Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Holt
The lamp on my desktop shines a warm, yellow light onto the papers spread out in front of me.
My back aches from sitting for four hours and delving deep into the Landry offer. I always work at night but never at my desk for hours on end.
I sit back and stretch my arms overhead. My muscles scream at the sudden movement. My brain, though, cherishes the opportunity to stop analyzing numbers.
The reprieve doesn’t last long. It just changes topics.
Blaire arrived a few minutes after me. I made us a drink while she went upstairs and retrieved her briefcase. Then we sat in the living room—her with her briefcase and me with a book.
It wasn’t as awkward as I thought it might be, but I do think I pissed her off. She shied away from making eye contact and pulled away when I reached across her to take her empty glass. It wasn’t our usual flirty interaction. It wasn’t nearly as easy either.
And I hate it.
It’s because I walked away from her on the street. I know that. But I had to.
It was clear she didn’t want to talk. Even though I was curious and wanted her to open up, I was exhausted. I’d pushed all day. I’ve pushed people and things and schedules for weeks. I don’t want to have to push with Blaire, too.
My stomach tightened as she snapped her briefcase shut and announced she was going to bed.
I absorbed her grin and little wave good night—neither cold, exactly, but also not filled with the warmth I’ve come to expect—and told her good night.
But after a quick workout, a long shower, and too much time to think, I ended up in my office.
The place I should’ve been for longer today anyway.
What makes this woman tick?
The question has rolled around my mind all damn night. Hell, since the moment I met her I’ve wondered this very thing. But the more time I spend with her, the more I should know about her and the less I do.
I’m getting tripped up. I’m caring. I’m giving a fuck on a plethora of levels.
Her refusal to open up to me is irritating. The fact that I want her to is downright infuriating. Me pushing her makes me a dick, but if I don’t, that feels wrong too.
How did I get myself into this position?
I bend my neck side to side to relieve some of the tension before turning back to Wade’s plans. I pick up my pencil when I hear something behind me.
Looking over my shoulder, I see her. Blaire is standing in the doorway in an oversized T-shirt. Her hair is messy, spilling all over her shoulders, and her eyes are heavy yet clear.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
She walks across the room and stops a few feet away from my desk. Her features are sober.
I turn in my chair to face her.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice just above a whisper.
It’s soft and delicate and void of the confidence she usually oozes into everything. While it’s beautiful to see her stripped of the mask she wears, it’s painful too. Because I’m convinced this isn’t easy for her.
“What’s going on?” I ask. “What are you sorry for?”
I want to reach for her, but I don’t. After tonight, I’m not sure what she’ll do.
I wish she’d fall into my arms and bury her head in my chest. My hands want to squeeze her body and reassure her of my presence and my ability to protect her from whatever is troubling her.
Because I can. I can help her with anything. But I’m not sure she’ll let me.
She’s a strong, gorgeous woman on an island by herself by her own choice.
But why?
She lifts her chin. “You’ve been so kind to me. You’ve opened your home and given me your time, and I’ve … I’ve not reciprocated any of that.”
“You don’t have to reciprocate anything. I offer what I want to offer you. It’s not predicated on anything else.”
Her nod is subtle.
She blows out a deep, haggard breath. “I know. But—”
“But do you? Because it’s important to me that you know that.”
The chair squeaks as I move to the edge. It’s the only sound besides her wispy breaths that gives away how nervous she is.
I hold up a hand when she starts to speak again.
“I’m sorry if I pressed today. I just want to get to know you. You’re smart and funny and observant. It feels natural to want to learn more about what makes a woman like you tick. But maybe I shouldn’t. I …”
I don’t know. If she doesn’t want to go there with me, then that’s her choice. It’s one that I will, without a doubt, honor.
But it doesn’t feel wrong to want to get to know her more deeply. And that’s what’s worrisome.
She forces a swallow. “This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me.”
I stay quiet. I can see a hundred different things sitting on her tongue and how hard it is for her to choose which thing to say.
“You aren’t wrong to ask questions, Holt. It’s a nice thing to want to get to know someone.”
“I’d love it if you wanted to get to know me.”
She smiles but it falters quickly. “I … I do. You know that I do.”
“I hope so.”
