Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
My breath catches.
I shouldn’t think about it.
I really shouldn’t.
But my body remembers it more clearly than my mind does. The warmth of him. The strength in his hands. The way he tilted to me like he’d done it a thousand times. The heat of his mouth. The way my knees had softened, traitorous, wanting more than I should ever allow myself to want.
It was fake.
It was a distraction.
A way to get my ex-husband to back off.
That’s all.
But my stomach swirls anyway, remembering the way Tony’s voice had dropped after, low and intimate and commanding: “Let’s get inside and warm up, baby.”
A flush spreads across my neck. It shouldn’t affect me. It shouldn’t mean anything. But something in me whispers that it did mean something—to him or to me, I don’t know.
I am not part of a let’s anymore. Do I even want that for myself? Before the kiss, I hadn’t even allowed myself to think about what it would be like to kiss another man, be with anyone.
How do I move on when in my mind I committed my life to Eric? Yet, kissing Tony, I felt alive again. I want that for me.
My lunch break ends before I’m ready. I toss the empty cup aside and go back inside.
By the last hour of the workday, I’m running on fumes.
A headache pulses behind my eyes. My throat is dry. My legs ache from sitting too long. My nerves are a mess of tangled threads that I keep trying to smooth down.
Around four fifteen, Dr. Kline emerges with a mouthful of expression that says someone dropped the ball but hasn’t yet decided who.
“Holley,” he says, adjusting his glasses, “did you call the lab about the Raymond crown?”
“Yes. They said it’s delayed until Thursday.”
He frowns. “Thursday? That’s unacceptable.”
“They said there was a staffing issue—” I try to explain and he cuts me off holding up a hand.
“Call again.”
“I already—”
“Call again,” he repeats, sharper.
I swallow irritation and nod.
As he walks away, Kendra mutters under her breath, “He needs a vacation.”
I almost smile. Almost.
But smiling takes too much energy right now.
Finally five o'clock arrives. I shut down the computer. Gather my things. Say the required goodbyes. And step outside into air that feels crisp and, somehow, softer than it did this morning.
I reach my car door.
And hesitate.
I don’t want to go “home.” Not yet. Not alone. Not with the possibility that the memory of last night is waiting to tempt me to have hope to feel like a woman alive again.
I lean against the car, pulling in a shaky breath.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I jump.
But it’s just a message.
From an unknown number.
My heartbeat quickens in a way that’s not quite fear, not quite adrenaline.
I open it.
Come have dinner, Holley. Six-thirty.
My stomach drops as I recognize the number from the booking. The hope and anticipation twists itself into something messy and unsteady. Because I know exactly who it is and how I shouldn’t smile reading the invitation.
Tony Brocato. My guest for a week. This is a business transaction. Dinner sounds intimate. He’s a stranger not a friend.
The memory of our kiss lingers and my lips protest that he’s a lot of things but to my body, he’s a stranger no more.
And suddenly the cold isn’t the thing sending shivers through me anymore.
Nine
Stud
The cabin was quiet in the way only deep woods could be—no hum of distant roads, no neighbors, no anything except the slow creak of timbers settling and the whisper of wind dragging itself across the eaves. I have been away less than twenty-four hours, but the stillness has already worked its way under my skin, loosening knots I didn’t realize I’d been carrying.
I stretch out on the worn sofa, boots crossed at the ankles on the coffee table, the woodstove clicking softly beside me as it breathes its way through the last split logs I fed it. Warmth pooled into the room; it soaked into my bones. Much better than last night’s chaos. Much better than witnessing Holley—cold, scared, clearly running on fumes—trying to pretend she was fine.
Damn woman. Stronger than she knew and more fragile than she ever let herself appear.
I rub a hand over my jaw, staring through the big picture window at the tree line. Snow flurries began to drift like lazy feathers, the kind that didn’t really accumulate but sure as hell made you want to cook something hearty.
Fucking snow. I’m from Ohio, the white shit isn’t something I’m new to, but it isn’t the best thing to ride a motorcycle in. Especially since I’m in the mountains in a town I don’t actually know my way around. So much for the damn weather predictions.
Can I manage? Sure.
I’m just at an age where I don’t care to. I begin to mentally prepare for a trip to the grocery store. Maybe I’ll make chili for dinner or pork chops. My stomach seems to wake up at the thought of a solid meal.