Page 127 of Threaded Lies

We sit like that, connected with her knees on either side of me and her cheek resting on my shoulder. I trail my fingertips down the length of her spine and let her hair tickle my cheek.

And when our heartbeats decelerate, when her eyes become heavy and the weight of the events wear her into slumber, I carry her into my bed.

I lay her down between the down comforter and the luxury sheets in a place I’ve never let anyone else into before.

But her hand remains on mine the entire time. On my hand, on my thigh, on my fingers. “Don’t go,” she murmurs in her sleep.

And I don’t. Not like I’d planned to do anyway.

Instead I sink down into my bed and stare at the sleeping, incomparable Rowan Rothschild.

Sworn enemy.

Salve to wounds I won’t acknowledge.

Gasoline to the fire I’m starting.

We lie like this in the silence of my place in a position we’ve never been in before. One of us seeking comfort from the other. One of us needing more than just the physical.

It terrifies me.

I tried to put this back on even footing. I attempted to piss her off so she stepped back some. I tried to sabotage whatever this was.

And now she’s here, like this, needing me and proving to me that I need her, and I don’t have the slightest fucking clue what to do or say or how to get us back to where we should be.

Tomorrow.

I bargain with myself when I know it’s a lie.

There’s no going back.

Not when it comes to her.

FIFTY-THREE

Rowan

I wake with a start.

Strange room. Strange place. Familiar smell. Holden.

I sink into it and the comfort it brings.

But then last night comes back with a vengeance. The phone call. My dad. The hospital. Needing Holden.

I reach out to the nightstand for my phone out of habit but know it’s not here. Within seconds I’m up and moving, slipping on Holden’s T-shirt that I presume he left folded for me on the edge of his bed, and moving out into his great room to find it.

For a second, panic strikes. What if something happened to my dad and no one could get ahold of me? What if they texted and called and … but my panic is short-lived as I find my phone where I set it on the coffee table.

I look for my mom’s and Rhett’s texts first to make sure that nothing has worsened. Relieved and glad to read there are signs of improvement, I begin to scroll through the rest of the texts. They’re from people wishing my father well, from friends reaching out to see if I need anything, and one from Holden telling me he left to get us coffee.

Coffee. The man knows the way to my heart.

But then I startle when I see the clock on the wall that says eleven in the morning.

Whoa. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. With a deep breath and a shake of my head, I pause and realize where I am. In Holden’s place. The first time, so I give myself a second to take a look around.

It’s clean lines and classic decor. Modern in feel but not in furniture. The furniture is lush and looks like you could sink into it and never leave. At the same time, it looks like it’s never been used. It’s bright without being obtrusive and neutral without being boring.