Page 148 of Twisted Knight

“Thank you. I’ll make sure to handle with care.”

FORTY-SEVEN

Rowan

I’ve about had my fill.

Of the fakeness.

Of the boring conversations.

Of watching Holden from across the yard with his hand on that woman’s back. Of the churning in my stomach when I see them and the lump the size of Texas in my throat.

It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve repeated in my head it doesn’t matter … because it does.

Here I thought the biggest problem about today was going to be keeping my distance from Holden to prevent everybody from seeing right through me. To keep our friends and the board members who are milling around from knowing that we’re sleeping together.

But it wasn’t by a long goddamn mile.

Instead, it was a game of charades. Of pretending like I don’t care where Holden is or what he’s doing. Of fighting back the tears that would threaten at random times when I’d catch sight of them interacting. Of throwing myself into any and all interactions with Chad as my only means of a “fuck you” to Holden.

I brace my hands on the bathroom counter and emit a fortifying sigh. The fake smile I’ve had plastered on my face all freaking day looks back at me. Mocks me. Tells me I’m crazy for thinking what this was with Holden was … something to be upset over.

“You said it was just sex,” I mutter to myself.

When I showed up today, I had thoughts that maybe I’d be rewarded for this punishment later. That I’d find Holden sitting on my porch when I got home, and we could … entertain ourselves after a long day full of pretention and monotony.

A knock on the bathroom door startles me.

“Just a minute,” I call out, more than irritated. This is a bathroom in the back of the house. Guests are supposed to use the front ones. There’s a reason I came back to this one.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Jesus. Impatient, much?

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“What?” I snap as I yank the door open only to yelp as Holden pushes me back inside the same moment his lips claim mine.

“Get off me—” I attempt to get out, but my words are lost as our tongues touch and bodies meet.

Pent-up desperation overrides sense.

“Holden—”

Blatant desire erases all semblance of rationality and obliterates all thoughts of that carbon copy of me.

“It’s not what you think.”

There’s just me.

“Who is she?”

Just him.

“No one.”

Just this bathroom.