Chapter 4
Four
The coffee machine’s sibilance, sun streaming in through the small window over the trailer’s dinette, and a delicious grovel from a fictional man in my Kindle; I don’t see how a morning can get any better.
Holden’s penchant for early mornings makes sense now.
Today I’m the first one awake, though I’m not sure if pulling an all-nighter counts as the first to be awake or the last to go to sleep.
Either way, it doesn’t feel like winning in the same way staying up all night did when I was a kid.
I’m physically tired and emotionally drained and still no closer to having my life figured out.
I’m going to stay with the guys until we’re back in our hometown, mostly because I don’t love the idea of spending hours on a bus or not knowing whether Logan would let me stay in his house temporarily after we break up.
But my decision is also partially—more than I’d like to admit—because last night Holden’s eyes held a softness and vulnerability I’d never seen from him.
Logan’s snoring is muffled by the pillow I may or may not have put on top of his face, and Holden’s spread across the sofa bed on his back with a blanket that’s inches from falling to the floor and fully exposing his lower half.
His bare chest rises and falls with the slow breath of sleep, and his bitten-pink, full lips part ever so slightly with each soft exhalation.
His jawline isn’t quite as sharp as his brother’s but still features plenty of definition, and I’m sure the stroke of my fingertips over his coarse, dark stubble could find more.
Admittedly, the view has a lot to do with how great my morning is.
Suddenly, the thought crosses my mind that Holden could be watching me sleep every morning, just like I’m watching him. And now I’ll likely never have a peaceful sleep in this trailer again.
On that note, I slip out from the tiny dinette booth and quietly fill a mug with coffee, careful not to tap the metal spoon too hard against the sides when I mix in my mocha-flavored coffee creamer.
“Pour me a cup, would ya?” Holden mumbles in a gravelly rasp.
“Sorry for…” Lifting the coffee pot in one hand and a mug in the other, I turn to face him right as his gaze flits to the ceiling. Was he—couldn’t be—but was he just looking at my ass? I give my head a little shake. “Um, sorry for waking you up.”
Holden’s sitting on the edge of the sofa, black pajama pants slung dangerously low on his hips.
His right cheek’s mottled pink from being smushed against his pillow.
With a yawn, he reaches his arms overhead, pulling the skin against his ribcage and pecs taut.
Relaxing his arms back down, he rakes a hand through his wavy, tousled hair and exhales loudly.
That same bubbly, flippy sensation I felt watching him at the party comes back with a vengeance, and I choose to ignore it. I’m clearly overtired.
“You didn’t. I’m always up this early.” He reaches out to take the mug from me, sliding his rough fingers against mine as he does.
Suddenly, I’m imagining those hands elsewhere.
Everywhere. There’s nothing inherently wrong about noticing my boyfriend’s brother is conventionally attractive, but the heat blooming between my legs is bad, bad, bad.
“Not all of us require as much beauty sleep as you do… Speaking of which, rough night?”
I smooth a hand over my frizzy hair, then dig my fingernail into the inner corners of my eyes to check for sleep gunk. He looks like he could be in an ad for men’s sleepwear. I haven’t looked in a mirror yet, but I’d wager I’m more goblin than Victoria’s Secret angel.
“A lot of egg salad based nightmares,” I reply.
“Don’t tell me about your sex dreams, Sunday,” he replies dryly, eyes trained on me, making me flushed. His first sip of coffee is followed quickly by a wince when it’s too hot. “Shit, this is hot.”
“You’ve been spending too much time on Earth, Satan. No way this compares to the flames you’re used to.”
In a flash, I catch a subtle crack in his stoic expression.
And whether or not it’s inappropriate to be studying Holden Kearney’s facial expressions the way I am, I can’t help myself, so I notice it.
As fast as the fractures appear, something fortifies in his eyes, bringing with it the darkness of a stormy sea.
“I’ve been in Hell every day of this trip,” he says.
Because you insisted on tagging along and ruining the last fun summer I’ll have with my brother, my mind finishes for him.
“Anybody ever tell you you’re an asshole first thing in the morning?” I snap.
“Yeah, you. Every day for the past week.”
A breathy, half-hearted laugh falls from my lips, and he tilts his head toward the bed where Logan hasn’t moved a muscle, which means he’s either sound asleep or I inadvertently committed murder with that pillow. “Careful or you’ll wake sleeping beauty.”
