“No.” He almost chokes on his soup. “Why would you think that?”
I shrug. “You have a big table. It looks like it seats a lot of people, is all.”
He seems to think about it for a moment before shaking his head and digging into his meal again. “I made it,” he says after a moment.
“Youmadeit?” I put my spoon down and run my hand over the smooth wood. Like the bed, the table also has an inlay of darker woods along the top that looks to represent a forest. “It’s beautiful,” I say honestly.
He grunts in response and goes back to eating; the silence builds between us again.
Once more, I break it. “Do you see my dad much?”
“No.” The answer is immediate.
“But doesn’t he live just up the?—”
“He does,” Holt cuts me off. “And Sawyer’s place is just past his. Beck and Cal’s is a little further around.”
The names all sound familiar, like Dad had mentioned them when I was young. But it was only Holt who’d ever visited when I was a kid, and my parents were still together.
“Are they…”
“Mybrothers.”
He uses the same term my dad used to describe the men he’d served with when he was young.
Dad never spoke much about that time. I knew it had been rough for him. But when he did talk about it, it was only to mention hisbrothersand how he’d die for them. And them for him.
“Didn’t realize they all lived here on the mountain.”
“Mostly. Beck isn’t here much. But the rest of us…” he nods, almost imperceptibly. “We bought the land when we were young and full of…well, when things were different.”
“Different how?”
“You ask a lot of questions.” He pushes his chair back with a loud scrape on the wood floor and takes his dishes to the sink. “It’s getting late. You’re probably tired.”
“I’m not actually. I?—”
“I am,” he growls. “Help yourself to anything you need.”
And just like that, he’s gone, down the back hallway to the guest room that’s not really a guest room, and I’m left wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
Holt
Fuck.
I never should have brought her here. She’s too bright. Too inquisitive. Too damn sexy in that wide-eyed, innocent way that means nothing but trouble.
Never mind all the questions she asks.
Why so many goddamn questions?
I close the door to theguest roombehind me, putting a barrier between us. It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.
Theguest room—I’ve never once called it that before tonight—is full of boxes, half-finished projects, and random shit.
This is the storage room.
I wasn’t lying when I said I never had guests. She’s the first.
