Chapter 17
“Dirty Dancing? Really?” The TV flickers in the dim room, the opening credits casting pale light across Holden’s face as he settles in beside me on the sofa—the same sofa, despite there being three to choose from.
I tug our shared quilt higher on my waist and grab a handful of popcorn from our shared bowl. I suspect this new familiarity is due to our shared bottle of TX, now almost empty.
“Believe it,” I say, nodding at the screen as Baby’s family rolls into Kellerman’s.
It’s close to midnight, the house quiet but for the TV, and I’m pleasantly drunk. The sting of Graham Barrett’s dismissal dulled to a manageable ache about two drinks ago. Holden, my new best friend, hasn’t mentioned leaving, and I haven’t brought it up.
“I’m glad you came tonight,” I blurt, then will my mouth to shut. “I’m actually having a good time. I didn’t expect to with Ben gone, especially after everything earlier, but this is sort of…fun.”
Girl, seriously. Put a lid on it.
“Me too, Maggie.” He gives me a crooked grin and tips his glass toward me. “Happy birthday.”
I make it as far as the watermelon scene before my eyes start to close.
I figure I’ll just rest them for a minute, but it’s six hours later when Perkins’s rooster wakes me up, still on the couch, with Holden’s shallow breathing fanning my ear.
His chest is warm against my back, his arm heavy across my waist.
And somewhere in that dreamy, sleepy haze, it hits me. This is the first time I’ve woken up next to a man—and not because I’ve been saving myself or anything noble like that.
I was homeschooled my junior and senior years, and unlike Ben, I never went to college.
I stayed here and ran the B&B in Fisher Springs, Texas, where Toothless Wally’s the most eligible bachelor.
I keep telling myself that one day my own vacuum cleaner salesman will show up on my doorstep the same way it happened for Aunt Z, but so far, that day hasn’t come.
Holden stirs behind me, his hand settling on the bare skin of my stomach where my tank has ridden up. I’ve never been held like this before—and I don’t hate it. I stay where I am, afraid if I move, it’ll break whatever this is.
But then I remember that just yesterday, I didn’t much care for Holden, and he didn’t much care for me either. Barrett’s tongue-lashing and last night’s bourbon bought us a temporary truce, but today, I’m guessing, it’s back to business.
I lift the quilt and slip out from under Holden’s arm, the sofa creaking beneath me.
He looks so peaceful—likeable, even—and lets out a cute little snore when I cover him back up.
His hair’s a tousled mess, mouth slack on the throw pillow, feet poking past the edge of the blanket that’s a tad too short.
The lodge must be miserable if my couch is the first place he’s managed to get some actual sleep.
Yesterday I could pretend I didn’t care. Today, I don’t have it in me.
I leave one of the B&B’s emergency toiletry kits on the coffee table, then throw a hoodie over my tank, step into some UGGs, and slip out the front door.
Colonel’s crows carry through the early-morning quiet as I head toward the carriage house, the white-stone outbuilding Mama turned into a guest suite.
I cross the gravel driveway and punch in the keycode.
Inside, the furniture’s draped in sheets, the bed unmade, appliances unplugged.
I spend the next hour making it livable before heading back to the main house, where I find Holden in the kitchen with his head buried in the freezer.
Coffee hangs thick in the air, and that same station we listened to last night hums low from the radio.
“The code for the carriage house is 1886,” I say. “But you can change it. I left instructions on the table.”
He spins around on socked feet, T-shirt rumpled, hair poking in every direction. “The carriage house?”
“We passed it when we came in last night. It has a kitchenette, so you can cook if you want, but you’re welcome to use this kitchen too.” I fold my arms. “Looks like you already are.”
The freezer door closes. “I thought I’d make us breakfast,” he says, holding up a package of Lucy’s blueberry scones. “You’re renting me a room? Aren’t you closed for the season?”
“Yes, I’m closed. And I’m not renting you anything.
Renting means cleaning up after you and feeding you, and that’s not happening.
” I pluck the pastries from his hand and tear open the package.
“Laundry room’s past the pantry. Keys to Ben’s F-150 are in the blue bowl on the counter. You can use it.”
“What will he drive? Won’t he mind?”
“Will he mind a big Hollywood megastar borrowing his pickup for a few weeks? Not likely. He can drive the work truck.”
Holden studies me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, then nods. “Thanks, Maggie. Really.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” I say, but aren’t I?
“It’ll be easier having you here…to practice.