“As if. It would take a fire alarm to wake him up.”
Holden hums an agreement. With his mug cradled in his large, spread hand, he leans forward so his arms rest on his thighs.
Silence creeps in. I busy myself with wiping the two square feet of counter space in this tiny trailer, feeling the weight of his stare with every movement.
Eventually, he clears his throat. “What’s your plan for this morning?”
“I’m assuming you’ll want to hit the road as soon as Logan’s up, so I’m going to have a quick shower and get ready.” I toss back the rest of my coffee and plunk the mug down in the tiny sink.
Most travel mornings I’m lucky to have time to shower before Holden’s herding me and Logan out to the truck, threatening to drive away with us still in the trailer. The slow start today is a nice change. Maybe I should make a habit of getting out of bed early.
Holden’s jaw ticks. “What time do you need to be at the bus station?”
“Sorry to continue ruining your summer, but I decided against the bus for the time being.”
With a nod, he looks toward the bed. “And him?”
I’m self-aware enough to know any self-respecting woman would’ve ended things long before this.
But at one point, I really did love him.
I loved him enough to accept that he wasn’t flawless, enough to believe he was genuinely trying his best. I told myself expecting more was setting the bar too high for any man—fictional ones aside—to achieve, and that gave way to a complacency and apathy I’ve grown a little too comfortable living with.
So it’s not hard to keep up the charade for a while longer—creating the illusion of a happy couple in public, acting like roommates when we’re alone, and living in willful ignorance about his cheating. I’ve already been doing it for a full year.
“Logan and I are all good.”
“Right. Figured as much.” A grumble underscores every word. “If you’re going to shower, make it quick. And wake him up. I want to be on the road in half an hour.”
A while later, I slide into a faded red diner booth, back pockets of my jeans catching on the duct tape that’s holding together the ripped vinyl upholstery. Logan’s not far behind me, stretching out and wrapping an arm around my shoulders to pull me close.
We’re somewhere on the side of the highway, in a diner where ninety percent of the patrons are wearing plaid and the scent of engine grease is nearly as prominent as fryer grease.
“This place has the best milkshakes, babe.” With his free hand, Logan picks up one of the laminated single-page menus stacked on the glossy table.
I don’t know why. He’s ordered the same meal at every truck stop diner we’ve sat in over the last week—and there have been many.
“Holden and I stop here every summer. It’s tradition now. ”
That explains why Holden didn’t argue when Logan suggested stopping less than two hours into our ten-hour drive, even though we left later than Holden planned to this morning.
Holden scoffs without looking up from the menu clutched in his hands. “It’s too early for milkshakes.”
“Didn’t realize I was traveling with our dad this summer.”
While I’ve never met their dad, I’ve been told he’s a “miserable piece of shit”—Logan’s words—and though that description certainly fits Holden, it’s also a cheap shot.
“I’d say I didn’t realize I was traveling with a frat boy this summer, but that’s a lie—I did.” Holden’s jaw tics, accusation in his gaze.
“Well, if there’s one upside to adulthood, it’s being allowed milkshakes at any hour,” I interject, turning to give Logan my best attempt at an earnest smile. His hand slides across my lap to clasp mine, intertwining our fingers so our knuckles press sharply against each other.
“Did I hear milkshakes?” A young, blond waitress appears with a notepad in hand. Thank God for her; we were mere seconds from a brawl. I can’t even find it in me to be annoyed with the flicker of Logan’s eyes from her mouth to her chest to her hips.
“Yeah, two chocolate shakes for us,” Logan replies with that trademarked, dimpled grin, tipping his head toward me.
“Can I grab you one, too?” She smiles at Holden.
“It’s ten a.m.,” he says brusquely.
Her smile falters, like she’s unsure whether that’s a yes or no.
“Don’t mind him,” I say. “Really tragic story, actually. He sold his ability to have fun to a sea witch so he could be human… He’s still learning how to act civilized, though.”
“Fine. I’ll have the vanilla.” Holden’s elbow thunks on top of the table, and his fingers press his left temple.
Then, before the waitress can walk away, Logan adds, “And I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger with fries.”
We’re ordering food right now?
Logan knows I hate feeling rushed to choose a meal.
While he’s a man with simple, predictable tastes, I like to have the chance to peruse the menu.
