The memory of Evan’s knowing smirk as we danced surfaces. He’d seen the way I’d held her, the way I’d looked at her. He’d seen the truth I was desperately trying to deny. And for once, staring back at him over Holly’s head, feeling the weight of her in my arms… I hadn’t cared. The usual urge to deflect, to retreat, had been absent. Replaced by something terrifyingly close to… surrender.
The car slows, turning onto her street. Familiar storefronts slide by – the darkened bookstore, the quirky vintage clothing shop, the bar with the neon sign sputtering in the cold. We’re getting close.
Panic, sharp and sudden, claws at my insides. I don’t want this to end. I want… more. More of her warmth. More of the exhilarating feeling I’ve had being with her tonight.
The car pulls to a smooth stop in front of Sugar Rush. The familiar storefront is dark, the CLOSED sign hanging in the window. Upstairs, in the apartment above, a single light glows in the window.
“Home,” Holly says, her voice quiet. There’s a note of something in it… relief? Regret? I can’t tell.
“Thanks for tonight,” she says, turning to face me fully. Her hand moves to the door handle. “It was fun being your buffer person.” She offers a small, tentative smile.
“Holly.” Her name is a rough scrape in my throat. I reach out, my fingers brushing her wrist before she can open the door. The contact sends a jolt through me. Her skin is cool from the night air, but the spark is instantaneous. Her eyes snap to mine, wide, questioning.
I should say something. Anything. ‘You were amazing tonight.’ ‘I don’t want it to end.’ ‘I’m terrified of how you make me feel.’ But the words stick, lodged behind the wall of fear and ingrained self-preservation.
All I can do is look at her. Take in the soft curve of her lips, slightly parted. The faint flush high on her cheeks. The warmth and confusion in her eyes. She’s so unbearably close.
The impulse is overwhelming. To lean in. To close the inches between us. To finally taste her. To see if her lips are as soft as they look. To lose myself in the heat and the rightness of it.
My hand tightens slightly on her wrist. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then flicker back up, an invitation I’m too much of a coward to accept.
Do it.The command screams in my head.Kiss her. Now.
But the fear is louder. The fear of opening the floodgates. The fear of needing her. The fear of the inevitable loss that followslove. The fear that kissing her would be stepping onto thin ice with no safety net.
It would change everything. There would be no going back to pretending this is just about Tabby. It would be a clear admission.
And I’m not ready. Especially not when the stakes feel so impossibly high.
I force my fingers to uncurl from her wrist and drop my hand back to my lap.
“Get some sleep,” I manage to say. “You did a good job tonight.” The compliment is pathetic, a hollow echo of what I truly felt.You were magnificent. You made me forget the walls I’ve spent years building. Everyone who met you, loved you. I was proud to have you by my side.
Disappointment flickers in her eyes, quickly masked. She nods, that tentative smile fading. “Right. Thanks. You too.” She turns back to the door. “Goodnight, Denton.”
“Goodnight, Holly.”
She pushes the door open and steps out, her wrap pulled tight around her shoulders. She doesn’t look back. She walks quickly towards the bakery door, fumbling with her keys under the dim glow of the streetlamp.
I watch her. Every instinct screams to follow. To call her back. But I stay rooted to the leather seat, my hands clenched tightly. The driver shifts, waiting for my signal to go.
She gets the door open and disappears inside. She’s gone.
I’m a total coward. I had her right here, within reach, and I let fear freeze me. I let the past dictate the present.
The driver clears his throat softly. “Back to your place, Mr. Blake?”
I don’t answer immediately. I keep staring at that door, at the place where she vanished.
“Yeah,” I finally rasp. “Home.”
Chapter 16
Holly
The air in the bakery kitchen hums with tension thicker than molasses.
Denton stands across the butcher-block island, his broad shoulders rigid beneath a black henley. He’s meticulously piping chocolate onto a vaguely reindeer-shaped cookie, his brow furrowed in concentration. He hasn’t looked directly at me since he and Tabby arrived twenty minutes ago, a quiet, “Afternoon,” his only greeting before Tabby began chattering enough for all three of us.