That barn you were so quick to dismiss actually has AC—and no audience.
Which apparently freaks you out.” I wince, the words hitting me the second they leave my mouth.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. It’s just, when we got back from lunch the other day… ”
“I get it. It’s weird. The actor doesn’t like being watched.”
The way he says it, raw and self-conscious, makes me want to stick my own head in the freezer.
“You’ll get there,” I tell him quietly, my fingers itching to reach for him. I curl them into a fist instead.
He gives me a tentative smile, then tips his chin toward his toiletry bag. “Thanks for that too.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Mind if I grab a shower while those are warming?”
“Yeah, sure. Give me a sec.”
Once the scones are in the oven, I walk Holden to the carriage house.
It’s small but comfortable, echoing the main house with its rustic furniture and white fabrics.
A slipcovered sofa sits at the foot of the bed, a turquoise table in the kitchenette.
It’s topped with a white porcelain vase, and for a second, I picture it full of flowers from the garden—then shove the thought away before it sticks.
“This is nice, Maggie,” Holden says, emptying his toiletry bag onto the table. He scoops up the soap and shampoo and starts toward the bathroom.
“I didn’t check the towels, but they were clean as of October.” I glance at the white duvet-covered bed. “The sheets are fresh.”
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
“Okay, well, I’ll leave you to it.” I’m almost out the door when the shower kicks on, and the image of Holden naked hits like a june bug on a windshield.
“Hot water takes a minute,” I call out. “If it’s brown, it’ll clear up. Towels are above the toilet. Obviously.”
Honestly, Maggie. Shut up.
“Let me know if you need anything,” I stammer on, unable to stop myself. “I’ll, uh, save you a scone.”
I bolt before he can answer, not sure he heard me.
Not sure I know what I’m doing.
I curl up on the front porch with a book I’m not reading and wait for Holden to come out.
A warm breeze rattles the wind chimes, and Mrs. Perkins’s windmill turns, slow and steady.
It has all the makings of a perfect day, but I’m too restless to enjoy it.
He’s been back from the lodge for hours, and I haven’t heard so much as a peep from the carriage house.
Is he sleeping? Hiding? Just ignoring me?
Around five, the dryer goes off. I fold a stack of towels he doesn’t need and carry them over.
“Hey.” He answers the door in jeans and an old Sasquatch tee, the image cracked and fading. His eyelids hang heavy, hair mussed like it was this morning.
“Did I wake you?”
He grabs his hat off the hook by the door and slaps it on. “No,” he says around a yawn. “Just having a hard time getting up. Bed’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than the one at the lodge.” His gaze flicks to the towels. “Those for me?”
“Fresh out of the dryer.”
“Thanks,” he says, setting them on the table behind him.
My eyes snag on a battered leather guitar case propped against the wall. “I didn’t know you played. My brother does too. Well, did. It’s been a while.”
“I had to learn for a movie and just stuck with it.” He holds up his callused fingers. “It’s how I got these.”
I take his hand without thinking, trace my thumb over the hard skin.
“I’ve got a ways to go,” he says. “But outside of surfing, it’s probably my favorite pastime.”
“Where does dancing fall on that list?”
He laughs. “Ask me again in a week.”
“Actually, I was thinking maybe we could get some practice in today. If you aren’t busy.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Wasn’t sure you’d want to.”
“I mean, we might as well, right?”
I wait while he pulls on boots, not the glitter-star high-tops he wrecked at the creek, but a pair of well-worn Luccheses. My pulse takes off.
Where the heck’s he been hiding those?
“Dang, Cowboy,” I say, hooking my thumbs in my back pockets to keep from fidgeting.
He grabs his phone off the table. “Cowboy? Not Twinkletoes?”
I glance at his feet. “Not in those.”
The automatic lock chirps behind us. Holden adjusts his hat, and we cross the yard to an old limestone barn, windows boarded in weathered wood, metal roof glinting in the early evening light. Surrounded by late-spring wildflowers, it looks like a Hill Country postcard.
The door swings open, releasing a wave of warm, stagnant air.
“This is familiar,” he says, smirking as he shakes out his shirt.
“Hold your horses.”
I flip on the lights and AC, the fan’s hum filling the cavernous space. With polished concrete floors, chandeliers swaying overhead, and a sound system that could rattle windows, it’s built for dancing. And if Holden regrets shooting me down when I offered it, he doesn’t show it.
“When you said ‘barn,’ this isn’t what I pictured,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.