Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Holly
My carefully curated executive armor dissolves the minute I slip into his shirt, and suddenly I'm just... Holly. Not the financial analyst, not the perpetual little sister—just me.
Drowning in—him.
The scent of pine needles and woodsmoke with something darker underneath, something distinctly Chance, teases my senses with every turn of the fabric as I roll up the sleeves. Pressing my nose to the collar, I inhale deeply.
Warmth floods my cheeks as his scent awakens something I thought I'd outgrown.
Like finding an old mixtape from a time when you fearlessly reached for the high, only wild young love can deliver, despite the inevitable crash landing.
Stepping into a room that seemed far bigger when I wore more clothes is stepping into an intimate dance in his shirt while his heated gaze tracks my every move.
It's not just breaking my carefully graphed rules—it's setting fire to my whole damn presentation.
No. Nope. Not going there. Not when I need every brain cell focused on winning this account.
Glancing away from his hot and wary stare, I dig my socks out of my bag. Red and white stripes because—candy canes.
If I have to be professional all day, my feet deserve to party. Some people have their little black dresses. I have my ridiculous socks.
They’re my tiny act of rebellion against a world of gray suits, glass ceilings, and men who think a lack of dangly bits means a lack of business sense.
"So I've got this figured out," I announce in my desperation to break the tension. I stretch the stripes over my calves and smooth the plush knit over my knees. My fingertips tingle where they brush my skin, nerves firing, no doubt from the two Red Bulls I downed on the plane.
That had to be it.
Definitely not because of how Chance sprawls in that chair, long legs stretched out before him, cargo pants hugging thick thighs in a way that makes my mouth run dry. The fabric pulls taut as he shifts, and I force my gaze away from the impressive display of muscle that comes from years of military training.
Chance's head snaps up from where he's pretending to be fascinated by the TV remote. Whatever he plans to say dies on his lips as his gaze tracks the movement of my hands. A muscle ticks in his jaw, his fingers flexing on the armrest like he's fighting to keep them there.
"Sleeping arrangements." I march over to the bed, my feet silent against the threadbare carpet, grateful my voice stays steady despite the way his gaze follows my every move.
"We sleep head-to-foot. That way, we each get our own blanket barrier, and it's not weird at all."
"Not weird at all," he echoes, but his voice has that rough edge again like a whiskey-soaked promise that should come with its own risk disclosure statement.
I settle cross-legged on the bed, pulling out my laptop. The familiar weight grounds me and reminds me why I'm here.
"I've got work to do anyway. Now that half of my materials are MIA, I need to put together a plan B in case I don’t get my damn luggage back. Vaultress isn't exactly a client you wing it with."
His spine snaps straight. "Vaultress? Vaultress Global—the cybersecurity giant?"
I nod, watching his reaction carefully. Few people outside the industry realize just how significant they are. "You know them?"
"Hard not to. I’m a Cyber Operations Specialist." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and something in his expression shifts from playful to serious. "They're setting industry standards right now. They're who everyone else is trying to catch up to."
"They have a staggering growth rate." Drumming my fingers against my laptop, I debate how much to tell him. Once the words are out, I can't stuff them back in. Right now, I have no audience for my failure. But I can’t deny the appeal of someone else carrying the weight of my secret, someone capable of understanding what I'm up against.
"A growth rate with the potential to launch them into the stratosphere. Problem is, they could just as easily collapse. I vote stratosphere. But if they choose my father?—”
“Wait?” Chance surges forward in his chair. "What does your father have to do with this?"
I trace the edge of my laptop, my nail catching on a scratch in the metal. "He’s my competition."
The muscle in his jaw flexes as his eyes turn predatory. Like I just activated some dormant military protocol in his brain that's now recalibrating everything he thought he knew about this trip.
My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "He doesn't know yet. No one does."
The look he gives me is impossible to read—part admiration, part concern, all intensity. "Holly..."
"Don't." I throw up my hand. I’ve heard it all before, hundreds of times. But I’ve never heard it from him. And for reasons I absolutely will not be looking any closer at, I don’t ever want to. "Don't tell me it's crazy. Or impossible. Or that I should just wait my turn."
"Actually," he says quietly, "I was going to ask why you don't just supersize the approach you know your father will take? Give them the 2.0 version.
A laugh bubbles up, but it's not entirely bitter. "Because that's not necessarily what they need. They think they want the most aggressive growth plan possible—they all do at first. But that's not how I work. I don’t want to give them what they think they want, I want to give them what I know they want.”
His eyebrows lift. “And how will you do that?”
