“You’re leaving to play football after graduation, and I’m going to jump on a plane and get the hell out of Dodge. What else can there be?”
Nothingwas the correct answer. There shouldn’t be anything between us. Not even this. But the sense memory of Holden’s hot mouth on mine and his body pressed against me came roaring in to make its case.
“Friends with benefits,” Holden said in my ear, his voice low and husky. “Secretfriends with benefits. Isn’t that what you want?”
No. I want you. All of you.
“Well?”
“I’m on my way.”
***
I drove up to the huge white craftsman and parked along the side. Holden had texted me to take the side entrance, so I pushed through the gate and stepped into an immaculate backyard. The grass was cut to military precision, and the pool was clean and sparkling with several deck chairs surrounding it.
Just the sight of the pool gave me flashbacks from that first night together. I knocked at the guesthouse, feeling as if the windows in the main house were watching. Holden opened the door, and my breath quickened.
Holy hell.
Fresh from the shower, his silver hair was damp and slicked back from his face. He wore a thick maroon bathrobe—untied—over striped pajama pants and a white V-neck shirt. It clung to his chest and torso, hinting at cut abs that tapered to a narrow waist.
A heated push of want and denial, of need and guilt, swept through me.
“Uh-oh,” he said, reading my face, stepping aside to let me in. “Second thoughts? Didn’t wejusttalk about this?”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I know, but I’ve never…”
“Been alone with a guy?”
“Maybe,” I said. “And maybe don’t be a dick about it?”
“You’re right. Sorry. I keep forgetting I’m the slut in this relationship. Beer?”
“Sure.”
I heaved a steadying breath and shook out of my jacket while he went to the kitchen. Holden’s place was as big as most apartments. The front room had a couch, chair, and coffee table facing a small gas fireplace that was buffered on both sides by full bookshelves. The fire cast dancing shadows across the walls.
Under a window on the right sat a huge desk with a small desk lamp glowing over a journal and pen. The pen I’d given him for Christmas. On the left side of the fireplace wall was a small, open-concept kitchen with a hallway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom.
I stopped in front of his bookshelves. Classics shared space with modern stuff I’d never heard of, plus volumes of poetry, Greek plays, Latin dictionaries, and at least three encyclopedia sets.
“You’ve read all these?” I asked. “Even the encyclopedias?”
Holden approached with two IPAs and handed me one. He was standing close to me; I could feel the heat emanating from his skin. I took a deep pull of cold beer.
“You can’t be a writer and not read,” he said. “To put it in automotive terms you might appreciate, writing is driving the car, and reading is refilling the tank.”
“Sounds about right. What’s your favorite?”
Holden set his bottle down—I was glad he was drinking just beer tonight—and pulled out a huge, floppy softcover book from the shelf.
“Calvin and Hobbes? Are you kidding?”
“I never kid aboutCalvin and Hobbes.” Holden flipped through the collection of comics about a young boy and his stuffed tiger. “Thisisn’t just a comic strip. This is a philosophy manual on human nature. It just so happens to use snowman monsters and imaginary rocket ships to illustrate its point.”
“Okay, what makes it your favorite?”
“Because I like things that seem simple on the surface but are complicated and deep if you examine them up close. Like you. You’re like Superman who never takes off his Clark Kent costume. How many of your so-called meathead friends know you read Joseph Heller? Or that you know how to find derivatives using the chain rule?”
