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After I packed the last of my clothes from the closet, I decided to take a break and treat myself to a glass of wine. Mid-pour, there was a knock at my door. I figured it was one of the guys coming to check on me, since I’d mentioned to Owen earlier that I was leaving Sunday. But when I opened the door, my heart stopped at the sight of the beautiful man standing on the other side.
“Holden? What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow night?”
“We finished a little sooner than expected, so I was able to jump on a flight after we wrapped last night.”
He glanced over my shoulder, and the smile on his face wilted. “What are you doing?”
I turned and looked at all the boxes. “I started to pack.”
Holden seemed surprised, though I wasn’t sure why since he’d been the one to tell me to go back home.
I opened the door wider and stepped to the side. “Come on in.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down. “I need to shower and unpack. I just wanted to let you know I was back.”
“Oh…okay.”
He lifted his eyes, but they didn’t meet mine. “I’ll see you around later?”
It felt like I’d been run over by a bulldozer. “Yeah, sure.”
No kiss. No hug. Nothing.
A few weeks ago, we would’ve both been naked within ten seconds of him knocking.
Tears stung my eyes as I shut the door. I’d been secretly hoping Holden would see me packing up to leave and it would scare him into fight-or-flight mode. Sadly, it had, only he didn’t choose the option I’d hoped. Holden had run away as fast as he could.
Somehow I managed to not burst into full-blown tears. Over the next two hours, I didn’t hear a peep from Holden. I went back and forth about how to handle things, debating whether I should just pack up my car and go now, without any goodbye or warning, or if I should march next door and tell him my feelings had grown and I needed him to fight for me to stay. In the end, I wound up doing something I wasn’t proud of, something that would probably make me feel even more like shit if it didn’t work. I resorted to sex.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Holden opened his door, and his eyes dropped right to my cleavage. He certainly couldn’t have missed it with the push-up bra and low-cut cropped top I’d changed into.
Desperate times. Desperate measures.
I twirled a piece of my hair as I spoke. “Hey. Do you think you can help me with a few of my boxes? I packed a couple of them a little too heavy, and I want to stack them up at the door. I’m afraid the bottoms will fall out if they’re not carried right.”
“Sure.” His eyes stole another peek at my cleavage before he pulled his door closed and followed me into my apartment. In the living room, he looked around with his hands on his hips. “Which ones do you want stacked?”
“The ones in the bedroom.”
He swallowed and frowned. “Oh.”
The lackluster response hurt my heart, but I did my best to pretend it didn’t harm my self-esteem. Walking to the bedroom, I exaggerated the sway of my hips knowing Holden had a weak spot for my tight yoga pants. Inside, I even pretended to rummage through a box on the floor without bending at the knees. My ass was impossible to miss. I caught Holden looking a few times, but he just seemed sad rather than turned on. When there was nothing left for me to pretend I needed help with, I still refused to give up.
“Thank you for the help,” I said. “How about a glass of wine?” Holden looked reluctant, so I pulled out the big guns to make sure he wouldn’t say no. “I can fill you in on my mom’s health, and I want to hear about how your recording went out in California.”
He nodded, but didn’t look happy. “Sure.”
Over the next hour, we had a nice conversation and caught up, but it felt like I was talking to Owen or Colby. Holden sat on the chair diagonal to the couch and made no attempt to touch me. This was the least physical connection I’d ever felt while near him. We’d had more of a spark when I was fifteen and sitting on the roof of my parents’ house with my brother sleeping ten feet away. And I got the feeling he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of my apartment. So I made one last-ditch attempt at kindling something by reaching over my head and doing a big, fake stretch. Holden’s eyes zoned in on my exposed midriff, but then he frowned and rubbed his hands on his jeans.
