Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Chance
Nick’s words rattle in my skull. Remember what I said.
A precision-aimed, last-chance warning shot I definitely don’t deserve.
There’ll be an apology.
I shift my laptop under my arm like it’s body armor.
Yours, not hers, in case there’s any lingering doubt who fucked up.
He claps me on the back—not a friendly atta boy or even a don’t die out there soldier, but the kind of clap that feels like getting tagged by a linebacker. To anyone watching, it probably looked like your standard bro tap.
But the weight behind it?
A not-so-gentle fuck this up, and I’ll bury you.
Nick calls out at the last minute. I glance over my shoulder and wait out the man I respect the most in this world.
I don’t ever want to see that look in her eyes again, Chance.
His clenched jaw and worried eyes tell me he doesn’t like being in this position any more than I do.
If I do, you better pray you’re not the one who put it there.
On my way out of the room, the mistletoe catches my eye, dangling right where it’s meant to be—but looking suspiciously rough around the edges.
Like maybe it took a covert mission to the super lift to make sure I got another dose of Holly.
Like I’m not addicted enough after the brief kiss she planted on me.
On a technical level, her kiss and the one I dropped on Nick were virtually exact.
In terms of impact, Holly’s hit with the same raw power of a technologically-advanced, precision-guided missile—and rewrote the goddamn rules of physics on impact.
Now, almost outside Holly's door, that conversation feels like a premonition. Every step closer to her room sets off warning bells in my head—the kind that usually precedes an ambush.
When I knock, the sound echoes like artillery fire in the quiet hallway.
Charlie opens the door. She smiles, her eyes softening. “Don’t fuck this up."
“Understood.” I can’t help but smile down at the little hellraiser. Tough as nails on the outside?—
“I love you…”
"I sense a but," I say, adjusting my laptop under my arm.
"You are the butt." She squeezes me in a quick hug. "Your a damned good brother so I’ll overlook it.”
She glances over her shoulder and turns back to me, schooling her features, but I caught the worry. “Now, before I leave you alone with her, did you seek professional help for your that stellar meltdown earlier?”
“You could say that. Nick and I were at the bar when you called.”
“That works.” With a pat on my chest, she rises onto her toes to kiss my cheek.
“Play nice, kids,” she calls back before with a wave as she slips out the door.
It clicks shut with an ominous finality. Or maybe that's just the weight of everything unsaid pressing in.
The soft lamplight wraps around Holly where she's curled in the chair, an oversized sweater swallowing her small frame.
Striped socks, baby blue and ivory this time, hug her legs all the way to mid-thigh.
Her glasses catch the light as she glances up, then quickly away.
The room feels smaller than it is, intimate in a way that makes my pulse quicken. Some sitcom plays quietly in the background— New Girl, I think—but all I can focus on is how she bites her lip while pretending not to watch me.
"Heard you were having WiFi issues." I aim for casual, miss by a mile.
"That's not all I'm having." The words hit their target with deadly accuracy.
Closing my eyes briefly, I take the hit. When I open them, she's still there, still beautiful, still hurt. "Yeah. We should probably talk about that."
“There's nothing to talk about." She sets her laptop on the table next to her, getting to her feet. "I just need working WiFi."
"Holly—"
"Don't—” She snatches off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose, “...can you please just fix the internet and go.”
“Yeah. Internet. Fine.” Nothing personal, just get her back online and be on my way.
Snagging the seat across from hers, I pull out my gear. The sooner I get this done, the sooner I can go right back to the part I promised I’d play.
Dickhead Duty under the direct harassment of a goddamned possessed mistletoe drunk on power, while making sure I don’t blow past the line of Nick’s warning.
Make that warnings.
Because at the moment there are two in effect. The classic Don’t Fuck My Sister Decree aging like a top-tier bourbon, and the newly proclaimed Fuck Around With My Sisters Feelings and Find Out Framework he just rolled out.
“Uh, Chance?”
“What?” It’s more a snarl than a response, but I’m getting warmed up for my shift tomorrow.
She rears back and I immediately regret my tone.
Cocking her head, her eyebrows pitch to the and just who in the hell do you think you are position.
“I was going to warn you the vein is throbbing again, but fuck it, let the thing explode for all I care.” She’s equal parts determined kid I grew up with, fiery spitfire fresh off a baggage claim, and part boardroom battle ax in her prime.
In the face of all of it, there’s just one thing to say.
"You try rebooting?"
I’ve never been a bigger idiot in my life.
"Of course I tried rebooting. Maybe someone should reboot you. But in the interest of solving the current problem, I also tried praying, swearing, and threatening the damn thing with frequent flyer miles, destination straight out a goddamned window.
Any other stupid questions?"
"Sounds like you've got quite the relationship with technology."
"Yeah, well, at least I'm honest about my failed relationships."
Walked right into that trap.
Hell, I didn't just walk into the trap. I set the damn thing.
Now I can add a brand new skill to my resume—Proven proficiency at kicking myself in my own ass.
“Right.” The elephant in the room demands attention, so I lean back, and let the weight of the silence stretch between us. "So you want to talk about that, or you want me to fix your connection?"
"Fix the connection. My connections are just fine.” The words come out clipped. Clinical. "The rest…” she looks me up and down, “…doesn't matter."
I bite back my reply, because we’re here because I fucked up.
There’s a price to be paid for it.
For now.
"Alright then." I nod my head at her laptop. “So that sweet little rabid ass of yours back down and let’s start."
Her mouth falls open before she remembers herself and snaps is shut again.
Her hands ball into tight little fists at her sides. “You can’t—But I—Dick?—”
“I’d ask if a cat’s got your tongue, but it sounds less cat and more wood chipper.”
“Fuck the internet. I don’t need it that bad.”
“Bullshit. And you know fuck all about me if you think I can live with this interfering with you winning over Vaultress Global.”
At the reminder of what’s really at stake, the tension in her shoulders eases, followed by the clenched fists. “I—thanks.”
She drags her chair alongside mine, and settles in with her leg folded under her.
Otis peaks out from beneath the hem of her sweater.
One glimpse and I’m back to the shitty little room, but the best goddamn place in the world because I’m studying the little guy with her soft thighs wrapped around my head.
She gasps and I follow the direction of her gaze down to the little tattoo. More specifically, my finger tracing over the letters.
I blink down with no recollection of having reached for her to begin with.
Blood surging, the buzzing in my head turns deafening—something inside tumbles and swells.
My chest constricts making my next words a strained rumble. “Just so we’re clear, Holly...”
I wait for her to meet my eyes. When she doesn’t I continue to trace over the flamingo with familiar confidence. “The rest does matter.”