How she surrenders?
I grab my phone again, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. But what the hell do I say?
Sorry my past keeps hurting you?
Sorry I'm lying to my best friend?
Sorry I can't stop wanting you even though I should?
In the end, I say nothing. Just push to my feet, adjust my painfully hard dick, and head for the door.
Maybe a cold shower will wash away the memory of her taste—her touch. The way she looked at me before Nick's words shattered everything.
Yeah. And maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and none of this will matter.
Chapter Nineteen
Holly
Breakfast is alreadyin full swing by the time I make it down to the dining room. The scent of coffee—a lifeline—as all eyes turn toward me the minute I step in.
Chance sits at the table like nothing happened. Like last night didn’t end with him kissing me like I was the only thing holding him together.
My lips still tingle where his mouth claimed mine. Not a performance kiss—not with the way his fingers dug into my hip, possessive and demanding. Like he couldn't help himself.
The thought sends panic clawing up my throat. Because this isn't how it's supposed to go.
He's not supposed to kiss me like he's drowning and I'm air.
And I'm definitely not supposed to want him to do it again.
Subtle touches to absolute destruction—both working in perfect synchronization. His hot gaze searing me to the spot with a look equal partsmoth to a flameandrun for your life.
And now he’s not even acknowledging my presence. Nope. He’s perfectly content to act like I don’t exist. Which, great—cool—awesome. Guess we’re right back to old Holly.
He definitely doesn’t look like he’ll show up to my room again, which tracks… old Holly didn’t get those benefits either.
Goodbye to those barely-conscious moments right before I drift off—the ones where I feel his fingers weaving through my hair, toying with the strands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
My eyes sting, and something I can’t let myself examine parks its eighteen-wheel ass in my throat.
Abort.
Latching onto the promise of fresh coffee like a lifeline—and bacon thick enough to mask the anxiety churning in my stomach—I head straight for the beverage station, each step an exercise in looking casual while my insides wage civil war.
The North: protect the heart at all costs.
The South: surrender the lady bits.
I’m not hiding by the coffee.
Nope.
Yes. Actually, yes I am.
My hands tremble as I reach for the carafe, my skin prickling with a sharp awareness. The kind that says his gaze isn’t just on me—it’s touching me.
Proprietary.
