Chapter 5 #2
I set the Kindle aside and sit up straight, untucking my legs from the confines of my sweatshirt. “Holden, you didn’t have—”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “It’s not a thing. The food trucks were closing up for the night. This is the leftovers they were about to toss in the trash.”
“So this is food poisoning disguised as a kind gesture.” With a sceptical brow raise, I accept the poutine and pick up a slightly-overcooked French fry to point at him. “I see you, Holden, but I think killing me off might ruin Logan’s summer a bit more than breaking up with him would.”
“I don’t think we’re at risk of either happening.”
I snort. “He’s out drinking again tonight, so don’t get your hopes up. I might be asking for a ride to the bus station again in the morning.”
Holden slips out of his boots and hangs up his hat, then moves to lean against the counter.
Even in the dim light, he’s so handsome it makes my stomach hurt.
His hair falls around his face in dark waves, and he rakes a hand through it before folding his arms across his broad chest. “You seemed pretty happy with him today.”
“Wow, a rare compliment from you. I thought my acting during dinner was quite believable, too.” Popping the fry into my mouth, I pat the bed next to me. “Have some poutine. If I get food poisoning, I want you going down with me.”
He doesn’t jump at my offer but stares at my hand spread across the dark-green quilt.
“I don’t bite,” I joke.
He huffs a breath that might be something related to a laugh and slides onto the bed, keeping as much space as possible between us. But the moment he sits, that gap could be as wide as a canyon, and I’d still feel the magnetic pull between us.
For a few minutes, we pick at the poutine—way better than the steak, by the way—in silence, and I can’t help but notice the way we’re slowly inching closer to one another, until the white takeout container is the sole barrier keeping our legs from touching.
When we’re down to a few straggler fries in the bottom of a vat of gravy, I lick the French fry salt from my fingertips, humming an appreciative sound. “Thank you for this. I was seriously craving it all day.”
“Do you always let him decide things for you?”
“Sometimes it’s not worth arguing.” I shrug, reaching to close the lid at the same time he does. Our fingers brush, and he pulls back as if the brief contact burns. “You know how he gets.”
Logan gets pouty. And sometimes mean. And occasionally irate. You never really know which reaction you’ll get, either, because he hides so much of how he’s feeling behind the outgoing and loud personality, until one little comment makes him drop the mask.
“Doesn’t mean you need to shrink yourself for him.” He searches my eyes, tugging at the loose threads of emotion in them. “You deserve better than that.”
“Pot, meet kettle.” I fidget with the cuffs of my sweatshirt, maintaining eye contact, determined to see his soul the way he sees mine. “You’re scared to tell him about your exciting new job. You don’t need to shrink yourself for him, either.”
His brows furrow, creating a deep trench between eyes that are as dark as a summer storm. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Sunday.”
“No? Then what do you call the shit you’re doing?”
“I’m… I was going to tell him, but then you decided to tag along, and I thought it would be easier on everyone if I didn’t.”
“Sounds a lot like what I’m doing—trying to keep things smooth so it’s easier on everyone.” I shrug.
“Everyone except you,” he whispers, eyes dropping to where I’m wringing my hands inside my sweatshirt sleeves. He follows up with a light touch to my forearm, which makes my heart do a small flip. “You aren’t happy.”
He doesn’t phrase it as a question. It doesn’t need to be asked.
I shift in place, bumping the takeout container out of the way, and his rough, denim-clad knee brushes mine. It’s accidental, and the way I crave more is devastating. From his audible swallow, I know it’s affecting him, too.
“No,” I admit. “But poutine helps.”
We both smile. His eyes glint in the pale light, and his hair curls adorably around the shell of his right ear.
I’m tempted to twirl that stray lock around my finger.
We’re sitting so close now, I’m sure he can hear the drum of my heart against my ribs.
Alarm bells may be going off, but the rush of blood in my skull drowns them out.
“Poutine helps,” he echoes. His gaze traces my lips before my name slips out on the back of a ragged exhale. “Sunday…”
“Holden.” I’m so breathy, I barely recognize my own voice.
His hand lifts off the quilt, hovering before thudding down next to my thigh, rather than on it. “I shouldn’t be here.”
“It’s your trailer,” I offer.
“Yeah…”
The air between us is charged and humming like the generator outside. I lean in, my body betraying me, and he leans in, too.
He leans in.
He feels it, too.
For a single, reckless second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
Instead, he pulls back, standing so abruptly, the bed shifts under me and I nearly lose my balance. Sliding back into his boots, he reaches for the trailer door handle.
“Holden?”
Face hardened, eyes icy and private, Holden turns to me with the same grunt of annoyance I’m used to from him.
“Thank you.” For the poutine. For seeing me. For stopping before this became something neither of us could undo.