Page 60 of Off the Beaten Path

“I don’t want to leave,” I sigh, trailing my fingers over the white marble countertops, wishing I could afford something even half this nice for my little cabin in the woods.

Holden stands up straighter, dropping his hands to his sides. I can’t help the way my eyes trail the movement, my skin heating just remembering how they felt on my body, the reverent way he held me. I’ve never been touched the way he touches me.

“Why don’t we stay, then?” he asks, jolting my attention back to his face.

My nose scrunches in confusion. “Stay?”

He shrugs. “I’ve got a blanket in the truck. We could order food. Hang out here.”

“A blanket in the truck? I see where you expected the night to go.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing off the pillar to cross the distance separating us. Every part of my body tingles in awareness. “It’s for June, smartass. She gets cold in the car sometimes.”

“Likely story,” I say as he gets close enough for his hands to find the spots on my hips that feel like they were made just for him. It’s a little crazy to think about how, mere months ago, I’d never been touched by him, and now there are spots on my body that feel cold or empty when his hands aren’t there.

“What do you say?” he asks, hazel eyes earnest, fingers tightening on my hips. “We can do the whole restaurant thing if you want. Or we could eat on the back porch and look at the stars.”

The corners of my lips lift, a smile that feels like it’s being pulled directly from the center of me. “That sounds perfect.”

“It’s a real shame you ordered the gnocchi,” I say an hour later, seated beside Holden on the double camp chair he found in the bed of his truck, our legs tucked beneath a shared blanket.

His eyes slant toward mine, wary. “Why is that?”

“Because if you had gotten spaghetti, we could have doneLady and the Tramp.”

A sigh leaves him, and a smile curves my mouth. “I’m not doingLady and the Trampwith you.”

“But you’ll do it with someone else. Wow, and here I thought I was special.”

“I’m not going to share a spaghetti noodle withanyone.” He says this firmly, like it’s the end of the conversation, but I’m just getting started.

“What about pushing a meatball toward me with your nose?”

“Wren.”

“But you have such a nice nose,” I continue.

“I don’t have a nice nose. I have a nose, period.”

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself that way,” I say, tugging the blanket up a little higher on myself to keep out the chill.

His gaze moves in my direction. “You’re frustrating.”

“Vexing, remember?”

“I prefer frustrating.”

I flash him a smile, leaning into his shoulder. “You like me, though.”

“There’s no proof of that,” he says.

“I have a hickey on my collarbone from when you snuck over with the baby monitor a few nights ago.” I was sitting on my couch when there was a knock on my door. Holden was on the threshold, a baby monitor secured to his belt, and my ovaries kicked into overdrive. I sat on my counter, and we ate ice cream from the carton. I remember he tasted like vanilla bean, and that even though his mouth was cold, his hands were warm on my waist. That stolen moment with him felt better than free time with anyone else.

“That so?” he asks, not turning toward me, but in the warm yellow illumination of the porch light, I can see the satisfied curve of his lips.

My elbow finds his ribs. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m not pleased,” Holden says, but his beard twitches again.

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