Page 51 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
When I enter my building, Holt’s imposing figure makes him easy to spot right away. While the other residents filter in and out of the elevators, he stands in the very center of the lobby, a slight grin on his mouth and a plastic bag full of small white takeout boxes dangling from his fingers.
He greets me by pressing a quick kiss against my cheekbone. Instantly, my temperature shoots up several degrees. He’s never kissed me in public before, and even if it’s just on the cheek, I’m amazed by how special it makes me feel.
Maybe my instincts should have prompted me to scan the lobby for onlookers or, worse yet, a camera-happy blogger ready to report on any newsworthy move I might make. But none of that crosses my mind until we’re unpacking our dinner on my kitchen island, and by then, it’s too late anyway. Being with Holt makes all my worry subside. He’s magical that way.
“I can’t believe the garage door is already fixed,” I say as I press onto my tiptoes, grabbing two square white plates from my cabinet. This dinner isn’t the fanciest thank-you in the world, so the least I can do is serve it on real plates.
“I told you, I know a repairman,” Holt says. “He’s good.”
“If he got that whole project done in under two hours, he’s not just good. He’s superhuman. I really can’t thank you enough.”
“This is as good of a thank-you as a man could ever want.” Holt smiles, jutting a thumb toward the takeout boxes.
“Do you want to watch the game while we eat? Puck drop is in ten.”
“Sure,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
I’m usually too much of a neat freak to eat such messy food anywhere other than the table, but nothing in the world sounds better than cozying up on the couch with Holt, dinner, and a game we’re predicted to win.
With full plates, we assume the same spots on the couch as the last time Holt was here, the night of the big team dinner. But unlike that night, there’s no awkwardness, no readjusting to each other. Instead, we sit close enough that my thigh presses against his, and he listens attentively as I recount my afternoon with the best and brightest young hockey players in Boston.
“I swear, some of these ten-year-olds can skate as well as our players,” I say with a laugh.
“You’ll be drafting those same kids in ten years,” he points out. “Just you wait.”
As I’m turning that thought over, Holt slips his fingers between mine. His palm is warm and rough with calluses, and my heart rate quickens as he runs his thumb along the back of my hand.
I told Gretchen (and myself) that all I wanted was some hot, sweaty fun. So, why are my emotions all over the freaking place right now? Because of the history Holt and I share? That deep, brief connection that ended so quickly?
I take a moment, trying to breathe deeply and calm down before I embarrass myself with a display of emotion that has no place in a casual relationship like this one.
Get it together, Eden. Maybe I’m just feeling grateful that he saved me earlier in my jam . . . that has to be it.
“I’m proud of you for bouncing back so quickly after your accident,” Holt says, unaware of my inner dialogue. “I’ll bet your speech made those kids’ whole year.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” I say truthfully, blinking up at him with an appreciative smile. “And not just because you let me borrow your car. The things you said to me the other night about working as a team and just handling my own role? It really helped me.”
“Yeah?” His full lips tick upward. “I’m happy to help you with anything you need.”
Just the suggestion sends heat flooding through my system. “You sure?” I whisper, wetting my lower lip with a sweep of my tongue. “Because there’s something pretty important I need your help with right now.”
“Yeah? Anything for you.”
My free hand floats to the stubble on his cheek, taking him in—chiseled jaw, gray eyes, and velvety lips. “I need you to kiss me right now.”
“I think I can take care of that.” His head tilts, and his warm, eager lips meet mine in a slow, sweet kiss that prompts every hair on my arms to stand on end.
One gentle kiss becomes two, and when he touches his tongue against my lips, they part, welcoming him in. Soon, his big hands are in my hair, pulling me close to him as our tongues intertwine in an easy dance that only we know the steps to. When he breaks away, I lean in again, capturing his mouth with mine. Nothing could pull me away from him right now.
“Eden, honey. Knock-knock.”
