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I rubbed my forehead, suddenly wondering if calling Maxine had been a good idea. She had her Zen bootcamp on Saturday mornings, and I was pretty sure it was a low-key cult disguised as a yoga/meditation studio.
“I have been trying to manifest my way out of this entire trip, but the only thing I’ve managed to manifest my way out of or into is these pants.”
Maxine must have heard how close to the edge I was and decided to change tactics before I went over.
“Okay, take some deep breaths, in and out.” She waited to hear me breathe. “Good. Now listen up: Who told Matt that his idea for a troll that lived under a bridge was stupid when everyone else was too scared to tell their boss that his idea was a joke?”
“Me, but that was technically an accident. I didn’t mean to cc: him on that email.”
“Okay, but you stood by it, and he listened to your opinion. Do you know why? Because you’re smart, a hard worker, and a good person. Say it.”
“I’m smart, a hard worker, and a good person,” I repeated without conviction.
“And whatever your troglodyte of a sister does or says this evening won’t change any of who you are, got it?”
I nodded, then remembered that she couldn’t see me. “Yes, you’re right. You’re exactly right.”
“And if Mr. Judgmental is an asshole tonight, that’s a reflection onhim, not you, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, with much more conviction this time. I let her words shove out all the negative thoughts filling my head. “Thanks, Max. I really needed that pep talk.”
“You really did, gal pal. I can practically feel your anxiety through the phone.” She paused, blowing out a breath. “I feel like this place is not good for you. I also feel like you should stop catering to Sissy’s crazy.”
“It’s not that I’m catering to her crazy.” I turned from the window to stare out across the parking lot. “I’m just trying to play along with it when it comes to the wedding, for my parents’ sake. And being home hasn’t been all bad.”
A black Range Rover pulled into the lot, and I silently prayed that it belonged to someone else, anyone else, as I watched it park. But it seemed the good Lord was not in the mood to answer my prayers. Holden stepped out of the vehicle, adjusting his sports coat.
“Shit, shit, shit. Max, I have to go. Holden just got here. Why couldn’t they have picked someplace local so I could get tanked and call my parents to come pick me up?”
“Sure, sure, that would have been a really good look.” She had a valid point — but frankly so did I. “You got this, Sutton. Text me 911 if someone we love needs to have a medical emergency requiring you to leave immediately.”
“Thanks, Max. You really are the best.”
“Yes I am. Love you.”
The line went silent, and it felt quite literally like my lifeline had ended with the call. I watched Holden walk, unhurried, to where I stood. He carried his car keys and phone in one hand, while the other was busy trying to unbutton his jacket. Some primal part of my brain found the whole thing very attractive, but the anxious — yet reasonable — part of my brain was too noisy to appreciate it.
“Sutton,” Holden greeted me in that slow honey drawl of his — the one that I had to work really, really hard to find fault with.
“Hi.” I motioned with my thumb to the restaurant behind me. “I think we’re the first ones here. Should we head in?”
Holden’s eyes traveled from my pointed flats to the top of my pinned-back hair. I fought to keep from fidgeting under his unabashed perusal.
“Sure. Macon texted me that they were running late, but he made reservations.”
I turned to the door so Holden wouldn’t see the panic I was sure was written all over my face. Ofcourse,they were running late. Sissy had been late to her own birth. Why did I feel the need to arrive everywhere at least ten minutes early?
“Great,” I said, forcing a casualness into my voice that I didn’t feel. I reached for the door only to have Holden reach past me and open it, the fabric of his suit brushing against my arm. I really needed to start wearing long sleeves around him. “Thank you.”
I stepped through the door, careful not to let any more of my body come into contact with Holden, and the sounds of people’s voices combined with the soft music playing through the speakers temporarily grounded me with the normalcy of it all. The narrow entry was crowded with people standing in groups waiting for their tables, and I stopped to find the clearest path to the host stand. I felt the heat of Holden close behind me before his hand landed on the small of my back, propelling me forward gently. The shock of the contact nearly had me tripping over my feet. I barely even heard him give the host Macon’s name; my entire existence was reduced to the light pressure on my back. I didn’t like it and I liked it too much all at the same time.
We followed the host to our table in silence, Holden’s hand remaining firmly on my back just where my shirt was tucked into my pants. I tried so hard not to take a deep breath of his aftershave, because it would have felt like my senses were drowning in all things Holden.
By the time I sat down, I was about to hyperventilate. I thought about popping the top button on my pants so I could catch my breath, but decided passing out might be the best possible outcome to this evening. The host handed me a menu, and I proceeded to stare at it with an intensity usually reserved for academic material. The space where Holden’s hand had been felt unnaturally warm, like his palm had seared through the fabric of my clothes and left a brand. It was so distracting that I couldn’t have named a single item on the menu when our server appeared, breaking the tense silence engulfing the table.
I ordered a glass of wine and accidentally locked eyes with Holden in the process. Those almost-navy eyes looked too bright, too perceptive in the dim lighting of the restaurant. I swallowed. I had the distinct feeling that I did not want to be seen by Holden St. James.
As soon as our server disappeared, he surprised me by asking, “Do you want to talk about Sunday? In the alley?”
