Holden Parish was lounging casually against my dresser. He was dressed all in black but for a long gray tweed coat.
“Jesus Christ!”
“Not quite, but I can see how you’d make that mistake.” He examined his fingernails lazily. “Actually, I take that back. He and I arenothingalike.”
“How did you get in?” I hissed with a quick glance at my bedroom door that—thank God—I remembered to shut.
“I have my ways. Also, your front door was unlocked.” His smile was maddeningly devious as his vivid green eyes brazenly scraped over my naked torso. “Get dressed. I’m all for you wearing nothing but a towel all night, but it’s probably a bit much for our first date.”
“Our first…” I shook my head. “Did I get sacked really hard? AmI hallucinating? What the fuck are youdoinghere?”
“I’m rescuing you.”
I snorted a laugh. “Okay, I’ll bite. From?”
“From this day. Tonight is a… What would you call it in football speak? A time-out.”
“I don’t needrescuing. I’m the fucking homecoming king. I have a dance to go to, so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Have you read all these?” Holden asked, perusing my bookshelf. It was short, only three shelves, but crammed to overflowing, with some books stacked on top of others and more piled on the floor.
“They’re not there for decoration.”
“Mmm. You read. You do not suck at calculus…impressive.”
“Thanks,” I said absently, my damn brains scrambled.
I couldn’t be in the same room with him dressed only in a towel for one more fucking second. I crossed to my dresser, walking straight into his space, into the thundercloud of Holden Parish—his scent, his cologne, the bite of cloves and vodka. I fumbled in my drawer for a pair of underwear, clutching the towel around my hips with white knuckles.
He pulled my dog-eared copy ofCatch-22off the stack and flipped it, showing me the cover. “A little too on the nose, don’t you think?”
“What’s too on the nose?” I asked as if it were totally normal to chitchat with random guys who materialized in my room while I tried to get dressed.
It is normal. It’s just like being in the locker room with the team.
Except being alone with Holden in my bedroom didn’t feel one damn bit like it did with the team. I’d made the locker room a sterile place, devoid of any emotion or reaction on my part. Here, the air felt charged. Thick. Heavy. Electricity crackled around Holden, making the hairs on the backs of my arms stand up.
I went into my closet—a small walk-in—and pulled on my underwear. I’d felt the sweep of cotton against my dick a thousand times, but suddenly it provoked the sensitive skin. I clenched my teeth and willedmy body to calm the hell down.
“Catch-22is about paradoxes,” Holden was saying. “Absurdities. A catch-22 is a problem for which the only solution is denied by a circumstance inherent in the problem itself.”
“I know what it means,” I said, quickly yanking on my black dress slacks.
“Your inherent problem is that you don’t want to attend the dance with a girl. The solution is to not go. But you can’tnot gobecause you need to be seen with a girl. Therefore, the girl is both the problem and the solution.” Holden cocked his head, brows raised. “Am I close?”
“Is this your way of apologizing for the closet?” I threw on the white button-down, my fingers tearing up the shirt, closing buttons. “Because it doesn’t sound like an apology. It sounds like the same kind of insinuation.”
Holden’s piercing gaze softened as he watched me get dressed. “You don’t have to go.”
“I kind of do. Mydateis waiting.”
“Your date is my best friend’s one true love. She just doesn’t realize it yet.”
“Not my problem.” I yanked my arms through a black vest.
Holden set my copy ofCatch-22back on its stack and crossed his arms. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Of what?”