I pull up my template, the familiar three-column structure centering me. “So, numbers don't tell the whole story. You have to watch people. Really watch them."
I glance up to find him studying me intently. The hitch in my breath is entirely coincidental.
“When I present options—steady growth, calculated risk, and what I call the 'dream big' scenario—I'm not just showing them projections. I'm learning who they are."
"How so?"
"Body language. Micro-expressions. Which slides entice them. Which make them shift in their seats." The words flow faster now, excitement building as I explain what makes me different—better—than the old guard. "Most of them don't actually know what they want until they see all the possibilities laid out. Until they understand what they'd have to sacrifice for each outcome."
"And your father doesn't work this way?"
"My father sees numbers as absolutes. Black and white. But people?" I shake my head. "People are all shades of gray."
Chance is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his words are measured. Careful. "What do you think he sees when he looks at you?"
The snort of derision is out before I can stop it. "When I try to show him what I can do, he only sees two possibilities. Either I'm his lily-white daughter marrying the right guy, having the exact right amount of babies, and throwing a mean dinner party for her husband's colleagues—or—I'm the black sheep.
The girl who wears concert tees and checkered Vans off the clock.
The disappointment who'd rather land the account of the decade than land a husband who thinks thinks like my father, and would never consider planning the dinner party because it’s his wife’s job and beneath him."
Chance studies me for a long moment before speaking, his voice careful. "You know you're taking one hell of a risk."
"Sometimes the biggest risks have the biggest payoffs." I adjust my glasses, still unused to their weight after a day in contacts. "I just need one chance." My voice drops to barely a whisper. “One opportunity to prove I belong at the helm of his company and can take his legacy and make it even better."
"Be careful what you sacrifice to prove yourself, Holly. Trust me," he says quietly, tension threading through his words, "becoming what they want doesn't always work out the way you think it will."
Something flickers across his face—a shadow of old hurt I almost miss. Almost. I study him in the dim light, searching for more glimpses of that raw edge underneath. "You did it too, didn't you? Tried to be what someone wanted?"
He shifts in the chair, muscles bunching beneath his shirt. "Let's just say I made some choices. Trying to prove myself." His jaw works. "Ended up proving all the wrong things to all the wrong people."
"This isn't like that," I insist, but his words needle at something tender inside me. "I'm good at this, Chance. The numbers, the strategy, reading people—it's not just about proving something. It's who I am."
"And if your father can't see that?" The question lands soft but cuts deep. "If he's so busy looking for the next version of himself that he misses what's right in front of him—can you live with that?"
"I already am." The words scrape past the lump in my throat. "At least I'll know I tried. That I didn't let him have the final say on my worth."
He nods, something shifting in his expression. "Then it’s time to make sure that presentation is bulletproof."
An hour later, my eyes burn from reviewing slides, but my strategy feels solid. Maybe even unshakeable. I close my laptop, darkness swallowing us whole, and reach for my phone. One quick Google search later?—
"You're a penetration tester???"
He lets out a low groan."Christ, Squirt... aren't you tired?"
"Yes, but now I have questions, and you have answers." The mattress squeaks as I sit up straighter, suddenly wide awake.
"We use the term pen testers."
"Oh, I'm sure you do." I bite back a grin. "Doesn't change the fact that you're definitely a professional penetrator."
He heaves an exasperated sigh. Or maybe it’s the sound of his surrender. He’s known me my whole life. He has to know he’s not getting out of this.
"You're not giving this up anytime soon, are you?"
And there it is. The resignation of a man who knows he's cornered. "Not a chance. What's the accident rate in your line of work? Do you have early withdrawal penalties?"
"Holly..."
The warning in his voice only eggs me on. His resistance is just another asset to leverage. “Remember what I said about training wheels? I ditched mine a long time ago, at the bottom of a an ocean of tequila, but that’s a story for another day.”
His teeth grind loud enough for me to hear, followed by a muttered, "Goddammit."
“Probably a story for a different audience too.”
A few seconds later, his exasperated, "Jesus, not again."
Whatever that means.
"If you don't paint me a picture, I'll just have to use my imagination."
He scoffs. SCOFFS. "I'm not worried. I've seen your art. Stick figures on the back of junk mail—and that's being generous."
"Wow. GI Jackass, I actually have to give you credit for that one."
"I thought that might shut you up."
"Guess again, bunk buddy. Wanna hear a fun fact?"
"I'm pretty sure the correct answer is hell no."
"Too bad. I value a well-rounded education. So did you know..."
"I'm already dreading this."
The ancient heater decides it’s the right time to knock and wheeze to life, drowning out my words.
