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CHAPTER ONE
CASSIA
He smells like cinnamon. Always.
Tonight—or today, technically, since it’s past midnight—the spice is muddled by the strong scent of sweat and beer.
But still, beneath it, cinnamon.
“Cute PJ’s, flower.”
I tighten my fingers around the glass of water I’m holding as they twitch, resisting the urge to tug my plaid sleep shorts down so more of my legs are covered. My shoulders lift and tense as Holden approaches, even though I heard him walking toward the kitchen long before I caught a whiff of distinctive spice. I freeze like prey confronted with a predator, waiting to see what strategy will remove me from the situation emotionally unscathed.
Holden is always unpredictable.
My stiff posture doesn’t scream casual or indifferent, the way I try to act around him. None of my senses can ignore him. And if I’m being honest with myself—which I rarely am on Friday nights—I have never been able to. Over time, I’ve just managed to make more successful attempts at it.
“Rough night?” I ask, ignoring his comment about my plaid pajamas and sipping some water hoping it’ll douse the warmth pooling in my stomach.
He’s just too much. Everything about him.
More than impossible to ignore; it’s overwhelming.
I try to focus on the white cabinets and butcherblock counters instead. On the streak of moonlight beaming in from the window above the farm sink and casting an ethereal glow over the hardwood floor.
But my eyes always end up back on him.
A crooked grin appears, creasing the corner of his cheek. Hinting at the dimple I know is hiding there. “Refs got wasted and took the night off. I don’t look that bad, do I?”
I swallow. “Worse.”
Holden chuckles, a low, raspy sound that twists and snarls my insides. He laughs like he knows it’s a lie. There’s a streak of dried blood on one cheek and his left cheekbone is marred by a reddish streak. But beneath the battering and bruising, he’s still ridiculously good looking. Perfect bone structure and messy brown hair.
I drink more water, just for something to do. Watching as he runs a dish cloth under the tap and rubs the wet cotton across his face. There’s no cut, so the blood wasn’t his, it seems.
I keep staring, long after I should look away. Track the dampened fabric as it trails lower, down the corded column of his neck and across the bunched muscles of his shoulder and farther south.
He’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of black mesh basketball shorts and a dirty pair of sneakers.
I swallow—twice. Try not to appreciate the view and fail at every attempt.
“Did you clean in here?” Holden asks, suddenly.
I down more water, trying to focus on the sensation of cold liquid sliding down my esophagus instead of how he’s moved closer in order to toss the towel into the laundry room tucked off one corner of the kitchen. “A little.”
A lot.
The Adamses’ house is usually messier than mine and I’m the oldest of six, so that’s saying something.
Holden pulls his phone out of his pocket and makes a face at the screen. Carelessly, he tosses the device on the counter and strolls toward the fridge, opening it and pulling a bottle of beer out.
I grip the glass that’s now empty, feeling the leftover condensation slip against my fingers. “You already smell like a brewery.”
He smirks. “Sober as a priest, flower.”
“Priests are twice as likely as the average person to develop an alcohol addiction,” I inform him.
Holden laughs before popping the top off and taking a long pull of beer. “Good thing I ruled out that career path, then.”
