Page 15 of Win You Over
You won’t always be.
“And who is going to beat me? You?” Holden nods again, his nose wrinkling with the action, which only makes him look like an angry, murderous kitten again. “It’s cute you think you could.”
Why do you do it? It’s not like you need the money.
His handwriting is messier than usual, like he’s pushing his feelings through the plastic of the pen and into every word on the paper.
“Booker, Booker, Booker,” I muse, lifting myself off the bed and stretching, one hand over my head and the other rubbing over my stomach beneath my tee, the fabric lifting and cool air brushing my skin as I do. “Not everything is about money.”
He grunts at my reply but doesn’t move to write anything on the pad of sticky notes still in his hand.
“I fight because I like to win and because I’mgoodat winning.” Turning my back to Holden, I move to my shelf, running a finger over each of the trophies standing proudly on it. “State kickboxing champion for five years running. I only quit because I was tired of all the rules.”
I turn back towards him and take a few steps closer, closing the gap between us. He looks up at me as I tower over him. He doesn’t flinch, just keeps his eyes locked with mine.
“No rules, no judges, no coaches to impress. That’s what I like. I don’t give a shit about the measly prize money. Most times we spend it on booze. Once, we spent it all on strippers.” I lean in a little closer. “I love the pain and the rush of adrenalin. The thrill of the takedown. The high of the win. Fighting the way we do gets my dick hard. And as much as I love fighting you – actual fucking highlight of my day – I have no intention of losing to you.”
He puffs out a breath, kicks his chair back and stands to face me. We’re nose to nose, evenly matched in height but not brawn. Irritation radiates off of him in palpable waves and he swallowsthickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the slightly stubbled skin of his throat.
Without stepping back, Holden takes out his now charged phone, types something, and passes it to me.
That money isn’t a joke. Not to me. Surely, you can find some other way to get your dick hard?
“You know I can. You’ve seen it firsthand for yourself. But I. Don’t. Want. To,” I say slowly, watching as he studies my face, his eyes narrowing on each word.
“Anyway,” I wave a hand to dismiss the tension in the room. “How about we finish up here, then call it a night and grab a soda in the den? I have a pool table if you wanna try to beat me at something else? Maybe I'll give you an ego boost and let you win.”
His nostrils flare, but because I like his brand of pissed off so much, the loudest thought in my head is that I want to touch his cheek. It’s pink with a light five o’clock shadow and I have an overwhelming urge to know how it feels against the pad of my finger. The part of me in charge of self-preservation, though, has me tucking my hands into my pockets.
Holden looks over my shoulder at my bedroom door, then shakes his head.
My shoulders slump in disappointment. It’s like two steps forward, three steps back with him. We’ve been holed up in my room for three nights now. Ithoughtwe were making progress on the friendship front. But as he gathers up his things and leaves without so much as a wave, I’m struck with the thought that Holden Booker may well be the one person in his town who doesn’t want to know me.
Chapter 7
Remington
“Are you mad at me?” I lean over Holden’s shoulder as he bends his head, sipping from the water fountain. He tenses and I step back to give him space when he spins around, his eyes narrowed, his brows drawn.
“You never replied to my message last night. Or the two this morning,” I say, pouting my bottom lip for effect. After Holden turned down my offer to hang and then promptly left, I’d sent him a message about training together before the next fight. I figured after our discussion about winning, or more accurately, him losing, that he’d be keen to practice.
Taking his phone out of his pocket, Holden types a message and holds it up for me to read.
Does it matter if I am?
My stomach twists. “Yeah, of course it matters,” I reply.
Around us, students hustle up and down the hallway, the sound of their chatter carrying in the air and along the spacious hallways. There’s an air of trepidation throughout the buildings as students get ready to sit their final exams of the year. The parties have slowed down, the common areas quieter and the library teeming with students, heads down, hands highlighting and scribbling notes as they try to take in as much of the year as they possibly can.
Holden types another message. His lips tipped up on one side into a sly smirk.
You can’t stand the thought of someone not liking you, can you?
Absolutely fucking not, I think, but tone down my reply and say, “Not really.” Then give a nonchalant shrug.
Holden smiles, the look so completely foreign on him that I have a hard time looking away. He’s so damn gorgeous. Has anyone ever told him that before?
He holds up his phone again.In that case, yes, I’m mad at you, and there is nothing you can do to change that.
