Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Holly
Someone should really invent a system for ranking awkward silences. Like a Richter scale, but for measuring the seismic waves of discomfort radiating between two people trapped in a truck after one catches the other fondling her underwear.
Twenty minutes from the lodge, and my brain won't stop replaying the image of Chance in nothing but a towel as he studied my manifestation panties like they held nuclear launch codes.
Well, my systems are activated, and my rockets launched, thankyouverymuch. My girl zone is arcing harder than a live wire. I’m shocked he can’t hear the snap, crackle, and pop.
Heat crawls up my neck as I remember the way his fingers traced the cursive script with something close to reverence. Or maybe that was just my hormones reimagining things because, holy body, damn him.
While he studied my underwear, I studied the mouthwatering roadmap of corded muscle with intriguing dips and valleys, my fingers itching to touch the entire time.
Look, don’t touch, dear.
And there’s my mother’s voice again—the lady box-blocking queen.
But touching is so much more fun.
And in this case, about the dumbest thing I could do.
I’ve seen him in less over the years—weekends at the lake, Fourth of July blowouts where our moms weaponized red, white, and blue, drowning the southeastern shore of Sebago Lake in tacky Americana.
Then came the two-year transformation: from scrawny runt to buff jock, strutting around like Tom Brady showing off his Super Bowl rings.
Told you—GI Jackass isn’t just a nickname. It’s fifteen years of foreshadowing wrapped in cargo pants and ego.
I steal glances at his profile between frantic taps on my phone, searching for any update on my wayward luggage. The sharp angles of his face catch the morning light, all barely contained intensity as he navigates the winding mountain roads. His jaw ticks —that telltale flex that says he's wrestling with something bigger than road conditions. Every twitch of that muscle sends an answering pulse between my thighs.
Jesus, when did that start happening? My body's sudden betrayal is definitely not part of the master plan.
Master plan. Yes. Focus.
“We need to talk.” The words pop out of me like a champagne cork—loud, sudden, and with absolutely no chill. Unless, of course, it was chilled.
Oof, I will forever be grateful I didn’t let that turd of a joke slip from between my lips. God.
His fingers still on the wheel. "About this morning?—"
"No!" Heat floods my cheeks. "Nope. Uh, about my father."
The muscle in his cheek twitches, a dead giveaway, like it’s putting on its best national performance hoping to make the Olympic jaw-flexing team. “What about him?”
Here goes nothing. “I need you to pretend you can’t stand me.”
He jerks. The truck swerves slightly before he steadies it, his reaction more telling than the neutral “Come again?” that follows.
“When we get there.” The words spill out, an avalanche of nerves I can’t stop. “I need you to act like I’m still the annoying little sister who drives you nuts. Kick it up a notch, even—who do you have the most disdain for—I’m them. Make it happen.”
“Yeah, I’m not do?—”
“Please.” My voice cracks, shrinking into that pathetic little girl who used to trail after him and Nick, desperate to be included. And now, for the pièce de résistance of humiliation: “My father… he hasn’t confirmed it, but I have this sinking feeling he’s bringing Blake. And he’s not exactly subtle about nudging Blake my way every chance?—”
“Wait.” His voice sharpens. “Blake? The suit Nick said’s been sniffing around your dad for the past year?”
“That’s the one.” My laugh comes out more wheeze than humor. “Pretty sure Dad sees Blake running the company while I play corporate Barbie. But there’s no universe, multiverse, or alternate dimension where I’m going blond.”
The growl he chokes back sends a shiver down my spine, dangerous and somehow… gratifying. Sunlight catches on his white-knuckled grip on the wheel. “And you’re thinking?—”
“If my father sees us getting along—because when the hell have we ever gotten along—I know him, he’ll latch onto the hope that we’re together or something. He’ll get it in his head that I’m finally coming around. Getting ready to settle down at some point sooner rather than later.”
“With me?” His tone sharpens an edge that makes my skin tingle.
