Chapter 5
FIVE
THE POOR GUY THINKS HE’S GETTING LUCKY.
H olden
Goddamn this woman.
I shouldn’t be sharing a bed with her.
Briar’s hair is down and she’s wearing those goddamn tiny shorts again, the ones she likes to kill me with, and a shirt that falls off one shoulder.
No makeup and she’s still more beautiful than any woman I’ve ever seen. Did I also mention she isn’t wearing a fucking bra? Fuck my life.
What am I doing? What are we doing? I am so turned on right now, I can barely draw a breath. This is a very bad idea.
Briar and I spent the last four hours sitting in my living room eating takeout and talking, and I swear it was the best night I’ve had in as long as I can remember. And she looked good too, curled up on my couch, her toned legs tucked underneath her.
Conversations were never like that with Aubrey. She liked to talk about the shows she was watching or her latest purchase. They were more surface-level, which is fine, I guess. But Briar really let me in, and I allowed her to see a little of me too. We have chemistry. My heart pounds in my chest when our eyes lock, and when she smiles, I’m fucking gone. I spent half of the night imagining Briar naked. I bet she has the most perfect body under her T-shirt and short shorts. I bet she’d fit perfectly in my arms. When I’m around Briar, it takes a conscious effort not to touch her. I feel this pull to her. Maybe, instead of ignoring the spark I feel between us, I should make a move. Show her my cards. But it’s hard to know if Briar feels the same way. She’s always so calm, so cool; it’s difficult to read her.
No. I swore off women for a reason. Yet another failed relationship is the last thing I need right now. But I can’t deny that I like having her here, in my bed, next to me.
“Your bed is like heaven,” she murmurs, snuggling into the mattress. I admire the curve of her shoulder, her blonde hair fanned out over my bed sheets as she lets out a sigh that goes straight to my cock.
I bite the inside of my cheek, willing my dick to behave. I can’t blame it. The most beautiful girl I have ever seen is in my bed wearing next to nothing. The poor guy thinks he’s getting lucky.
I stare at the ceiling and inhale deeply, noticing the way the sugary scent of Briar already fills my bedroom. Bergamot and citrus. Turning my head to her side of the bed, my heart races when I see the way the shape of her body is illuminated by the dull glow of a streetlamp outside. Her back is to me, one shoulder fully exposed. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to touch her. I always want to touch her.
She turns suddenly so that she’s facing me, her eyes finding mine. It’s dark, but I’ve already memorized the shade. My new favorite color.
“What’s your biggest fear, Holden?” she asks quietly. “No wrong answers. ”
“Anyone ever accuse you of being nosy?” I answer, trying to skirt the question.
“Maybe once or twice. I prefer curious, though. You should see my Google history.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that. I’m sure it’s wildly entertaining.”
She giggles. “I try whenever I can to exceed expectations.”
I laugh too. There’s a beat of silence between us before Briar speaks again. “I’m scared of people not liking me. Is that the dumbest thing you’ve ever heard? I’m impulsive, and emotional. I think it can be a lot for some people.”
I look back at the ceiling because looking at Briar right now feels like too much and too little all at the same time. “No, it’s not the dumbest thing. Not even close.”
God, the urge to wrap her up in my arms and pull her into my chest is almost more than I can handle. To show her that I like her. To make her understand that anyone lucky enough to spend five minutes with her would like her.
“Briar?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re also funny. And smart. And beautiful.” I can feel her smiling next to me, but I force myself to keep my eyes on the ceiling.
“According to Justin, I’m hard to handle,” she says. “He always said I was too much.”
“Fuck him, Briar. The guy is an insecure asshole. I want you to forget everything he ever said to you. You’re perfect the way you are.”
I feel the weight of the bed shift when she rolls to her back, her position mirroring mine. “What’s yours, Holden? Do you have a greatest fear? ”
I stare at a shaft of light that stretches across the ceiling, a thunderbolt against the shadowed stucco.
“I’m afraid of flying,” I tell her. “I don’t admit that to too many people. A 28-year-old man who’s afraid to get into an airplane? It’s embarrassing as hell.”
I hold my breath in anticipation of her reaction. But instead of laughing or cracking a joke, she reaches her hand over the space between us, then gives my forearm a gentle squeeze. “That’s a legitimate fear. I know there are plenty of people who feel the same way. Can I ask you if it’s because something happened?”
I should have known she would ask questions. I’m already learning that Briar is one of the most inquisitive people I’ve ever met. I honestly can’t remember the last time I told the story. Even in my family we never talked about it much, but I can still remember the way my mom bawled for weeks. I’ve sometimes wondered—if we did talk about it, would I still struggle so much with this fear?
Briar has left her hand on my arm, and she gives it another soft squeeze encouraging me on.
“My grandparents died in a plane crash when I was in grade 6. They were on vacation, visiting the Grand Canyon. They booked a plane tour. It was supposed to be a 45-minute flight. But something went wrong. They crashed into the canyon.”
