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Donte chucked me on the arm. “Catch you later?”
“Yep.”
I watch them go, wondering how they couldn’t see right through my alpha male bullshit.
Because you’ve been wearing that camouflage for years.
Except Holden had seen through it instantly.
I went to the darkened auditorium where the Winter Talent Show was already in progress. Every chair was taken, standing room only. I got stuck in the back, but at 6’2”, I had a clear view of the stage.
I’d just made it. Harris Reed was playing a classical piece on his violin and slaying it. The music was insanely complicated, and I watched in awe as his bow skidded up and down the strings.
When it was over, I clapped hard and whistled…then tasted smoky cloves and cedar cologne in the air. My pulse pounded as an icy-hot shiver danced down my left side as Holden moved to stand beside me.
“I didn’t realize you were a fan of the arts,” he said, his eyes on the stage. “Another layer to the enigmatic River Whitmore.”
“I came to see Harris, from our class. Is that why you’re here?”
“No, I’m stalking you.” My eyes widened and Holden smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here for my friend.”
He jerked his chin toward the stage. Miller Stratton walked out carrying a stool, a guitar looped around his neck. He sat down and adjusted the mic stand while a lone spotlight fell on him, deepening the auditorium’s darkness.
“He was pretty amazing at Chance’s party,” I said.
“He’s fucking brilliant,” Holden said, and the back of his hand brushed the back of mine. A spark shot straight up my arm and made the hairs stand on end. I shifted casually and tucked both hands in the front pockets of my jeans.
On the stage, Miller spoke into the mic in a low, almost shy voice. “Hey, my name is Miller Stratton. I’m going to play a song by Coldplay. It’s called ‘Fix You.’”
I let my gaze slide to Holden, studying the contours of his profile—his chiseled jaw and cheekbones, strong nose, full lips. He swallowed, and I watched the movement of his Adam’s apple. Thoroughly masculine. Nothing feminine about it.
“Can I help you?” he whispered, eyes forward.
“It sucks not talking to you,” I said as Miller strummed the first chords of the song. “I don’t know why. You’re arrogant as fuck.”
“Fair. You’re a grilled cheese sandwich.”
I snorted. “A what?”
“Shh,” Holden said. “Listen. This is our song.”
Our song. Nothing was ours. There was no us. But Miller sang that if you never try, you’ll never know, and the words pierced me like arrows.
I took my hand out of my pocket and let it hang by my side again. Again, my skin brushed Holden’s, sending shards of heat dancing up my arm while Miller sang about lights that ignite your bones.
I looked at Holden and he looked at me.
Without letting myself think, I slipped my fingers around the side of his hand and slid my palm against his. He gasped slightly—a small intake of breath only I heard in the darkened auditorium. Then he let his hand settle into mine. Another heartbeat and our fingers laced together.
“And I will try,” Miller sang, his rich voice hovering in the air in that silent auditorium. “To fix you.”
A short silence fell before the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers unlike anything I’d ever heard. Miller’s version of the song was unlike anything I’d ever heard either, as if he were singing directly to me. To us.
Because it’s our song.
Under the cover of applause, I let go of Holden’s hand and tugged the cuff of his coat. “Let’s go.”
I left without looking back
