Page 41 of Win You Over
“Hmm?” he responds, turning his head on the lounger. The sun has caught him today, turning his cheeks rosy red.
“Today, in the gym, that wasn’t fake.”
God, my own cheeks burn and probably look sun-kissed too now.
“I didn’t think it was.” He reaches for his cocktail on the table beside him. It’s probably warm by now, but he sips it with gusto before biting into the pineapple that was wedged on the side.
“Okay,” I say, completely unsure where we go from here.
“Okay,” he replies.
Chapter 17
Holden
When I walk out of the ensuite, dressed in my sleep wear, my glasses resting on my nose, Remington looks up from the weathered paperback on his lap.
“I like your glasses,” he says.
Scrunching my nose, I reply, “I don’t.” I’ve never been fond of them, finding them more frustrating at times than my contact lenses.
“Hmmm,” he hums, placing the book on the side table. “You look like a sexy Clark Kent.” He leans back, resting his arms beneath his head, his torso stretched, lengthening his muscular body.
“Isn’t Clark Kent always sexy?” I ask, sliding into the bed next to him and sitting with my back to the wall.
“I guess. But you look sexier. A sexier Clark Kent.” Remington gives me a salacious grin, which grows when I roll my eyes.
“If you say so.”
“I’m never wrong, so you shouldn’t argue.”
I chuckle before sliding down and resting my head on my pillow. Exhaustion from the day weighs heavily, my eyelids threatening to close.
“I have a question,” Remington says, his voice breaking through the quiet of the room. I turn my head towards him, raising an eyebrow.
He reaches for my hand, turns it over on the bed and traces lines up and down my palm, causing goosebumps to pebble on my skin.
“What’s with the knife?” He pauses, waiting for my eyes to meet his. “You said it’s really valuable, and that’s why you wanted to leave it at my place. But what makes it valuable? Is it a collectible or something?”
I swallow thickly, closing my eyes against the flood of emotions talking about my dad brings up, before opening them again and meeting his soft, warm stare. “It was my dad’s.” My voice is quiet, and he moves a little closer until his head is sharing my pillow and his hand wraps around mine.
“Mum and I chose it for him for his birthday.” I can vividly recall the excitement I’d felt the day Mum and I went to the fishing store in South London. How I’d run my hands along the glass counter tops, peering at all the options.
“We had it engraved with the word ‘Dad’ on the handle and put it in this fancy black box.” If I close my eyes, I can see my dad’s smile – so much like mine – when he unwrapped the gift.
“He was so happy when we gave it to him and he promised to take me fishing and show me how to use it.” I tighten my hand around Remington’s, our fingers linking perfectly.
“I was born on my dad’s birthday. We celebrated together every year,” I say. I was so proud of sharing a birthday with him. Lucky, I thought, because we always celebrated in a big way.
“The year we gave it to him,” I continue, “was no different. We ate cake, and we went bowling and we made plans to go fishing.”
I wipe my free hand over my face, letting out a deep breath.
“We never went fishing. The knife never got used.”
My eyes meet Remington’s as he shifts impossibly closer, his lips parting.
“What happened?” he asks.
