Page 111 of Golden Goal

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I lean against his chest, staring up at him, loving how it feels to be in his arms. “I think so. I wasn’t yesterday, but I think I’m okay since we have a plan in place now to handle the situation.”

“Good.” He kisses my hair. “Are you done in here?”

“Yeah.” I go to step away from him, but he tightens his hold on me.

I laugh, turning in his arms so I can face him.

He smirks at me, picking me up and walking into the living room.

“Put me down. I can walk.”

“Behave,” he growls, sitting on the couch, me still in his arms.

I roll my eyes but lean back against him, relaxing into his hold.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

“What the fuck?” Holt mutters.

I jump to my feet.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Going to see who it is.”

“They’re not knocking on your door.”

“I know. But they’re knocking on your old door.”

As the words sink in, a female voice shouts. “I know you’re in there, Holt.” The banging continues.

“No. No way,” He mutters, tiptoeing toward the front door and peering through the peephole.

Chapter forty-three

Holt

My eyes widen at the sight of Kat pacing in front of my old apartment. She’s yanking on her hair that’s loose across her shoulders, her normally perfectly dyed blonde hair now mostly her natural black. She’s wearing baggy sweatpants and a sweatshirt, neither of which appear to fit her. I’ve never, in the many years I’ve known her, seen her dressed like this. Even after a night of partying and drinking, she was always put together the next day. Unlike now.

“Are you in there banging your neighbor? I know that’s who she is. I have pictures. I’m not mad about it, I promise. But it’s time for us to be a family now.” She bangs on the door again. “Holt. Please,” she whines. “Open up. I want to talk. I miss you. I made a mistake breaking up with you.”

I turn away from the door, having seen enough.

“I’m going to call the police,” Becca whispers. “How did she even get past the doorman?”

I shrug because that’s a good question. Becca walks into her bedroom to call the police. I leave a message for Jerry telling him what’s going on before taking a seat on the couch and waiting for Becca to get off the phone.

A few minutes later, she sits next to me. “They’re going to send officers over.”

“Good.” I put my arm around her. “I’m sorry I brought this into your life.”

“It’s not your fault. You didn’t know she was going to get this”—she waves her hand around—“unhinged.” She tips her head up, meeting my eyes. “I wouldn’t trade it, or you, for anything.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” I grimace. “But I still feel bad.”

“Nothing to feel bad about.”