Page 64 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
After we’ve passed the busiest portion of the beach, he steers us off the Harbor Walk and through a patch of knee-high brush to a small stretch of sand that looks like it’s been pulled from a postcard. Here, the crowds of families and college students are nowhere in sight. It’s just the two of us, surrounded by white sand and the steady lap of waves against the shore.
I’m so enthralled by the view that I hardly notice Holt unpacking the tote bag. When I turn around, I find him sitting on a red flannel blanket, puffed up with pride as he pours wine into two travel glasses. It’s a sight that makes my heart turn half a dozen backflips.
“C’mon.” He pats the blanket next to him. “Let me show you what I brought.”
I join him, feeling my smile widen more with each item he pulls from the tote.
A box of crackers, a plastic container holding slices of salami and cheese, and a family-size bag of my favorite honey-mustard pretzels, the kind I keep on my desk at work. A simple, romantic picnic containing all my favorite things—good wine, good snacks, and Holt.
When I reach for the bag of pretzels, though, he stops me, reaching back into the tote.
“Hold on. I haven’t shown you the best part.” He retrieves another plastic container from the bag, tugging off the lid to reveal bite-size bacon-wrapped goodies. “Don’t worry, they’re dates,” he tells me with a hint of a smirk. “No shellfish this time.”
A deep belly-laugh bursts from me. “Okay, that’s actually hilarious,” I say, popping one into my mouth. It’s all the maple, bacon-covered goodness a girl could ask for without any of the emergency trips to the hospital.
We bask in the salty air, snacking and soaking in each other’s company as the sun begins to sink in the sky. Today is nothing extravagant, nothing out of the ordinary, but I’ve never been so fully aware that this is exactly what I want. Something simple and sweet and easy. Not the fancy restaurants or dimly lit bars with overpriced cocktails other men have tried to use to impress me, as if their black AmEx cards could somehow prove their worthiness. Sitting here with Holt on a secret stretch of beach, seeing his attention to all the little details, I’m more impressed than I’ve ever been with a man before.
“So, tell me,” I say, polishing off what’s left of my wine and cozying up to Holt. “How’d you become such an expert on the beaches of Boston?”
“I used to take my little cousins here all the time,” he says, sliding one big arm around my waist. He pauses for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is a bit strained. “After my brother got locked up and Mom got into painkillers, I became the go-to babysitter of the family. It was easier to keep them occupied here than in my aunt Lori’s two-bedroom in South Boston.”
His words weigh heavy on my chest. There’s so much to unpack in his statement, I’m not even sure where to begin, so I trust my instincts and ask the first question that comes to mind.
“How is your mom doing, by the way?”
With my head pressed against his chest like this, I can’t see his expression, but I can feel his body rise and fall beneath my cheek as he heaves a sigh. “She’s doing okay. She enrolled in an outpatient program through her rehab facility to keep her on track, and they seem happy with her progress so far.”
“That’s good to hear. But it still has to be hard for you,” I whisper.
“It’s been tough forever. I’m used to it by now. Not that it ever gets easier, but you learn to adapt. Let the struggle make you stronger.”
I uncurl myself from him, shifting back to meet his gaze. “Still. It’s not fair, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“We all go through shit,” he grumbles, offering a forced smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “I’m more concerned with how it affects you.”
My brow crinkles. Of all the responses he could have given, I never would have expected that one. “What do you mean by that?”
“I’ve had years to get hardened to this shit. But you . . .” He shakes his head as his gaze slips away from mine. “You don’t need any additional baggage.”
My heart constricts at his words. He sounds so defeated, like his family life is too much for me to handle. Maybe he’s forgotten that I come with my fair share of family drama too.
“We all have skeletons in the closet,” I tell him, laying one hand on his. “You remember who my father is and what he did, right?”
Holt’s gaze flickers back toward me, one dark brow arched. “The governor?”
