Her jaw dropped. “Holden.”
The man was here…at her house…and she was a mess. Like,mess-mess. Had she even done her hair? No. Well, technically yes—she’d pulled it up into a messy bun, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t looked at her reflection once.
His gaze ran down her body, something dark and primal flashing through his eyes. And that’s when she realized what she was wearing…
Thesweatshirt.Hissweatshirt. The one he’d given her to wear that night at the street party all those years ago. The one she’d told herself a million times to return, but as time passed and she’d continued to wear it, it’d started to feel too late. Not to mention, it had become worn and faded after so many washes.
“I can explain—” she began quietly.
“Don’t. It looks good on you. Better than on me.”
And it probably appeared to beallshe was wearing. She had tiny workout shorts underneath, but the sweatshirt drowned her.
She cleared her throat. “What—what are you doing here?”
He lifted a toolbox. “Here to fix that floorboard.”
“I told you that you don’t need to do that.”
“And I toldyouthat I would.”
Man, this guy was frustrating. Cute, and made her flushed and nervous, but frustrating. “Well, you’re too late.”
His brows rose. “You fixed it?”
“I’m in theprocessof fixing it.”
He glanced down at her hand. “With tweezers?”
“No, smart guy. These are for my splinter. But that’s a battle I am not winning.” She held her hand up as if to prove the splinter’s existence.
He stepped forward and gently gripped her wrist. His touch made all the fine hairs on her arms stand on end and her heartbeat go fast and loud.
“Lucky for you,” he said quietly, voice deep and raspy, “I’m an expert at removing splinters.”
That didn’t sound safe. Whatdidsound safe was about ten miles of distance between them. “You don’t need—”
“Come on.” He stepped around her and walked straight into her house like he’d been here a million times.
Almost on autopilot, she closed the door and turned. And holy mother of hell, he made her hallway look small. Although, he only remained there for a second before setting a hand on the small of her back and guiding her toward the kitchen.
“I can’t believe we’ve known each other for so many years and I’ve never seen your house,” he said, almost to himself.
Seven. They’d known each other seven years, and he hadn’t seen her house because, after a person declared their love and the recipient didn’t reciprocate, distance was best. “Well, this is it.”
He went to the sink and turned on the warm water before gently grasping her wrist again and guiding her hand under the stream.
“A little trick my mother showed me,” he said, face close to hers now. Far,fartoo close. “Warm water softens the skin around the splinter and can loosen it, making it easier to get out.”
She frowned. He never spoke about his mother. She’d always assumed it was too painful. His mother had passed away from cancer when he was a teenager, and he’d had to go into foster care until he turned eighteen. “Sounds like she was a wise woman.”
“Either that or she was desperate for a quick way to remove a splinter from a kid who didn’t sit still.” He smiled at her before taking her hand out of the water and slipping the tweezers from her fingers. Then, as if he’d done it a hundred times, he easily slid the splinter from her palm.
No pain. None. In fact, she hadn’t even felt it.
“I take it back,” Clara said softly. “Your mother wasn’t wise. She was magic.”
His gaze met hers, and there was something in his eyes she couldn’t name. An emotion that ran deeper than the usual ones Holden let people around him see.
