcases a swath of tanned skin, and the slit up her right leg is a tease if I’ve ever seen one.
I might not have had the nicest car in the parking lot, but I have the hottest date. Period.
Larissa looks up at me through thick, dark lashes and smiles nervously. “Hanging in there?”
“I feel like you didn’t accurately describe what we were getting into,” I tease her. “I heard some work event for your stepdad, and you brought me to a who’s who of Georgia.”
She giggles. “This is one of the more low-key affairs of the year. You should see the Fourth of July thing. They get a boat and caterers, and there are fireworks. Last year, someone brought a giant floating duck that attracted a shark, and things got a little hairy.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Can I get an invitation to that?”
She laughs.
A woman approaches Larissa. I’m briefly introduced, but her name slides right by me. They get involved in a conversation that I lose interest in immediately. Instead of trying to follow along, I gaze around the room and wonder what her stepfather does for a living.
The walls of the banquet room are covered in black bunting. Lights shine behind it that somehow make the room feel like a forest or some kind of magical cave. Trees and shrubs have been brought in to add to the effect.
It’s definitely on a level I’m not used to.
The five-piece band is playing smooth jazz, the commercially-oriented crossover jazz.
From memory, I know it became dominant in the eighties.
But it suits the opulence of the night and is doing exactly what it’s intended to do by creating an easy-listening ambiance.
Maybe my music minor isn’t a bust, after all.
Round tables are set up throughout the room, and I know from a communications class I took that the arrangement encourages conversation. I wonder if all the conversations tonight will include the life-sized ice sculpture of a man with a baseball bat pointing at the sky in the middle of the room.
Larissa touches my arm and brings my attention back to her.
“Okay,” she says. “Sorry about that. That woman is a talker.”
“It’s cool.”
She exhales. “My mother knows we’re here. Are you ready to start our mission?”
“I’m ready and willing.”
“Good. Before we go over there, her name is Trista Cunningham. Her husband is Jack Cunningham.”
I gasp. “They have the same last name?”
She smacks my arm. “Don’t be a dick.”
“Anything else less obvious that I need to know?”
Her gaze sweeps around the room before it comes back to me.
“Jack co-owns the Savannah Seahawks. They’re a minor league baseball team. These people are management, players, former players, businesses that sponsor different ballpark events, or bankers. You get the idea.”
I nod.
“But,” she says, lowering her voice, “none of that specifically matters to us. Our mission is solely on my mom.”
“Right,” I whisper conspiratorially.
Something about her enjoys this little game of us teaming up to … do whatever it is we’re doing. But I get it. I kind of like it too.
“Give me my marching orders again,” I tell her. “I’m supposed to make your mom think I’m totally obsessed with you, right?”
“Well, I mean, if you have to be obsessed, then do.” She pretends to be flattered, making me laugh.
“But really, I just want her to think I’m seeing someone so she’ll stop setting me up with random guys who I have no interest or business dating.
Because if you weren’t here, she would’ve set me up with someone, and she’d be naming our future children by now. ”
“Rude.”
She shrugs. “It comes from a good place. I think.”
“I’m going to warn you,” I tell her. “If she’s after cute grandkids, you’re in trouble. One look at me, and she’s going to think about how she hopes her daughter breeds some of these genes into your gene pool.”
“Breeding your genes into my gene pool?” She lifts a brow. “When you say it like that, it’s such a turn-on.”
I laugh. “Would you like me to rephrase?”
“No.”
She swats me again, but this time, I grab her wrist. Her eyes go wide as they meet mine, and her breathing stalls in her chest.
We haven’t talked about the kiss from last night. And while we might not have talked about it, I know she’s thought about it. She’s replayed it ten times in her mind since I’ve picked her up. I’m not judging her because every time I catch her looking at my mouth, I’m thinking about it too.
Logic tells me that kiss was a mistake. Why bother kissing a girl who I know on a cellular level could get under my skin? I’ve made it a mission in my life—went completely out of my way—to avoid anyone I think might be able to get to me.
