Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Holly
CHANCE
I need to apologize.
My chest pinches hard, pinching so tight my breath squeezes out in a whoosh, leaving me lightheaded. I stare at the words for a second longer than I should, heat flaring under my skin.
ME
About your Oscar-worthy prick performance at breakfast?
CHANCE
I deserved that.
Damn right, he does. My heart kicks up, betrayal and anger warring with something terrifyingI don’t want to name. I snatch up the phone again, my fingers trembling as I type.
ME
Gold star for the obvious, soldier boy.
CHANCE
Let me fix it.
Fix it? The laugh that escapes me is sharp, bitter, and way too loud in the quiet room. My stomach twists as I picture the pieces of his shattered bowl. The shards glint in my mind, like a warning—a jagged reminder of how easy it would be to fall into the same trap I’m in with my father.
Chance isn’t my father. I know that. But the pull—the need to prove something—it feels the same. Dangerous. Familiar in all the worst ways. And the worst part? A tiny, treacherous piece of me still wants to try.
ME
Pretty sure that bowl is beyond repair.
CHANCE
Not the bowl. Us.
The words slam into me. I collapse onto the bed, my phone clutched too tightly in my hand. My breathing slows, but my heart pounds like it’s trying to fight its way out of my ribcage.
Us.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. He makes it sound so simple, like it’s something you can just name and make real.
But what if it’s already ruined?
ME
There is no us. There’s you being an ass and me finally doing something about it.
CHANCE
There’s always been an us, Squirt.
It took what he did to finally understand everything he was trying to tell me when he pinned me under him in that wagon.
The pain he had to have felt to push him to that point. But more than the words he said were the ones he didn’t—and how I’m choking back the same ones.
Because a part of me is terrified to do the same. Big terrified. The kind of terrified I’d rather cut my own tongue out than admit.
ME
Call me Squirt again, and I’ll find something bigger than a bowl to smash.
CHANCE
Can we talk?
ME
Talk all you want, soldier boy. I’ve never been anti-imaginary friend.
CHANCE
I want to talk to my real one.
The phone slips in my hand, but I manage to catch it before it falls.
His real one.
My heart surges into my throat, the ache in my chest only gets worse, and I press the heel of my hand to my sternum, trying to ease the throb.
Don’t be the next thing I have to get over, Chance.
ME
Room 208. Knock first, he’s probably balls-deep in your sister.
It’s a cheap shot. I know it, and so does he. The flicker of guilt is immediate, but I push it down, stuffing it deep.
CHANCE
I’ll let that slide.
I roll my eyes.
Damn him for always knowing when to ease up, when to give me room to breathe.
And thank you.
ME
Oh, how magnanimous you. BTW Otis has a message for ya
CHANCE
Fixing this first. I’ll buy Otis a drink if I survive. Ten minutes. Back entrance.
ME
And if I don’t show?
CHANCE
You will.
ME
Awfully confident for someone who just got wrecked by dishware.
CHANCE
Some things are worth the hit.
His words dig deeper than I want to admit. My throat tightens as I set the phone down, my hands trembling slightly.
Maybe they are.
I stare at his text until the words blur, debating for the hundredth time whether I should go down there. My fingers linger over the phone's screen, reading through—scrolling up—starting again.
The bowl incident still stings, a raw wound under my carefully crafted armor. But those texts... they cracked something open.
There’s always been an us, Squirt.
That hits different.
Fuck it.
The back entrance is quiet, with nothing but the distant thump of bass from the bar and the soft whisper of snow in the air.
I find him straddling a snowmobile, his hands resting lightly on the handlebars, the thrum of the idling engine filling the cold, quiet night. The machine vibrates beneath him, sleek and powerful, and all I can think is that’s not playing fair.
The moonlight catches on the shadow of stubble along his sharp jawline. My fingers itch to trace the line the way I did as he slept.
Damn him.
Definitely not playing fair.
The snow crunches under my boots as I approach, slow and deliberate, because I’ll be damned if he knows the effect this is having on me.
He tilts his head, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that feels like a full-body check.
“You came,” he says, his voice rough, carrying a weight that lands heavily between us.
“Questionable decision-making is a theme for me lately.” My voice is sharper than I intend, but I don’t soften it.
I can’t.
Not after breakfast. Not after he crushed the trust I put in him after he held my hand in the dark and gave me what no one else has given me—what I never knew quite how desperately I needed.
His jaw flexes, his eyes dropping to the snow for a moment. When he meets my gaze again, there’s no smirk, no cocky edge. Just the kind of pain you don’t admit to. “I’m sorry.”
The words hang in the air, visible like the puffs of breath we both exhale in the cold. I don’t say anything, just lift an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.
