“We’re still on the deadline that you indicated originally?” Now I’m the one caught in an odd moment of multi-tasking.
“Three months,” he states while I pull out a peanut butter jar from a cabinet.
Spreading jam and peanut butter on bread, I continue our conversation. “Fine. We should have weekly meetings to check in, too.”
“Sounds good.”
Now I’m attempting to find some other snacks. I spot the pantry and head straight there. Opening the door and walking in, I examine the shelves then find a granola bar, water bottle, and small bag of crackers shaped as fish.
We say nothing as he watches me, unsure what is transpiring. After tossing everything in, I zip the bag then pass it to Holden by slamming it into his chest. “Here. How can you not know how to make a school lunch?” I’m brazen with my astonishment.
His eyes are saucers, unprepared by my tone of slight disapproval.
Harry walks to his father and takes his bag, oblivious to who worked their lunch-making magic and assuming his dad suddenly became a sandwich wizard. “Thanks. I’ll meet you in the car.”
Holden and I seem to be in a stare-off, ignoring his children as they slide backpacks off chairs and walk toward the hall where I think the garage is.
I cross my arms, not sure why I’m not afraid to level with Holden, even if he is my semi-boss.
“Wow. Someone isn’t afraid to be bold.” His eyes remain locked with mine.
“I’m not some shy girl, if that’s what you remember of me. In fact, I’ve never been scared of everything I do in life,” I defend, speaking my mind.
He scoffs before his tongue darts out to sweep across his bottom lip. “Everything?” The innuendo is there, I’m not reading it wrong.
Heat swims through me. I wasn’t thinking about the broader spectrum of everything, including the X-rated kind, but it’s also the truth. Standing taller, I will own this moment. “Yes,everything.”
Holden snickers. “Thanks for the insight, and just FYI, I know how to make a lunch. You’ve just caught me on a day when my mind is somewhere else, and last time I checked, we’re all allowed to have one of those mornings. Come on, meeting done. You can leave via the garage.” His tone is curt before he turns on his heel, and yet again, I trail along, not sure if I pissed him off.
But then halfway down the hall, he stops in his tracks, causing me to bump into his back and get a whiff of the cologne that I’m sure will soak into my coat fabric. His instant turn brings us close, with our bodies brushing as his eyes dip down, and I peer up.
“You owe me,” he says, his tone serious.
I frown in surprise. “I owe you?”
“Yep.” His P is sharp. “Remember, one of us has an IOU, and it isn’t me.” I’m confused, and he must see it. “I believe I was out with the team once, and I caught you at the bar when you were twenty and you were attempting to buy a drink with your friend. The bartender was about to card you, but I stepped in and told him that you were a friend of mine so he wouldn’t ask.”
I do remember now, but still my mouth opens at the ridiculousness of this. “And?”
“I joked that you owe me, and you agreed.”
“That was said in jest,” I rebuff.
His finger comes up to wave side to side as he shakes his head. “Nope. In your appreciative state, you asked the bartender for a pen then wrote on a napkin.” He pretends to search his memory. “Oh yeah, ‘I owe Holden West a favor one day, signed Lexi Moore.’”
Crap, it rings a bell and is something I totally would do. “What? Nobody would take that as fact. It was having fun in the moment,” I justify.
Holden gives me a satisfied smirk. “Putting it in writing kind of cements it.So,Lexi, I’m calling in that favor now.”
My entire face squinches from adjusting to the feeling that he isn’t joking one single bit, but still I play along. “What might that be?”
“I don’t think staying at the hotel for so long is ideal, especially with the room next to yours getting a leak fixed. It could get loud. Treat the hotel more like an office.”
“And? Where do you suggest I stay?”
The lines of his mouth stretch so far that his wide smirk nearly makes me want to swipe it off his face by any means possible because it’s infuriatingly annoying, cocky, and a little too sexy for seven in the morning.
“My guesthouse.”
