"Just admiring your, uh, artistic expression." Real smooth, soldier. "Fall Out Boy lyrics? Really?"
"Yes, really. Would you three like to be alone?" She snatches them from my hands, her fingers brushing mine in a way that definitely doesn't make my pulse spike. “They have outpatient services for this sort of thing now."
She's trying for light, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice, the way she won't quite meet my eyes.
Last night changed things, whether we want to admit it or not.
Chapter Seven
Holly
Someone should really inventa system for ranking awkward silences. Like a Richter scale, but for measuring the seismic waves of discomfort radiating between two people trapped in a truck after one catches the other fondling her underwear.
Twenty minutes from the lodge, and my brain won't stop replaying the image of Chance in nothing but a towel as he studied my manifestation panties like they held nuclear launch codes.
Well, my systems are activated, and my rockets launched, thankyouverymuch. My girl zone is arcing harder than a live wire. I’m shocked he can’t hear the snap, crackle, and pop.
Heat crawls up my neck as I remember the way his fingers traced the cursive script with something close to reverence. Or maybe that was just my hormones reimagining things because, holy body, damn him.
While he studied my underwear, I studied the mouthwatering roadmap of corded muscle with intriguing dips and valleys, my fingers itching to touch the entire time.
Look, don’t touch, dear.
And there’s my mother’s voice again—the lady box-blocking queen.
But touching is so much more fun.
And in this case, about the dumbest thing I could do.
I’ve seen him in less over the years—weekends at the lake, Fourth of July blowouts where our moms weaponized red, white, and blue, drowning the southeastern shore of Sebago Lake in tacky Americana.
Then came the two-year transformation: from scrawny runt to buff jock, strutting around like Tom Brady showing off his Super Bowl rings.
Told you—GI Jackass isn’t just a nickname. It’s fifteen years of foreshadowing wrapped in cargo pants and ego.
I steal glances at his profile between frantic taps on my phone, searching for any update on my wayward luggage. The sharp angles of his face catch the morning light, all barely contained intensity as he navigates the winding mountain roads. His jaw ticks —that telltale flex that says he's wrestling with something bigger than road conditions. Every twitch of that muscle sends an answering pulse between my thighs.
Jesus, when did that start happening? My body's sudden betrayal is definitely not part of the master plan.
Master plan. Yes. Focus.
“We need to talk.” The words pop out of me like a champagne cork—loud, sudden, and with absolutely no chill. Unless, of course, it was chilled.
Oof, I will forever be grateful I didn’t let that turd of a joke slip from between my lips. God.
His fingers still on the wheel. "About this morning?—"
"No!" Heat floods my cheeks. "Nope. Uh, about my father."
The muscle in his cheek twitches, a dead giveaway, like it’s putting on its best national performance hoping to make the Olympic jaw-flexing team. “What about him?”
Here goes nothing. “I need you to pretend you can’t stand me.”
He jerks. The truck swerves slightly before he steadies it, his reaction more telling than the neutral “Come again?” that follows.
“When we get there.” The words spill out, an avalanche of nerves I can’t stop. “I need you to act like I’m still the annoying little sister who drives you nuts. Kick it up a notch, even—who do you have the most disdain for—I’m them. Make it happen.”
“Yeah, I’mnotdo?—”
