Page 70 of Threaded Lies

He’s sitting behind the wheel and from this distance, has what looks like a pensive expression on his face with his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

What is he doing here? Following me?

The thought is fleeting because from what I can see, the man is in his own world.

Pencil Skirt.

The gorgeous woman flashes in my head and I loathe that my immediate thought is he is here waiting to meet up with her.

“Jealous, much?” I grumble to myself and the ridiculous thought.

I shouldn’t be jealous over a woman I’ve never met, but there was something about his familiarity with her that day—the way he smiled at her, the way he put his hand on her back and ushered her into his office, and the way he completely disregarded my inquiry about her—that has stuck in my memory.

Holden Knight currently occupies my bed, but make no mistake, I’m under zero impressions that he doesn’t keep secrets.

He’s the master of keeping them.

And right now as he sits in a parking lot reflecting or working or waiting, that quiet intensity that personifies him is all I see.

What drew him to sit here in the parking lot of this diner today? What drew him to it on that first night and that shared milkshake between us? What is the significance of this place to him when he’s not from here?

I put my hand on my gearshift, half tempted to put my car in park and go ask him myself, but something stops me.

The same something that just had me crying in my car over my sister. Maybe he came here for solace too.

I just wish I knew for what.

TWENTY-TWO

Holden

Do these people know what a con artist that little prick is?

Rhett stands on stage with a smug expression and flippant arrogance. Like this whole campaign rally is more than a publicity stunt when anyone with half a brain knows better.

The even bigger question is, Why the fuck are you here, Knight?

Because you’re pussy-whipped.

I look over to the right of the stage at the source of that whipping. She’s in a pale pink dress that’s belted at the waist with shoes the same color as the belt. Her blond hair falls in pale waves down her shoulders and those lips of hers are painted to match the dress.

And her newest accessory is by her side—fucking Chadwick the dick. I’m just grateful he’s so busy clapping for his buddy who’s prattling on at the podium that I don’t have to worry about his hands being on her.

I pull out my phone and type a text.

Me: You have them all fooled with that prim and proper dress.

I see her glance down at her phone and within seconds, her eyes flash up and search the crowd. A smile crawls on her lips as her eyes meet mine.

Rowan: Underneath is anything but prim and proper.

Me: Leather? Lace? Garters?

Rowan: Nothing.

It’s my turn to whip my head up and meet her grin.

Me: Don’t grin at me like that. It makes me want to fuck that mouth even more.