Page 73 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“Are you happy?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” I whisper back. It’s the easiest question I’ve ever answered. “I’m so, so happy with you, Holt. I don’t want to have to give this up.”
“Then don’t. This bullshit will pass. We just need a little time.” He pauses, then adds, “And maybe the help of someone who knows something about public relations.”
I hold back a laugh. “That’s what Gretchen said too. I guess if my best friend and my boyfriend are saying the same thing . . .” I pause, catching what I just said. “I mean, not to imply—”
Heat spreads from my chest to my cheeks, but Holt just grins. A huge, proud smile that makes his eyes crinkle. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him smile so wide.
“Boyfriend? I like the sound of that.”
Before I can say another word, he tips my chin upward, lifting my mouth to his in a warm, delicate kiss. Soon, I’m dizzy for a whole new reason. The way this man kisses me—so sure and steady, like he’s making a promise with every brush of his lips against mine. And I’m promising right back, holding tight to his shoulders like I’ll never let go.
Several moments pass like this until I remember my reality, that we’re making out in my office. I pull away, my eyes wide and wild as I whisper, “Shit, we shouldn’t be doing this at work.”
But Holt just laughs and pulls me in again. “Who cares? It’s not like they don’t already know.”
29
* * *
HOLT
One month later
This was a terrible idea. The worst.
Eden and I moved in together a few weeks ago, and we decided to host a Thanksgiving dinner. Many players from the team are here—those without family in the area and the single guys, anyway.
Well, all except Braun.
Eden and I both bit the bullet and invited our moms because they hadn’t met yet, and frankly, it was something we wanted to just get over with. And so far, it’s a little awkward, but Eden and I are suffering through it together.
“Oh my God, the turkey,” Eden shouts from the kitchen.
Now smelling the smoke, I turn to head in her direction. After a quick glance around the room of our mingling guests, no one seems to notice Eden’s panic, so I quietly head for the kitchen to check on her. When I reach the kitchen, thick black smoke billows from the oven door before Eden snaps it shut.
When she turns to face me, I can see the frustration and disappointment written all over her face. Her lower lip trembles, and I capture her chin in my hands, touching my thumb to her mouth.
“It’s totally ruined,” she says with a sigh.
“Hey. Shake it off, sweetheart.”
“But—”
I silence her with a kiss. “Nothing is ruined. I have a plan.” I give her a wink. “Just breathe.”
She draws a deep breath through her nose and then lets out a little cough, because it really is smoky in here. I unlock and then push open the kitchen window, hoping some air circulation will help.
“What’s your plan? Order pizza? Nothing’s open, Holt. We’re screwed!” She throws her hands up dramatically.
Eden looks as though she could cry, and I know it’s not really about the turkey. I know she wanted today to be perfect. I know she’s felt the pressure of having such big shoes to fill ever since her grandfather died. I know she hates disappointing people. And I know she really hates looking like a fool in front of her mother.
Which is why I wasn’t going to leave anything to chance today . . . or let anything go wrong. She has to be reminded that—as I’ve told her on more than one occasion—I’ll always protect her.
“Holt?” she says, her tone pleading.
I press a quick kiss to her pouting mouth. “Okay, so I saw this flyer . . . for that fancy grocery store down the block you like?”
“Fleishman’s?” Her eyebrows push together.
I nod. “That place, yeah. They were advertising whole roasted turkeys on Thanksgiving. I ordered one . . . just in case.”
“Okay, this might be worse than me burning the turkey. You knowing I was going to fail is so much worse.”
Frowning, I shake my head. “That’s not what this is.”
Her eyes widen and lock onto mine. “Then how can you possibly explain this?” She plants her hands on her hips.
I give her shoulders a squeeze. “I know how much hockey players eat. I was only thinking . . . in case we needed more food. You know, like the pizza that you had to order the last time you had the guys over?”
“Oh.” She softens, her mouth lifting in a smile. “Oh. Yes. That was . . . thank you. That was probably a good idea.”
I grin back at her. It’s the truth.
“But how do we—”
