Chapter Twenty
? Holly ?
Finals week was hell.
The kind of hell where the devil wasn’t fire and brimstone but highlighters that bled through thin paper, pencils were chewed down to nubs, and professors thought “comprehensive” meant “here’s every miserable detail since the dawn of human history.”
By Thursday, my apartment looked like the aftermath of a small academic tornado—coffee mugs, flashcards, and empty take out containers scattered like land mines.
“Why did I do this to myself?” I groaned at my ceiling sometime after midnight, surrounded by flashcards like confetti after a pity party. “I could’ve just…not. I could’ve burned this place to the ground instead.”
Dalton, sprawled on my couch and half asleep, muttered something about not being equipped to put out fires.
I frowned at his unhelpful ass and then got up to grab the stack of flashcards resting on his abdomen.
That roused him a bit more, and he opened one bleary eye.
“I really don’t know why you’re stressing so much. ”
“And I don’t know why you’re still here! Go home!”
“Um, I’m sorry. Have you seen my dorm room? Smelled it? It smells like vanilla and coconuts here. And the couch is comfy.”
“Then help me study!”
“Holly, chill. You’ve got this. You’re a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for. Don’t make me tell Jackson on you.”
Heat crept up my neck, and I glared at him before snatching the pillow he was resting on.
His head fell back with a thump into the couch, and he watched as I went around gathering every pillow and throw blanket.
I even took my Salt they just have to exist.”
I had just started to reply when my phone buzzed.
Jackson: What did he do now?
Me: Oh, so you don’t deny him being your spy.
Jackson: Spy. Bodyguard. Whatever. What’d he do?
Me: Well, now I’m not telling.
Jackson: Malibu.
In a fit of playfulness not like me, I sent back a tongue out emoji.
Jackson: Careful. Some guys might think you’re flirting.
My face went nuclear. If embarrassment were flammable, the whole damn room would’ve gone up in smoke. I tossed my phone down and went back to studying. Or pretended to. Suddenly focusing was impossible.
I buried myself in books, half-studying, half-replaying that stupid message comment in my head.
Finals week turned into a blur of caffeine jitters, selective amnesia wishes, and enough Oreos to qualify as a food group.
The exams ended, but the anxiety didn’t.
I refreshed the school portal so many times I was half-convinced I’d crash the server.
And I kept eyeing my phone like it might bite me, but the day of my last final came and went.
Dalton helpfully informed me that the teachers usually uploaded end-of-semester grades all at once.
Which made me want to report college as a hate crime.
The grades hit my screen like fireworks.
I blinked, reread, blinked again. Passed.
Every class. And two of them? As. A choked laugh escaped before it turned into a shout, half-scream, half-triumph.
I spun around my tiny apartment like an idiot, nearly tripping over a stack of books I’d been stress-sleeping on.
Proof. I wasn’t crazy for trying. I wasn’t doomed to fail. I had a shot.
Maria was the first person I texted.
Me: School’s out, babeeee. Your girl is officially free and smarter than she looks. Hot mess incoming.
My cheeks ached from smiling. I threw on a jacket, ran a brush through my hair, and headed for the door like a prisoner out on bail. The air outside was sharp with early summer, thick with honeysuckle, the kind of night that hummed with possibility.
And then I froze.
Because parked beside Sally was a motorcycle I knew too well.
Matte black, chrome catching the sunlight. My pulse skipped. And leaning against it, like he’d stepped straight out of one of my daydreams and into my parking lot, was a Marine with storm-gray eyes and a grin that dared me to breathe.
“On leave,” Jackson said, casual like he hadn’t just detonated my universe. He held up a second helmet, tilting it toward me. “Just for a bit before I get orders. Let’s go for a ride.”
I snorted, crossing my arms to hide the way my hands shook. “On that death trap? Not a chance. I like my bones inside of me, thanks.”
His grin deepened, the kind that curled low in my stomach. “What’s the matter, Malibu? Scared?”
I hesitated just long enough for Jackson’s smirk to sharpen. He swung a leg over the bike, held the helmet out like a dare, and raised a brow.
“Last chance, Malibu. You in or out?”
“Ugh,” I muttered, snatching it from him. “If I die, I’m blaming you in the afterlife.”
He just grinned, like the thought of me haunting him was a perk.
The engine roared to life, loud enough to rattle my bones, and when he revved it, the sudden jolt slammed me against his back.
Reflex had my arms clamping around his waist, and that’s when it hit me—solid muscle under my palms, abs like carved stone flexing with the throttle.
My face was buried against the broad line of his shoulders, and his scent—clean soap and something darker, something him—wrapped around me.
Fantastic. Just fantastic. At least the wind would whip away the drool.
“Hold on,” he called over his shoulder, and if the cocky tilt of his head was anything to go by, he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
The bike surged forward, eating the road, and my heart forgot how to beat in any sort of normal rhythm.
Fear bled into exhilaration, into something hotter, sharper, tangled up with the way every bump in the road pushed me closer to him.
The night was alive with cicadas and possibility, and I clung tighter—not just to keep from falling off, but because for once, I didn’t want to let go.
As the engine’s growl swallowed every second thought I had, Jackson leaned into the curve of the road, confident and reckless, and I held on like my life depended on it.
I told myself it was only adrenaline making my pulse misfire. Definitely not the fact that I could feel every line of his body through my fingertips. Definitely not the fact that when he tipped his head back and laughed into the wind, it sounded like freedom itself.
The highway slipped behind us, Athens giving way to backroads lined with pines that whispered in the dark.
The wind tangled my hair, whipped it across my cheeks, but it couldn’t cool the fire thrumming under my skin.
He leaned into another curve, deliberately sharp, and I swore I felt him grin when I yelped and dug my fingers harder into his side.
“Relax,” he shouted over the roar.
“Relax?” I yelled back. “You’re trying to kill me!”
He just laughed again, low and rich, and revved the engine until the vibrations shuddered through both of us. My heart was a mess of panic and exhilaration, and underneath it all, the tiniest spark of something I didn’t want to name.
When he finally slowed, we coasted into a clearing by the river just outside town. The rising moon spilled silver across the water, cicadas buzzing like static in the air. Jackson cut the engine, and the silence that followed felt louder than the ride itself.
I slid off the bike, legs shaky, lungs fighting to catch up. My helmet hit the seat with a thunk. “Well,” I said, voice a little breathless. “That was…horrifying.”
Jackson swung off too, tugging his helmet free, hair mussed from the wind. His grin softened, though, the edges curling into something gentler. He stepped closer, close enough that the warmth of him chased the night air away.
“You loved it,” he murmured. “Didn’t even scream that much.”
I scoffed. “Only because I was too busy praying.”
His chuckle was low, rolling through me like the rumble of the bike. “You’re tougher than you think, Malibu. Always have been.”