Page 54 of Roaring Fork Rockstar

That was all the invitation he needed. He sunk down next to me on the sofa and found my mouth with a kiss that started gentle but quickly deepened with the pent-up need we shared. My hands slid under his shirt to find warm skin stretched over firm muscles.

I shifted, and he rested his body above mine. His hands were everywhere—in my hair, skimming down my sides, slipping beneath the hem of my shirt to trace the outline of my bra. When his thumb brushed across my nipple through the fabric, I gasped against his mouth.

“Do you know how much I want you?” he murmured against my throat.

I arched against him in response, seeking more contact, more friction. I opened my legs, and his hardness ground against me in a rhythm that made stars explode behind my eyelids. Forgetting myself, I cried out in pleasure.

“Luna,” I gasped, knowing how sound carried up the stairwell.

“She’s sound asleep,” Holt replied, his breath hot against my ear. “But we don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I began, trying to organize my jumbled thoughts. “God knows I do.”

“But, you have a little girl to consider. I get that, darlin’.” I melted at the understanding in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere, Keltie. Whatever happens with Luna, whatever comes next—I want to be here for it. For both of you.”

“You say that now,” I whispered, voicing the insecurity that always crept in. “But once your year in Crested Butte is up, you’ll get back to your real life.”

Holt shook his head, cupping my face in his hands. “Thisis my real life. Time on the road isn’t.”

I wanted to believe him. More than anything, I wanted to lean into what he was offering—support, companionship, maybe even love, eventually. But the fear of getting hurt again or Luna losing his presence in her life stopped me.

“I need time,” I admitted.

“We can go as slow as you want,” Holt said, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone. “I should go so you can sleep before Luna wakes up.” He shifted off the sofa—off me—and I immediately missed his warmth.

I walked him to the door, our hands linked loosely. In the entryway, he turned to me one last time.

“Call me tomorrow? Let me know how Luna’s feeling?”

“I will. And, Holt?” I hesitated, then continued, “Thank you for understanding.”

His smile was warm enough to chase away the winter chill. “That’s what friends do, right? Although,” he added with a wink, “I’m hoping we’re more than ‘friends’ by now.”

After he left, I stood in the quiet house for a long moment, touching my fingers to lips still tender from his kisses. Going back to my abandoned dinner, I realized there was no denying the truth anymore: I was falling for him, faster and harder than I’d ever fallen for anyone.

16

HOLT

Ibolted upright at five in the morning, my shirt damp against my skin despite the winter cold permeating my cabin. The dream of my mother sobbing as she cradled a tiny, frail baby refused to fade. My father stood on the opposite side of a window, looking in at them with tears streaking down his cheeks. His unmistakable distress, when he was usually rigid with stern authority, jarred me. I’d never known him to show grief or such stark vulnerability, even after my mom died.

The sheets were twisted around my legs as I sat there, my pulse racing. These dreams were intensifying, gaining detail and clarity with each occurrence. What baby? My mother had died when Flynn was a toddler. There hadn’t been another child after her.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin to ward off the cold. The fire had died during the night, and I’d forgotten to turn the heat up before I went to bed. Yet, instead of getting up, I remained motionless, the dream scene replaying in my thoughts.

After several minutes, I finally pushed myself to my feet, pulled on a T-shirt and sweats, then shuffled to the fireplace. My fingers trembled as I arranged kindling and struck a match.The tiny flame expanded through the dry pine until a proper fire radiated heat, pushing away the darkness.

But the unease inside me persisted.

I retrieved my Gibson from its stand, seeking the comfort I always found playing the guitar. My fingers moved across the strings, discovering that same melody I couldn’t remember learning yet somehow recognized intimately. Its mournful sound was almost a lullaby with darker undertones.

For nearly two hours, I played variations of the haunting tune, attempting to dispel the disquiet the dream had created. As morning light spilled across the mountains, illuminating the snow-covered landscape outside my window, I set the guitar aside and pressed my palms against my face.

I needed a ride to clear my head.

After a quick shower, I pulled on jeans, boots, and my heaviest flannel before grabbing my coat on the way out. The crisp morning air bit at my cheeks as I trudged through the snow toward the barn.

Voices drifted from inside, where I found Cord and Bridger, our ranch manager. Their conversation halted as I pushed open the heavy wooden door.

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