Page 36 of Win You Over
She throws a bottle of sun cream at me, which I catch with one hand.
“Top up. You don’t want to look like a tomato in the wedding photos. You too, Holden. Your skin is very fair. The Italian sun will burn you alive.” Her accent is stronger when she’s here. I’ve noticed it before. It’s like when she’s away from our town and my father’s business, she relaxes into the person she really is. Without the stress that the Langford name brings, she can be this – wife, mother, farm girl with a penchant for big cats.
“Yes, Mom.”
She leaves us and I turn to Holden, the sun cream uncapped.
“Take off your shirt, and I’ll do your back,” I offer, already pouring a generous glob of cream into my hand.
“I’m fine,” he replies, lying back on the lounger still in his wet t-shirt, the drenched fabric crinkling where it sticks to his chest and stomach. He places a towel over his legs and leans back, his face tipped towards the sun.
“You can burn through your tee, so you really should put some cream on,” I suggest. My mother will not forgive me if I let Holden burn.
He shakes his head adamantly, his body pressed to the back of the sun lounger.
Not for the first time, I wonder why he won’t take his tee off – he never does when he fights and he is pretty resolute in his decision not to remove it now. Not wanting to pressure him, I drop the subject.
We eat in silence, though it’s not an unsettling silence. I’ve quickly learned that quiet is a comfortable place for Holden. When we’re done eating, we lie on our separate loungers; me telling Holden about the island until the heat becomes too much, and we both dive back into the pool. We spend the rest of the day doing that, climbing out, drying, drinking beer, and then throwing ourselves back into the cool water. Not once does Holden remove his t-shirt.
After a light dinner of white fish and more salads, my eyes can barely stay open and Holden’s eyes are drifting shut where he’s lying with his e-reader in his hand, on the sofa on the patio. Mom and Dad have already retired to their room on the opposite side of the villa.
“Booker, bed,” I say, standing and nudging his arm. He groans, like the mere thought of moving his body and traipsing up the stairs is all too much. I switch off the lights and lock the door, then make my way to our room, Holden right beside me.
“I usually sleep naked,” I quip, raising an eyebrow at him. He rustles in my suitcase, pulling out a pair of cotton boxers and throws them at me. “Fine,” I say, in jest. I obviously wasn’t going to sleep naked next to Holden.
He disappears into the ensuite, and I slide out of my swim shorts, pull on the boxers and then slip beneath the sheets on my side of the bed. He emerges from the en suite ten minutes later wearing thecutestpair of plaid pyjamas. It’s like sleepy Holden is a seventy-year-old man. The only thing missing is a pair of slippers. It’s fucking adorable.
His messy brown hair, paired with the thick black-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, though? Holy fucking shit, they do something to me. Holden Booker could be the poster boy for hot nerds everywhere, and that, it seems, is my new weakness.
Chapter 15
Holden
Idid not sleep well. Despite being exhausted from both jet lag and all the sun and swimming, I could not sleep. First, the nightmares creeped in, but I woke up before they could steal my breath or leave me panicked. And then, I was too aware of the scantily clad man in the bed with me.
I hadn’t considered sleeping arrangements when we first arrived. I guess I presumed we’d have separate rooms, but then Charlene had looked so flustered about the mixup and I didn’t want her stressing when she’d been so welcoming to me. Without giving it much thought, I agreed, saying it was fine. And it is, though, I’ve only shared a bed with Theo before, and that was totally different.
I’ve never once wondered what it would be like if I rolled over and wrapped my body around Theo. That thought kept me company in the early hours of the morning. Then, when I finally got my mind to settle, Remington shifted, his arm coming to land over my side, where I lay with my back to him. All I could think then was how would it feel to edge myself backwards, picturing the way his arm might tighten around me. Wondering if his body would be soft and warm from sleep, and if he woke up to find us in the position, would he care? Would he want that?
When the first light of dawn peeks through the window, I sit up in bed, hit with this sudden thought of my dad. I don’t know what causes it, but it makes my heart race and I look to the left, to where the side table is and where I would usually keep my knife in its black box. But of course, it’s not there. It’s back at Remington’s place on the other side of the world.
It’s the first time since we left the US over twenty-four hours ago that I’ve thought about Dad, and that both surprises and saddens me. Very few days have passed since he died that I haven’t thought about him. When I was younger, the main thought was why? Why did Dad leave us? The childish, irrational part of my mind blamed myself. Maybe I wasn’t a good enough son. Maybe if I had loved him harder, he would have stayed. The grown up part of me understands he had an illness and it was never about me.
My mouth is dry, thanks to the air conditioning in the villa, so I climb out of bed and make my way out of the room, closing the door softly behind me and pad downstairs to the kitchen.
You’re safe here.I remind myself, sucking in a breath before walking into the kitchen. Holden’s dad is at the table, a laptop open in front of him.
“Morning,” Curtis greets me and gestures to the laptop. “Charlene will have my balls if she finds me doing work while on holiday. Thankfully, she likes to sleep in when we’re here.”
He points to a fancy-looking coffee machine.
“Coffee is fresh, if you want some.”
Wordlessly, I walk towards the machine, find a mug and fill it, the rich, nutty aroma of black coffee filling the air. Looking at the door, I contemplate finding somewhere else to sit, maybe outside or in one of the other sitting rooms, but Curtis decides for me, kicking the chair out opposite him.
“Sit,” he says. He stands up, opens a cupboard and returns moments later with a box of cookies. “I’m not meant to eat these. Too much sugar for this old man.” He winks like he’s letting me in on his secret. “But rules were made to be broken, weren’t they?”
My pulse quickens, and my throat constricts, but I take the seat, nodding in reply. Holding the mug in two hands like a shield, I lift it to my lips, blowing on it before taking a sip.