Honestly? It hasn’t been that hard.
I’m down to fuck. One-night stands are fine. Great, actually. I’m game for a friends-with-benefits situation too. But none of those circumstances involve kissing.
Sex is different. It’s an exchange. Kissing, though, is a connection.
You can fuck someone and not have to face them.
You do what you want to the other person’s body, but it has nothing to do with them as a person.
Intercourse is a pleasure transaction. Kissing is a communication, an intentional decision to face someone and form a personal connection.
Fuck. That.
Yet I kissed her last night. Even worse, I want to kiss her again against my better judgment.
She squirms her hand free and lays it flat on the lapel of my jacket. Her breathing gets quicker.
“Would you rather I demonstrate?” I ask.
She tries to hide her smile. “Does that mean you’re thinking about kissing me again?”
“This isn’t about me,” I tell her, lowering my face toward hers. “This is about what suits you right now.”
She forces a swallow. Notes of amber in her perfume float through the air as her body undoubtedly heats.
I’m playing with fire here. And I just can’t stop myself.
“This is a public place, Hollis,” she says as if that would stop me.
“Does that mean whatever you’re thinking about is not PG-13?”
She flushes the prettiest shade of pink as she fingers the edge of my jacket. “I’m just thinking that I need to be the object of your affection while we’re here. Can you do that?”
I nod. “I can do that.”
She pats my chest, and I take a step back. She looks simultaneously relieved and disappointed at my movement. The thought that she liked me that close to her sends a surge of testosterone through me.
“Okay,” she says, clearing her throat. “Let’s go see Mom and Jack.”
“Let’s do it.”
She turns to walk away, and I instinctively want to grab her hand. I stop myself, but then I realize that if I was her man, I’d sure as hell be holding onto hers right now.
Play the part, Hollis.
I reach out and take her palm in mine. Our fingers lace together.
She looks at me over her shoulder and then down at our interlocked hands.
“What?” I ask. “You wanted to be the object of my affection.”
“Fair enough.”
She looks away but not before I see her satisfied little smile.
We wind through the faux forest, pausing every now and then when someone says hello to Larissa. She introduces me to each person as her boyfriend. Much to my surprise, the sound of that doesn’t make me cringe.
She chats easily with each person, asks questions about their business or child and even someone’s cat. Her attention to detail is awe-inspiring. Judging by their contented expressions, each person walks away feeling like the most important person in the room.
How the hell does she do that?
I spot her mother before we even get close.
She has Larissa’s blond hair and curvy figure.
She also wears a version of Larissa’s smile.
It’s not as warm or quite as kind, and I can’t really imagine her throwing her head back and laughing like her daughter either.
But the resemblance is close enough to pick her out of a room.
“Hi, Mom,” Larissa says as we approach them. “Hi, Jack.”
They smile as they see us coming.
Jack holds a glass tumbler of dark liquid, and Trista clutches a glass of pink-colored wine. They both do a quick assessment of me. I’m not sure what Jack thinks, but I can tell I pass Trista’s inspection.
Trista tears her eyes off me long enough to say hello to her daughter.
“Hi, Riss,” she coos, pulling my date into a hug that requires me to let go of her.
“Hey, Mom.”
As soon as she releases her mother, I take her hand again. I don’t think she minds.
“Glad you could make it, Larissa,” Jack says, smiling kindly. “And who is this strapping young fellow that you have with you?”
“Mom, Jack, this is Hollis,” she says.
I extend my free hand to Jack. “I’m Hollis Hudson. It’s nice to meet you, sir.”
He seems to appreciate the respect. His handshake is firm. “We’re glad you could join us.”
Trista’s wineglass sways in her hand as she takes a closer look at me. “Where did you meet Riss?”
“At Paddy’s,” Larissa says before I have a chance to answer. “We both reached for a chair at the same time.”