Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
HOLLIS
“I will never understand why you live here,” Jonas says from my living room as I rummage through my fridge to find us some beers.
I really need to go grocery shopping. I’m usually good at cooking and fending for myself. I’ve been doing it most of my life, after all. But right now, with half a carton of milk and leftover Chinese food, the inside of my fridge is looking pretty damn pathetic.
I find the IPA he likes, grab two, and head back to the living room.
He’s lounging on my sofa in fitted khakis and a blue button-down.
He looks far too regal for the bare white walls and sparse furnishings.
I, however, fit right in with my jeans and plain white tee. “Don’t knock my place. It’s homey.”
I hand over one of the beers, and he pops the top and takes a long drink. “If by homey, you mean small, sad, and devoid of life, then sure. It’s very homey.”
I take a seat across from him and roll my eyes at his theatrics. “You’re just annoyed I didn’t hire that fancy designer Keisha got to design your place.”
“No,” he argues. “I’m annoyed you didn’t let me talk you into that spacious two-bedroom apartment in our building with the high ceilings and exposed beams. That place was stunning.”
“And over a million dollars,” I remind him.
He shrugs. “You can afford it.”
If he notices me flinch at the mention of money, he doesn’t comment. “I like this place,” I say. “It’s simple and uncomplicated.”
“And temporary?”
“I got rid of the boxes in the corner finally,” I point to the spot over by the small dining table. “See?” I fail to mention that I just stashed them in a storage unit a couple of blocks away, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Wow,” he deadpans. “How long did that take you? Three years?”
“Did you come here to complain about my apartment choice, or did you have an actual reason for visiting?”
He grins, his dimples popping along his stubbled chin. “I came over to talk more about your thoughts on expanding. But first, I want to know how you’re doing. I’ve barely seen you in the last few weeks.”
“You’ve seen me,” I try to argue, but even I know it’s a lie. Ever since I texted Pres at the beginning of the month, I’ve become somewhat distant.
Because all my thoughts seem to revolve around her.
Talking with her feels natural, like no time has passed at all. It’s easy, and I’m reminded of how close we once were in high school. I always considered Hendrix my best friend back then, but it was almost always Presley I would turn to when I needed someone to confide in.
That brief time in Malibu feels like ages ago, and so uncomplicated that it’s easy to fall back into a natural rhythm with her.
But we’re not kids anymore, and life is far from uncomplicated.
We’ve both grown up. We live on opposite sides of the country. She has a boyfriend, and I’m…
I’m just some random guy.
“You know what I mean,” Jonas presses, raising an eyebrow at me. “You’ve been hiding in your office and—”
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. I don’t even remember leaving it there. Presley’s name flashes across the screen, alerting me that I have a new text.
It’s been two days since we’ve spoken.
Two days since that phone call when I told her she should break up with her boyfriend…
I reach for it, hoping to swipe it off the table before Jonas can see.
“What the fuck?” he exclaims. “Why is Presley Creed texting you?”
Too late.
After I started talking to Pres, I had no idea how to explain it to Jonas, so I did what I do best and avoided the conversation altogether.
I told myself I would bring it up if our texts turned into something more.
But after two days of radio silence between Pres and me, I was beginning to think that our resurrected friendship was finally dead, and there would be no reason to tell Jonas.
But now it seems I have some explaining to do.
“After Hendrix came to the club, my therapist suggested I write him a letter,” I start to explain. “For closure or whatever.”
He stares at me blankly. “And so you took that to mean you should text his sister instead? I didn’t even know you had any of their numbers.”
I rub the back of my neck. “When I got a new number years ago, I saved all of them for some reason. When Sabine suggested the letter thing, I was going to write Hendrix a message, then delete it. But instead, I ended up texting Pres.”
“On purpose?”
I nod. “On purpose.”
“And how did that go?”
The corner of my mouth tilts into a smile. “She thought I was a scammer, and then she called and yelled at me.”
He angles his head, tiny creases forming between his dark brows. “And this makes you…happy?”
“Her voice gets all high and squeaky when she’s mad and—”
“Oh, fucking hell,” he groans.
“What?”
“You like her.”
“I—what?”
“You fucking like her.”
I stare at him, my mouth on the floor as I process what he’s just said. “I do not. I barely know her. We haven’t seen each other since we were kids, and since then, we’ve shared a handful of texts. Besides, she’s Hendrix’s sister and—”
“And what?” he challenges with a smug grin.
“And she has a boyfriend.” A really big asshole of a boyfriend. Even just thinking of him walking out on her that night at the bar makes me want to punch something.
If he worked for me, he would have been fired before his ass left the building. But he doesn’t work for me, and therefore, it isn’t any of my business—something Pres has made abundantly clear.
“So that’s the real reason then?”
I scoff. “No. I’m just stating a fact. Presley and I have never been more than friends. I’d never do that to Hendrix.”
“Do what to Hendrix?” he questions, looking exasperated.
“’Cause I don’t understand the whole bro code of ‘I will not date my best friend’s sister.
’ If I had a sister, I wouldn’t give a shit if you wanted to date her.
In fact, I’d be fucking thrilled for her—’cause you’re a damn good egg.
Not perfect by any means. You’ve got a few hairline cracks, but still one of the good ones. ”
“Thanks?”
“Welcome,” he replies, then swipes my phone out of my hand. “Now, what did Presley Creed text us?”
“I don’t believe she texted us anything.”
He makes a show of typing in my password, making me seriously regret my decision not to change it after he gave me shit for choosing something as simple as 1234.
A moment later, I see his brow furrow.
“What?”
“You guys are boring.” He hands me back my phone. “There’s no sexting in here at all.”
“We’ve been talking for less than a week.”
“And?”
I roll my eyes and check her latest text.
Pres
Remember when Aimee Carroll asked you to the winter formal and I told you not to go?
I did remember.
The subject of the dance had come up on one of our chilly walks on the beach one night in December. Presley said she wasn’t going. She hated school dances.
I did too.
But I made the mistake of mentioning I’d been asked. The look on her face told me everything I needed to know.
We were both treading into dangerous territory.
When she asked me not to go, I played it off, saying I wasn’t sure, even though I had no intention of going. Then I tried to distance myself from Hendrix’s little sister.
Tried being the operative word.
I finish reading the rest of the text.
Pres
It was none of my business, and I shouldn’t have interfered. So, can we just call it even and forget about the other night?
“Are you going to text her back?”
“No. I think I’ll call her. Our last conversation didn’t end well, and this is definitely her way of apologizing—although I’m not sure I entirely deserve it.
” Jonas rises from the couch and makes like he’s going to leave.
“Wait. What about the expansion discussion? I didn’t mean I was going to call her now. ”
“It can wait,” he shrugs, as he heads to the door. He reaches for the handle and then turns. “Presley still live in Malibu?”
“LA, but yeah. Why?”
“Just curious,” he says with a knowing look on his face. “Oh, and a bit of advice, Hollis. Call her now. Despite what we’ve been told, it’s best never to leave a woman waiting. Learned that one the hard way. Keisha never let me forget it.”