Page 18 of Holden

Holden stares at me a beat, as if assessing whether I’m telling the truth, and then motions toward the door. “Do you need me to walk you?”

My stomach wrenches and I shake my head, half running, half race-walking to the bathroom down the hall.

By the time I bend over the sink, my guts have stopped swirling. I splash cool water on my face and study my reflection in the mirror. I have my mom’s eyes, her lips, even the hollow dimple on the side of my face is hers. I search for any resemblance to my father, but I’ve spent so many years trying to forget him, I’m not even sure I’d recognize his face if he stood across from me.

Is it too much to believe that I’m nothing like him at all?

Isn’t that part of what I’m trying to find out?

Guilt worms under my skin. Knowing what Holden is going through, how these memories are affecting him, almost makes me second guess my mission.

But I can’t back away now.

I owe this to the people who died by my father’s hand.

More than that, I owe it to myself.

Chapter 10

Holden is outside the bathroom door when I emerge, concern creased on his forehead. He tilts his head. “You good?”

I nod.

“Are you sure? Because you’re quite pale.” Heat rushes to my cheeks, and Holden gives a slight smile. “Ah, there she is.” He puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me away from the boardroom, to his office. “Let’s take a bit of a break.”

“I suppose I could use a few minutes to regroup,” I murmur. I’m definitely light headed but I think it’s more the result of Holden’s gentle touch. I’m shocked by how good it feels.

He guides me to the oversized leather couch in the corner of the room, and props up a pillow.

“Here, lie down. I’ll get you a water.”

Every cell in my body buzzes with electricity. Holden’s tenderness confuses me, but it also elicits an uncharacteristic thrill. I settle onto the couch, and follow his movements as he roots through the cupboards in what appears to be a well-stocked bar. Weird how I didn’t notice it when I was in his office before.

Granted, I had other things on my mind.

“How about something other than water?” he says, after withdrawing a large bottle of whiskey. “This should settle your stomach.”

I grimace. “Or make me puke.”

Hard liquor and I share an uncomfortable history. Back in high school, I drank vodka before succumbing to my first kiss, a messy, slobbery ordeal that resulted in a disappointing end to what would have been a three-year crush. A few months later, I took two tequila shots before allowing Tommy Gunn to stick his hands down my pants. The thought of his fat fingers groping blindly at my then-virgin pussy makes me shudder even today.

My mother calls those my rebellious years. “Acting out” in the wake of so much tragedy. That’s the trouble with being an only child—Mom didn’t make friends after we left Maine and I never brought mine to the house, so she didn’t have a benchmark for how “normal teens” act. How ironic that my behavior since meeting Holden Quinn is more erratic, more rebellious, than those random incidents Mom seems stuck on.

“The cleaning staff doesn’t come until tomorrow,” Holden says, with an ever-so-slight smirk. “So, let’s avoid vomit, shall we? How about coffee?”

I shake my head. “I’m good.”

Holden runs a dishrag under the bar sink, wrings it out, and folds it three times. How very precise. And considerate, I think, as he presses the cool compress to my clammy forehead. I flinch at first and then relax into the role of victim.

His voice lowers. “I’ve upset you.”

My guilt intensifies, thrumming through my blood like an adrenaline rush. “I knew what I was getting into when I requested the interview.” With respect to the incident, at least. I didn’t anticipate a more personal—sexual—connection with Holden, and it’s put me a bit off kilter.

“I could have been less abrupt.” He brushes a strand of hair away from the side of my face. “Even now, I still get…animated…when I talk about that day. His expression darkens. “The memories are difficult.”

Fresh emotion clogs up the back of my throat. “I can’t imagine how painful it must be.”

I’ve been so caught up in my quest for the truth that I almost forgot that Holden is a victim too. His fingers thread through my hair, almost absentmindedly, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind.