Page 9 of Ring in the New Year

Holden felt the warmth of it seep into him, chasing away the winter chill. Together, they walked on, two kindred spirits navigating the paradox of a season dedicated to togetherness while surrounded by their own solitary battles. But tonight, maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't have to fight alone.

Ten minutes later, Holden pushed open the door to his loft. "Welcome to my humble abode," he said, the words tinged with a self-deprecating humor that belied the stylish interior.

Angela stepped over the threshold, her gaze sweeping across the expanse of the living room, where plush sofas beckoned invitingly. The walls were adorned with abstract art, bold strokes of color that danced in the muted light filtering through the windows. A well-worn guitar rested against an armchair, strings gleaming like silent promises.

"Cozy," she remarked, one eyebrow arching playfully.

"Best part of being disowned is getting to choose your own furniture," Holden quipped, leading her further into the space. "No hand-me-downs."

The kitchen was a study in organized chaos, pots and pans hanging from a rack above an island teeming with an assortment of spices and herbs. He opened the fridge, revealing shelvesstocked with an impressive array of craft beers and takeout containers.

"Culinary skills may not be my forte," he admitted, "but I do know my way around a microwave."

He guided her toward the bedroom. The door swung open to reveal a large bed, its covers tousled as if they had just been abandoned. Pillows lay strewn about, suggesting nights of restless dreaming or fevered passion. It was a personal sanctuary, a place where Holden's façade could crumble away, leaving only raw desire and vulnerability.

"Seems sturdy." Angela brushed her fingers along the soft fabric of the comforter.

"Tested and approved."

"You bring a lot of women here?" She winced. "Sorry, I didn't?—"

"No, I don't. I like my solitude. But I have shot many scenes on this brand of mattress."

They retreated back to the warmth of the living room, where Holden flicked on the television, the screen springing to life with the vibrant hues of a classic holiday movie. He nestled onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. "Join me?"

Angela slipped under the blanket he offered, tucking her legs beneath her. The couch became their shared cocoon as they laughed at the on-screen antics of the holiday film, the sound mingling with the faint hum of the city beyond the walls. Holden reached for the bowl of popcorn, kernels tumbling over the brim as he offered it to her.

"Science has yet to explain why holiday movies are so much better with popcorn," he said, popping a handful into his mouth.

"Maybe it's the butter-to-salt ratio," Angela suggested, her tone deadpan as she took a piece.

"Or maybe"—Holden leaned closer, his breath ghosting her ear—"it's all about who you're sharing it with."

Holden was no stranger to staged romance. This felt different—authentic and unscripted. As the movie played out its predictable happy ending, he turned toward her, feeling the pull of something more potent than scripted drama.

"Angela," he murmured, his voice a low timbre.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a question lingering in their depths. In that heated gaze, Holden found his cue. Leaning in, he captured her lips with his, the kiss a spark that ignited a fire far more consuming than the one before them.

Her breath hitched, breaking their kiss, and she pulled back just enough to whisper, "This doesn't feel scientific."

"Let's take a small break from science and just have pleasure."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Angela trailed behind Holden, the warmth of his hand a tether that pulled her forward into the sanctum of his private quarters. The moment they crossed the threshold into Holden's bedroom, she felt the distinct shift in the atmosphere. The sight that greeted them made Angela's pulse quicken. Camera equipment stood like silent sentinels around the room, their lenses dark and unseeing. She paused, an eyebrow arching delicately as her gaze swept over the unexpected ensemble.

"Sorry about this." Holden's hand left her back as he rushed in to grab the equipment. "It's not hooked in. I've never... done a scene in here."

"Never?"

Holden shook his head as he began to dismantle the setup.

"Wait." Angela's hand reached out to stop him from collapsing the camera's tripod "What if we record something? Just for us?"

Holden hesitated, the vulnerability he so expertly hid from his legions of fans flickering across his chiseled features. Angela knew his various looks because she herself was a fan. He only ever grinned at the camera. He never pursed his lips, not evenwhen he was about to come. On the trails of the flash of vulnerability he showed to her, desire flared within the depths of his gaze.

"Are you sure?"

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