Page 62 of Threaded Lies

We hold each other’s stares as snapshots of last night flash through my mind. By the darkening of his eyes, I have a feeling he’s reliving a few moments himself.

“I don’t like his hands on you.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s an easy solution. Break it off or tell me what it is you’re still to gain and I’ll get that for you.”

“Is this going to be a problem, Holden?” This isn’t something I’m budging on until I know my place in this new world. I come first.

“Yes.”

“But you understand.”

He groans. “Just make sure you’re never alone with him … and for that matter, I’m never alone with him, and we’ll be good.”

“You’re overstepping.”

“Perhaps.” He glances down to the table and then back up to me. “But overstepping is way better than Chad accidentally, say, falling out of”—he glances out my window and then smirks—“a fourth-story window.”

“Not funny.”

“But tempting.” There’s an aloofness to his tone that has me wondering just how dark Holden’s fantasy is. “You got my gift, I see.”

“I did. Thank you, but I can’t accept it.”

“A utility knife?”

“No. The…” Did I misinterpret what he meant? About the painting? About—

He starts laughing. “You will accept both, Sunshine. I meant what I said. That’s my apology to you for the miscommunication. Do with it what you wish. It’s yours to destroy or use as you want. The power play is yours to make.”

“Why would I destroy or mar something that others find beauty in?” I ask.

He angles his head to the side and says, “I said the same thing to myself, but then again, look how I made you feel over the past few weeks.” My chest burns with emotion from his words more than his apology, from his acknowledgment of how much he hurt me, but I don’t have time to fully process it before he stands, walks toward the door, and then points to the blade. “And there’s my apology for it.”

I pick up the utility blade and let its weight grow heavy in my hand. Could I hurt something others consider beautiful?

TWENTY

Rowan

“Why are we not talking about any of this?” Caroline Vandevere asks as she pushes another extra-dirty martini across the cocktail table to me.

The patio bar at the country club is busy for a weeknight. But then again, when is it not these days? Patrons mill about and talk with others about the Westmore gossip, lie about their golf score for the day’s round, or try to hit up an associate and seal a business deal.

There is always schmoozing going on here and unfortunately, today I seem to be a part of it.

“Talk about what?” I feign innocence. “My promotion?”

“Your promotion. Your engagement. I mean … it feels like just yesterday we were teasing you about Chad, and now—now you’re going to marry him.”

I smile, take a long sip of the martini, and prepare to do what it seems I’ve gotten very good at lately—I lie. “I’m not going to lie. It’s been a whirlwind.” Guilt hits me squarely in the solar plexus.

“So it’s the whirlwind”—she twirls her finger around—“and not you trying to avoid me that’s had you not returning my calls.”

“Caroline. I promise, it’s not you. You have to know that. It’s the company and Holden confusing things and me trying to figure out what is really going on, and my parents and—” Stop over-explaining. She’s known you since middle school and will see right through you. “It’s just been a lot.”

She eyes me above the rim of her glass, and it’s only after she gives me that slight nod that I know I’m forgiven. For now. “So then road-map this out for me because I’m more than a little lost.” She hooks her arm through mine and drags me out of earshot from the typical Westmore Country Club evening patio soiree. “You’re telling me that being with Holden made you realize you wanted Chad? I mean … that’s not a Rowan Rothschild type of action.”