But he probably feels bad about us leaving late thanks to him sleeping in, and about requesting we stop, so rushing me along is his way of appeasing Holden.
I pick up the menu in front of me for the first time since sitting down, and skim for the safest option. I vaguely register Holden placing an order, then the impatient squeeze of Logan’s hand.
He leans in, stabbing a finger at the menu. “Get the chicken sandwich. You’ll like it.”
“Um, yeah, okay…” I smile up at the waitress. “Yeah, I’ll get the chicken sandwich with a side salad.”
Logan shakes his head. “The fries are really good here.”
“I’m sure they are, but I—”
“She’ll get the fries,” he cuts me off, hastily collecting the menus and handing them to the waitress.
I blow out a half-laugh. “Apparently the fries are a must.”
Holden’s eyes flit between me and Logan, stopping on me for a beat too long.
Embarrassment warms my cheeks. Looking away, I squint through the bright morning sun to fake admiration for the scenic semi-truck filled parking lot, complete with a port-a-potty and a murder of crows picking apart a discarded sub sandwich.
“Great, I’ll have that to you shortly,” the waitress replies.
Logan launches into rodeo talk, and I half-listen, nodding and playing along where I should.
I’ve heard him relive his glory moments so many times, I could retell them in a way that would convince people I was the one in the saddle.
But today, a tiny question snarls in my brain, poisoning his stories the way water travels up paper.
The afterparty shenanigans are noticeably absent from every story he tells, and because I know he’s not the type to have a quiet beer and an early bedtime, I’m curious.
Logan’s knee bumps mine. “You’re quiet this morning.”
“Just listening.”
Under normal circumstances, I’m so good at being a girlfriend, it’s a little disconcerting.
But it’s harder to do when I’m this tired and fed up.
Even the threat of Holden having yet another reason to criticize me carries less oomph than usual.
Not that I think he gives enough of a shit about me to keep a running list on all my flaws, but if he did, shitty girlfriend would end up there.
“Do you always celebrate your wins like you did last night?” I finally ask.
The girl. The hand on her hip. The laugh. Whatever came next.
The heat of Holden’s stare makes me glance across the table to find his head tilted slightly, cheek muscle popping in and out.
“Last night was tame in comparison to some celebrations.” Logan chuckles. “Did you have fun?”
My stomach clangs and lurches, and I shake off his touch to gather my hair into an unsecured bun at the nape of my neck. I’m hot and cold and feeling as if the pot of coffee I drank this morning is about to make an appearance all over the table.
“I—” Am saved by the waitress reappearing with three huge milkshakes.
With the first sip of my frothy, cold milkshake, my shoulders finally relax and, troublingly, I may even moan a little under my breath.
And I say that only because of the way Holden’s gaze is riveted to my face, expression laced with something I don’t recognize despite too many hours in the truck spent watching his every minute muscle movement.
His lip has the tiniest quirk—not quite a smile, but it’s coy and teasing and aimed at me. With that, I’m hot all over once again.
“I was right about the milkshakes, wasn’t I?” Logan asks between loud slurps.
“I maintain it’s too early for ice cream,” Holden replies.
Logan looks to me for backup and reminds me of my role here, which is definitely not observing the way my boyfriend’s brother’s tongue flicks to the corner of his mouth to reach a stray droplet of milkshake.
“You were right.” I smile at Logan, cradling my icy glass in both hands and taking another drink.
“I know what my girl likes.”
Holden snorts. “Ah, yeah. It was a huge swing to assume the girl who pours half a bottle of creamer into her coffee would also like milkshakes.”
Logan’s laugh is easy. “Don’t be jealous that I got to her first, bro.”
“Devastated. How will I ever find a woman who likes chocolate?”
“I think that might go against the no-fun terms you have with the sea witch,” I offer.
“I get three loopholes per year,” Holden says.
“And you’re using one of them on a truck stop diner milkshake?” I smirk. It’s too much fun getting on this grouchy asshole’s nerves. “God, you really are boring.”
Logan’s arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me against his side so he can press his lips to my hair.
And precisely then, Holden quits looking at me for the first time since we sat down and instead glares down at his milkshake as if it’s personally wronged him.
To be fair, maybe it has. He could have issues with dairy, and I’m reading too much into this.
But the strained despair in his voice when he mutters, “Why the fuck is the food taking so long? I want to get out of here,” says maybe I’m not.