Suuuuuurrrrreeeeee, take his side.
"As I was saying... did you know, if you were born naturally, the first vajay you had your mouth on was your mother's."
"Dammit, woman. You're going to cause a medical condition saying shit like that."
"A boner killer, am I right?"
"That would be the condition."
"Technically, this particular cause of ED would fall under psychological conditions."
"As does this conversation."
"Okay, mind scrub time. Do you think having your head at the foot of the bed is like picking tails in heads or tails?"
The laugh that bursts from him is pure sin wrapped in velvet—deep, rich, and completely unfair.
It vibrates through me like the raw, potent bass sounds at a Fall Out Boy concert, settling low in my belly and spreading outward until my skin tingles.
The kind of laugh that makes you want to catalog every possible way to hear it again, preferably while he's hovering over you, his breath hot against your neck...
The mattress shifts as he settles in with his head at the foot of the bed. Silence fills the darkness, and despite the mattress under us being old enough to have RSVP’d to Woodstock, my muscles relax. Something about my inability to make out his features makes me brave.
Or maybe just honest.
"What if I'm not enough?" The whispered words slip out before I can stop them. My heart pounds in my ears as the seconds tick by with no reply.
Maybe he's asleep.
He has to be asleep.
Because if he doesn't think I'm enough, I don't—I can't?—
Warm fingers find mine in the dark, his calloused hand sliding against my own.
The ache building in my chest slinks away like a coward in the face of this soldier's quiet strength.
"You see yourself with remarkable clarity, Holly." His voice is quiet but firm. "Don't start doubting that now. That's enough."
I swallow the massive lump parked in my throat.
The confidence in his voice has me blinking back the hot tears.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles. "And Holly?"
"Yeah?" Darkness be damned, my watery voice gives me away.
"When it's not, just know... I see you too."
The room is still, save for the faint creaks of the ancient heater and the soft rhythm of his breathing. The minutes feel stretched thin, like they might snap under the weight of the quiet.
Last night filters back in pieces. Chance’s hand finding mine in the dark, that quiet "I see you too" that somehow felt bigger than four words should.
Opposite sleeping positions were supposed to make this easier. Less weird.
But the reality? I feel him everywhere.
And everything I feel is so very different from our usual antagonism.
The mattress dips where he lies, his broad frame somehow both too close and impossibly far away.
Even head-to-foot, his presence fills the room, each subtle shift of the bed like a ripple I can’t ignore.
Every quiet exhale stirs something restless inside me.
I should close my eyes. Will myself to sleep. Remember my goal. There’s no room for getting distracted by this quietly unguarded version of my brother’s best friend—vulnerable in a way I never thought I’d see. Impossible to ignore.
But I don’t.
Instead, I shift carefully, propping myself up on one elbow.
His shirt rides up slightly, exposing the edge of his lower back, where smooth skin disappears under the waistband of his pants.
I hesitate for a moment before I finally let my fingertips graze the fabric—a tentative touch—and my chest tightens.
Soft and worn from too many washes, it hugs his solid, unyielding strength. Strength you don’t get from desk jobs or weekend gym trips.
What am I even looking for? Some sort of proof that this moment isn’t as precarious as it feels? Some excuse to let myself keep touching him?
I move to his arm, brushing over his tricep. He’s warm, his skin heating the fabric where it stretches taut over the defined muscle. I let my fingers linger, skimming just enough to feel the strength beneath the surface, the life I’ve never been a part of.
Letting my fingers drift lower, I trace the edge of his wrist. The faint ridges of tendon beneath his skin feel like quiet power. He’s utterly still, his breathing even and steady, and for one reckless moment, I let my hand settle over his.
His fingers twitch, a small movement that makes my heart lurch. I freeze, holding my breath as the seconds tick by. But he doesn’t wake.
“You’re going to make this so much harder, you know that?” I whisper into the quiet. The words are too big for the moment, too raw, but they escape anyway.
He shifts slightly, a soft noise escaping his lips, and I press my palm to my chest like I can keep my heart from beating out of it.
But he doesn’t stir further. His breathing evens out again, the steady rhythm a soft comfort I can’t explain.
“Is this what it feels like?” I murmur, my voice barely audible even to myself. “To let someone in?”
The words hang in the air, unanswered, as my fingers curl lightly around his. For a long moment, I let the quiet hold us. Let myself trace the edges of a feeling I don’t know how to name.
Eventually, I sink back against the pillow, careful not to wake him. My hand lingers a second longer before I pull it away, curling it against my chest like doing so might hold onto the moment.