“Not necessarily with you, genius. Just overall.” My tone comes out snippier than I intend. “And with someone safe. Someone from the right social circle.” I wrinkle my nose at the word. “Which, unfortunately, includes you.”
"I'm barely in his social circle and I sure as hell am not safe." There’s that growl again, low and simmering, and my stupid toes curl.
“Not that it matters…” His jaw tightens, and the words come out clipped. “Because you’re not with me.”
Ouch. Okay then. Curling aborted.
“I’m so glad you made that clear. I was confused for a hot minute. Crisis averted GI Jackass. Still, I’d rather not fuel any hopeful assumptions on his part.”
“So what—you want to pretend nothing’s changed?”
My stomach twists at the subtle shift in his voice. Is it because he thinks it has?
"So what—you want to pretend nothing's changed?"
My stomach drops as his words hit too close to those quiet moments in the dark. When I let myself trace the edges of his wrist, feeling the quiet strength there. Let my fingers drift over his skin like I had any right to.
Oh God.
He wasn’t awake. No way. GI Joe would not have just laid there and let me—nope—sure, his fingers twitched under mine, but that was totally involuntary. Meant nothing. Did not mean he knows I— what?
Doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know. I will not be served with a restraining order. It’s all fine.
Changed?
Pshawww, please.
"How has anything changed?" I force a shrug. Not that it matters. Whatever new ground this is between us, it has no place in the week ahead.
Right on cue and ready to ruin my life, the memory of his steady breathing, the warmth of his skin under my fingertips, the way I whispered things into the darkness I never meant for him to hear—it all crowds in, threatening to suffocate me.
Bury it now. Slap a tombstone on it. Move right along.
He flicks a glance in my direction, opens his mouth as though he's going to say something, and instead shakes his head and closes it once again. There's something in his expression that makes my chest tight. Like maybe he knows exactly what I did in those stolen moments when I thought I was safe.
Time to get my man—not my man , but this man, panty bandit, or whatever—out of the corner he's trying to march us into. And maybe save myself from finding out just how awake he might have been.
“Nothing has changed, soldier boy. Fondling my my juju bits does not a commitment make.”
“I was not fondling your juju bits. I was fondling yo—never mind.”
“Fine, my crotch curtain.” This. Humor. Humor is good. Humor is healing. It’s not denial at all. Course correction at its finest!
His wince is priceless, like I stepped on his junk with my heel. “Those are two words that never need to be side by side again.”
“Undercarriage cozy, better?” I’ve got so many more where that came from, soldier boy. This is my lane. My arm floaties in the deep end.
And since I’ve never been able to resist a challenge, I’m in the deep end a lot. I really should take swimming lessons. Slap those right on the list after win the company and not falling for ‘ole GI Joe over here with the big— er —guns.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “And another two.”
Two guns at least at last count because—you know what, doesn’t matter—I’ll just task my overactive brain with adding the guns to the flick files.
“Privates po?—”
“You’re a menace.” He pierces with a look that probably works on his subordinates. He forgets I’ve seen him as a grown ass man in an ugly Christmas onesie.
One that was a size too small. Not that I noticed— much. Look, I’m programmed to notice those things, okay? Especially when those things practically walk into the room before he does.
And the third gun enters the chat. His third gun’s got game.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead— for reasons , I raise and waggle my finger. “Baby sister, it’s in the job description.”
“You’re not my baby sister.” His voice dives into the deep end of my pool and I’m pretty sure I hear the telltale hiss of my floaties deflating.
I’m gonna need soldier boy over here to stop dropping lines like he’s serving looks.
“Look, if he passes the company to me, I want it to be on my own merit.” I go for the kind of in-your-face confidence I’ve mastered in the corporate world, but at the moment, my words come out softer. More like the optimistic dreamer I used to be. “Not because he thinks I’ve found someone who’ll make me settle down and behave.”
That damn tender underbelly of mine has a big mouth and likes telling all my secrets.
She and I are going to have to have another loyalty talk.