He shifts, sliding off the snowmobile with a grace that feels too practiced. Standing, he’s suddenly bigger, and broader, the bulk of his winter jacket making him look even more solid. He holds his ground, though, keeping the snowmobile between us like he knows he’s not welcome to come closer.
“You’ve got five minutes,” I say, crossing my arms tighter. “Clock’s ticking.”
He nods, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard. “I deserve that.” His voice is steady, but it’s threaded with something jagged and raw.
“And more. I fucked up, Holly. I handled everything wrong. You walked into that dining room, and I panicked. I—I didn’t know how to keep it together.”
I look away, staring at the snowmobile—it’s safer. “You handled it exactly the way I should have expected. You were right on brand, soldier boy.”
“That’s not fair.”
I snap my gaze back to him, heat rising in my chest. “Fair? You want to talk about fair? You humiliated me.” My voice cracks, and I bite my lip so hard it stings. “My father had a front-row seat to—I trusted you.” My voice catches on tears, but I force myself to face him. “You went way too far today."
"I was still reeling from the night before—then trying to sell the whole hate thing?—
"By destroying me?" The words crack between us like lightning. "I have lines, too, Chance. That’s not just one of them. That's a fucking wall."
He takes a step toward me. I take one back.
“You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it.” His words come out low, almost broken. “And I hate that I’m the one who did it.”
"Good." But my back hits the actual wall, and suddenly he's right there, all heat and intensity and regret.
"It’ll never happen again, Holly.” He fists his hands at his sides, like he’s physically restraining himself from touching me. "Ever."
“Then why did you?” The question escapes before I can stop it, quieter than I intend.
It’s too vulnerable, too open.
I hate myself for asking it, but I need to know.
“Because you scare the hell out of me,” he says, the words spilling out fast and raw. His breath fogs in the air, but his gaze stays locked on mine, unflinching. “You always have. But it’s different now—Jesus.”
He drags a hand through his hair, a frustrated sound rumbling low in his throat. “Those are the same words Nick used when he admitted he was falling for Charlie. He was honest and I’m—I—lying about this is killing me.”
“It’s almost over. You just have to?—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “But then I have to tell him the truth.”
My breath catches. “The truth?”
“That I’m in love with you.”
The words land like a punch to the chest, sharp and unexpected. My lungs refuse to work, the cold air sticking in my throat as I try to process. He said it. He actually said it.
Every part of me screams to push him away, to throw up every wall I have left. Because if I don’t, if I let him in and he screws up again—I’ll shatter.
“Chance—” My voice is barely a whisper, and I hate how unsteady it sounds.
“I’m tired of pretending,” he says, stepping closer, the snow crunching under his boots. “With him. With you.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a key, holding it out between us. “But I’m starting with you, Holly. Starting and ending with you.”
I stare at the key, my throat thick and tight. “What’s it for?”
“The Shred Shack.” His voice softens, and something flickers in his expression—hope, maybe? Or desperation. “I know what it meant to you, always being shut out of it. I’m done with that, Holly. I’m done keeping you out.”
The words crack through something I thought was solid. My fingers twitch at my sides, wanting to reach for the key, but not trusting it. Not trusting him.
“Why now?” My voice wavers, but I hold his gaze. Because I need to know. Need him to give me something real.
“Because, thanks to you, I know what it feels like to have the most important person in your world let you in.” His voice is low, steady, and painfully sincere. “I want you to know what that feels like too.”
I blink, the ache in my chest splintering, but I keep my tone light. “I’m the most important person in your world, huh?”
“Yeah.” His lips twitch, something almost like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, you are.”
A breath catches in my throat. My pulse stutters and trips because—what the hell do you even say to that?
He takes a shaky step closer, the snow crunching under his boots. “And I can’t lose you—not like this. Not because of my own fucking fear.”
The ache shifts, softer now, quieter. Waiting. My fingers move almost on their own, brushing his as I take the key. The cold metal presses into my palm, grounding me in the moment as I finally look up at him.
And for the first time since this whole thing started, I don’t feel like I’m the one standing on the outside.
“You’ve got one shot,” I say, my voice stronger now. “Don’t screw it up.”
His lips curve into a small, almost shy smile, and something in my chest stirs. “I won’t,” he says simply.
I climb onto the snowmobile, gripping the handlebars as he swings on behind me. His arms settle on either side, and the heat of him seeps into me, making my pulse stutter.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “I’ve got you.”
I almost believe him. Because I’m pretty sure, I love him too, and I don’t want to let him go. I will if I have to—but God, I don’t want to. Maybe this time, he’ll prove me right for believing.