She takes another deep breath. “I’ve been lying in bed tonight thinking about you and what you said and what Sienna has been saying. And … I know I have vulnerability issues.”
I lock my hands together in front of me and rest my elbows on my knees.
“Letting people inside my world … scares me.” She looks at the ceiling. “I feel like such an idiot for saying that. But it does. You aren’t even asking me anything deep, and I still … shut down.”
“You know what? It scares me too. It scares me to let people into my inner circle, and it scares me to be inside someone else’s.”
She drops her head and levels her eyes with mine. “Really?”
I get to my feet. My hands find my hair. My fingernails drag across my scalp, the bite feeling good despite the pain.
It’s my turn to take a deep breath as I try to decide if going into all of this is worth it. I’m two seconds away from telling her it’s okay and that I see her point about keeping things superficial between us, but then I look at her face.
The pain there is unmistakable. The fear, too, is obvious.
That’s when I know: I have no choice.
If this walled-off woman is opening up to me of all people, it’s my responsibility to help her.
I want to.
“I had a girlfriend a few years ago,” I say.
“It started out innocent enough. She stayed here a few nights here and there, and eventually, she lived here. I didn’t even realize it at the time.
I guess, in retrospect, I wasn’t around a lot and didn’t really question why she was here when I got home. I figured she just wanted to see me.”
“Makes sense.”
“But she didn’t. She’d pretty much just moved in. And when it got to be too much for me—when things settled down a bit at work, and I was home more and kind of put two-and-two together, it got bad.”
“How do you mean?” she asks.
“Well, we weren’t compatible. Not to be living together twenty-four seven. But I knew that. She was never that kind of person for me, and my lackadaisical approach with her was the wrong and irresponsible way to handle it.”
“Surely, she knew that, though,” Blaire says.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I don’t know if it matters because even if she did, it doesn’t change what happened.
” My lip hurts as I bite down to brace myself for the flood of memories.
“Kendra was really big into the social aspect of Savannah. Her parents are deeply embedded in the clubs and charities and all that shit that goes down behind the scenes.”
“Are you? I mean, are you a part of that scene?”
I try hard not to roll my eyes. “Yes. I am. Mostly because I grew up in it and operate a business here. It’s good for networking and for giving back to our community. But I don’t care about the rest of it—the balls and cocktail hours and all that shit.”
“But Kendra did.”
“She did. And because she assumed, I guess, that we were a permanent thing, she positioned herself as such. I had no idea.”
I run a hand down my face as I remember the night I realized what happened.
“I got an invitation in the mail addressed to a Mr. and Mrs. Holt Mason. Needless to say, I was confused. And I was downright shocked when she sort of offhandedly mentioned that it was from one of her friends in New York. I started putting different pieces together.”
My chest squeezes as I recall the events of the next twenty-four hours.
The black stains that marred her face. My utter confusion. The ugliness of the words thrown back and forth.
“Unbeknownst to me, she had moved in. Let her apartment go. Started getting mail at my house. I’d never seen us like that, but she obviously did.” I blow out a breath. “I tried to rationalize with her, but she wasn’t having it. And it just … devolved from there.”
My heartbeat quickens as freeze-frame images flash before my eyes.
I force a swallow down my throat. The passage is constricted as a wash of emotions reminiscent of that day flow through me.
A chill rips down my spine.
“When I got home from work the next day, she was gone,” I say, the words tinged with an anger I choke back. “And my house was a disaster. Paint in the bed. Broken windows. My clothes and belongings strewn around the house and in the pool. It was … it took weeks to clean it up.”
And even longer for me to trust anyone again.
“I sat in the bed, in the middle of the paint and broken glass, completely numb. It felt surreal. A complete violation of my trust. I questioned everyone and everyone’s motives for a long time after.”
Maybe I still do.
My eyes find Blaire’s again. She’s watching me carefully.
“Wow,” she says. “I’m sorry. For you both, really.”
“She didn’t come around for a long time. She didn’t show up at the events that she never missed even before all of this. No one heard from her, and her parents wouldn’t talk to me when I tried to check on her. They still won’t speak to me when I see them around.”
“That’s not your fault, though,” she says. “You didn’t make a commitment to her.”