He flashes a quick grin. “Behave? He should’ve seen you at baggage claim.”
The band squeezing my chest eases with one line—one smile.
Just like that— balance restored.
“And definitely not because he hopes I’ve finally learned my place.”
“Your place?” He snorts, the edge softening into humor. “Men stopped placing women somewhere around the time we lost track of the remote.”
“Not men like my father.”
The fresh blanket of snow turns into a dazzling carpet of diamonds under the powerful sun. It should be beautiful. Instead, it feels like nature conspiring to spotlight every worry gnawing at my insides.
"Shouldn't be too hard anyway. You and Nick will fuck off up the mountain to some super secret ceremonious circle jerk like you always do. You guys and your covert traditions. You act like you’re the first line of protection for the Infinity Stone."
His eyes cut to mine for a split second, something unreadable flickering in their depths. "Nice mouth, Squirt. Nick can crank his own dick, thanks. Bitter much?"
I roll my eyes, refusing to let him see how much his words affect me. "Please. I'm way too mature to hold decade-old grudges about being excluded from your sword-swinging boys’ brigade." Crossing my arms, I aim for nonchalance. "I outgrew giving a shit a long time ago."
Chance slides me a look, one eyebrow arched. "You sound like it. Must be why you spent that one whole week alone stalking the shit out of us."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. "I was twelve!"
"You were a felon in the making." His lips twitch, fighting a smile.
"Gee, and look at me now. No record." This is where I’d flip my hair for emphasis if I hadn’t cut a bunch of it off.
"Yet." He shakes his head, but there's something almost fond in his tone that makes my stomach flutter. "So damn stubborn then. Still are."
His gaze locks with mine, and for a moment, the air between us crackles with an energy I can't quite name. It's like some primal part of me recognizes it and responds to it on a cellular level, hijacking my heart rate all over again.
I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my pulse pounds in my ears. "It's not like it was a no-girls-allowed sausage fest. That local girl used to hang out with you guys all the time. Sierra something. She was allowed to hang with the boys."
"Sierra was different." Chance's thumb taps against the steering wheel, a subtle smile curving his lips. "Besides, maybe some things are worth the wait."
The words hang between us, loaded with a meaning I'm not sure I'm ready to unpack.
Different how? The question claws at the back of my throat, bitter and insistent. Different like a girl who’s one of the guys? Different like unforgettable? Or just different because she had the kind of poise and charm that doesn’t come with a side of sarcasm and eye-rolls?
And what’s with the “worth the wait” comment anyway? Who’s waiting? Sierra didn’t have to wait. It was a hey there, boys, and boom, Gold VIP membership holder.
"Careful, GI Joe. So it’s not a sword-crossing sausage fest… a bukkake ruins carpets scenario with Sierra in the mix. Got it."
“And here I thought your biggest weapon was sarcasm. Turns out it’s shock value. Do you kiss the coffee guy with that mouth or just scare him into free refills?”
“Sure do. Suck the occasional dick with it too. So, nailed it, right? Total bukkake.”
A pained expression flickers across his face, and he shifts in his seat. “No carpet to ruin at the Shred Shack, not interested in trading the afterglow on post-bukkake cleanup duty.”
He’s kidding. He said it all deadpan… definitely kidding—I think. Not that it matters. I just don’t want to picture Nick like that. That’s all. That’s precisely it.
And the Shred Shack? Seriously? Sounds like the brainchild of a dude-bro who skipped leg day.
But this bukkake chick got to go there. Not that he confirmed it. But he didn’t deny it, either—somehow, that’s worse.
And it’s not like I want to be Sierra. I don’t. I don’t even want him. This is just… curiosity. Normal, harmless curiosity.
So, different how? Different like perfect? Different like the kind of girl who doesn’t make jokes about bukkake in casual conversation?
God, stop. Just stop. It’s fine. Totally fine. I don’t care what he meant by “worth the wait.” I don’t.
Except I do. And I hate her for it, whoever she is—or was. Ugh, who even waits for someone anymore?