“I’m so sorry, Holden. That is awful.”
“Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault. Besides, it was a long time ago.”
“I know,” she says. “I’m still sorry.”
“Thanks.”
I feel her small hand cover mine in the center of the bed that we share, and we lie here together, not speaking, staring at the thunderbolt on the ceiling overhead .
“I had a good night tonight, Bee,” I say, feeling a little vulnerable, heart racing. I hope she did too.
But the room is silent. I chance a glance at Briar and find her eyes closed, her lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling as she sleeps.
She’s beautiful.
Then I close my eyes and wait for my breathing to return to its normal rhythm, and eventually I fall asleep too.
My hand in hers.
It’s still there seven hours later when I rise with the sun.
My cell phone rings on my desk, pulling my focus away from my computer. The screen flashes with my mom’s number, which immediately seems strange. She doesn’t often call me at work.
I could use the distraction. I’ve been staring at my monitor most of the day, thinking about how much I liked having Briar in my bed. Yes, dammit, I wanted to kiss her. Hell, I wanted to do a lot more than that. She was still asleep when I slipped out of the house this morning. Careful not to wake her, I had a shower in my ensuite, got dressed, and made myself a cup of coffee. Before I left the house, I took a mug out of the cupboard and dropped a peppermint tea bag in it, leaving it on the counter for her.
I scrub a hand across my face, picking up the phone on the third ring. “Hey, Mom.”
“Hi honey. Sorry to call you at work. Do you have a minute?”
“For you, always. What’s up?”
“I’m guessing you haven’t checked your mailbox in the past couple of days? ”
I’m lucky if I check the thing once a week. “I haven’t. Why?”
My mom exhales. “Amy is getting married. She’s inviting the whole family to the wedding… including you.”
I pause. “Why would she invite me?”
Amy Nichols is my girlfriend from high school. We dated in our junior and senior years, until she broke up with me—and broke my heart in the process—after graduation.
“I think she was trying to be nice. Our families have been friends for years, I’m sure she didn’t want to invite everyone but you. You know… rock the boat.”
“Right. I’m not gonna go, Mom.” Maybe that makes me an asshole. It’s not that it would bother me to see her get married. I was pretty devastated when she dumped me, but that was years ago. I closed that chapter in my life a long time ago. But I don’t think I need to witness her wedding. I picture myself, still single and sitting with my parents, while my ex-girlfriend starts her happily ever after. It’s a depressing image.
Amy and I made sense back then. She was the first girl I dated. We’d known each other most of our lives. Our parents were best friends. She was pretty and smart, easygoing but also determined. A lot like Briar, now that I think about it. I loved her, but that was so many years ago. When I think about her now, all it conjures up is a feeling of nostalgia.
I’ve only had two real relationships in my life—the first was with Amy, and the second was with Aubrey. Both got serious fast, and both crashed and burned. It’s not that I’m afraid of commitment, I just think maybe I’m not cut out for love.
“You have time to think about it, honey,” my mom says. “The wedding isn’t happening until the fall. ”
“It’s a hard no, Mom.”
“Okay. At least send the RSVP back, okay?”
“I do have manners, Mom,” I remind her. “I gotta run. I have a stop to make on my way home from work.”
“What are you up to, sweetheart?” She must be home alone. My mom has always been very social. I think she’s afraid of silence. It might be one of the reasons she left Dad. He’s quieter, more comfortable on his own.
“I need to order furniture, Mom.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Do you want my help? I can meet you wherever you’re going.”
“Nah, I’m fine. Thanks for the offer, though.” She is definitely alone.
“What are you looking for?”
I sigh. “I need a bed and a side table. Maybe a dresser.”
“How come? You getting another roommate?”
“I sorta already have one. She’s a friend of Daisy and Tucker’s.”
“ She ?”
Shit, I shouldn’t have let that slip. Here we go with the 20 questions. “Yes, Mom. She . But it’s not like that. She needed a place to stay. It’s only for a few months.”
“Is she pretty?”
Fuck. “Yes, very.”
“Single?”
I feel my eyes roll. “Single.”
“Ooh, Barb and your dad are going to love this. Will you bring her to dinner next weekend?”
“Mom. Don’t make this a thing.”
“I think you should make this a thing.”
Shaking my head, I blow out a breath. “I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”
“Love you, Holdey. ”
“Love you too.”
I arrive home a few hours later to find Briar in the kitchen. She’s leaned over the counter, scrolling through something on her phone. A bolt of lust hits me in the chest like it always does when she’s around.
She looks up and a smile spreads across her face when she sees me.
“Hey, welcome home,” she says, grabbing something from the counter, holding it up, still grinning. “This looks fun!”
In her hand is a cream-colored envelope tied with a satin bow, my name scrawled across the front in gold script.