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If it was some other guy, I probably would be happy he wanted to spend more time together.
With Holden, I’m worried I’ll say or do something to embarrass myself. If I haven’t already.
I’m not comfortable or relaxed around him. I’m butterflies and heart palpitations.
Despite my apprehension, I take a seat on the couch and turn on the television. Because I’d rather be around Holden than not, and that’s always caused conflict where my head and my heart are concerned. I scroll through the movie options until I land on some action thriller.
When Holden walks back into the living room, he’s holding a bottle of beer. I twist the hem of my shirt, trying to act oblivious as he settles next to me. The cushions dip with his weight, and my stomach swoops as well.
“I was sober as a non-priest, flower.”
I don’t react to that statement. For one, I don’t want Holden to think it matters to me that alcohol had no influence during what just happened between us. Or that I care he listened to what I said about priests and drinking, that we have some sort of inside joke about it now.
Holden raises his eyebrows, then takes a sip. The muscles in his throat contract and shift, and I avert my gaze, trying to ignore how there’s something masculine and mesmerizing about the motion.
More than not wanting to give Holden a reaction,Idon’t want to react. I don’t want telling myself I’m not affected by him to be a lie…but it obviously is.
Something cold touches my arm and I jump. He chuckles, something in the sound rattling around my chest like spare change in a car cupholder. I glance down and watch a bead ofcondensation roll down the green glass bottle being offered to me.
“No thanks.”
“You’ll swallow my cum but not swap spit?”
A hot flush starts in my cheeks and spreads. I guess we’re not pretending earlier didn’t happen.
I clear my throat once. “Maybe I’m not thirsty.”
Maybe I like the taste of you.
No way am I saying that out loud. I’m treading on uneven ground. Unexplored terrain. I don’t know what is happening or what to say or how to act around him right now.
Holden’s eyes scrutinize my expression, his gaze hot and probing. It sears my skin like a physical touch. “Okay,” he finally says, turning back to the television that’s affixed above the fireplace mantle on the opposite wall.
The movie I clicked on is up on the screen. I hit play and lean back against the cushions, trying to figure out a way to avoid spending more time with him. I need a minute—alone—to internally freak out about what just happened. I can’t do that when he’s next to me, smelling good and looking relaxed and acting like this is no big deal.
Should I pretend to fall asleep?
Go use the bathroom?
Act like I heard a noise and am worried Sydney woke up?
Finding me sitting on the couch with Holden would be less shocking than seeing us half-naked, but she’d still have questions. Holden and I don’t hang out together. Especially alone, in the middle of the night.
“Why did you pick this?”
I startle again when he speaks, lost in my own head. “What?”
He looks over and quirks a brow. “This movie. Why did you pick it?”
“Um…” Honestly, it looked bloody and action-packed and something a guy would like. That he would like.
Somehow admitting that feels difficult.
Holden leans forward without waiting for more of a response, grabbing the remote and clicking back to the main menu. He hasn’t put his shirt back on. The muscles in his back roil and tense as he moves, his body more man than boy.
It’s unfair, really, how my childhood crush grew up to be the hottest guy in town. Why couldn’t he look like most of the boys in our year? Uncertain and lanky and unsure? He looks how he acts—assured—and I love it and loathe it in equal measure.
I wonder how cocky he’d get—if I asked him to put a shirt on. It’s as distracting as the smell of cinnamon swirling in the air.
