Page 9 of Off the Beaten Path

“I’m older than you,” he says, lips twisting in a faint smile I’ve never seen on his face before. For the first time, I think I understand why all the single women in town lost their minds when he moved back here from Charlotte after his divorce four years ago.

“Thank you for that astute observation.”

His hazel eyes narrow, more green than brown today, thanks to his jacket. “That means I’ve been coming here longer. It was my place first.”

This is true, and probably also why the place felt like it hadn’t seen another human visitor in years, since Holden had moved to Charlotte for college by the time I started high school. I just don’t know how I haven’t run into him here in the last four years.

“You forfeited your right to it when you moved away,” I shoot back.

He gives me a flat stare before returning his gaze to the view ahead, effectively ignoring me.Ican’t focus with him here, taking up space in my field of vision, but he doesn’t seem to have that issue.

Huffing out an annoyed breath, I move to lean on the hood of my own car, determined to be as unaffected by his presence as he is by mine. Then I see his jaw tick, notice the way his hand flexes on his thermos, and I realize maybe heisannoyed after all. And there’s almost nothing that brings me more joy than annoying Holden Blankenship.

“We could share the spot,” I say, my breath fogging in the air.

Holden slants a look in my direction. “Pass.”

I take a sip of my latte to hide my smile. “You get it on weekends; I get it on weekdays. Or maybe Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and alternating weekends.”

The noise he makes is so aggrieved that I feel a burst of pleasure shoot through me. “I’m not having joint custody of an overlook, Wren.”

“Well, you’re not getting full custody of it, Holden.”

He turns toward me fully this time, flames licking in his eyes, a fire that lets me know I’ve pushed him right to my favorite spot—where all that reserved composure turns into unrestrained emotion. “Why are you always so difficult?”

I grin at him across the space between us. “I prefer vexing. It sounds sexier.”

“Why are you always so vexing?” He practically growls it, his voice rough as sandpaper.

I press a hand to my throat just like Mrs. Garcia did in Smokey the Beans. “Wow, that worked for me. Can you try saying it in a British accent?”

His jaw tightens enough to break a tooth. “Get out of my spot.”

“I’m not leaving.” I pair my statement with a smile that I know makes him see red.

“Well, neither am I.”

“Then be quiet so I can have some peace.”

He shifts his body so he’s facing the view ahead, shoulders stiff. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

A heavy quiet falls between us, the only sound the wind rustling the bare branches of trees. I try and fail to focus on the view, to ignore the cold biting at my nose and seeping into my hands despite the latte. I’m practically shivering, and I risk a glance over at Holden, who is standing stock still, like the chill isn’t even bothering him. He doesn’t even seem to notice the snowflakes gathering on his lashes, the hollows of his cheeks, the bridge of his strong nose, the tips of his hair escaping his messy bun. In fact, something about it makes him look stronger, more solid, in the face of the harsh elements.

I can’t help but let my gaze linger on him out of the corner of my eye. As much as he drives me to madness, he really is nice to look at. All hard, lean lines. The unyielding slash of his brow and the ever-changing color of his eyes.

One of his sleeves is hiked up, exposing the ink on his wrist. I know it trails up his arms, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his flannel, but I don’t know where those tattoos end, and I’ve always wondered. Maybe it’s the cold that loosens my tongue, or maybe it’s the need to speak to remind my body that I’m still alive despite the way I’m freezing straight through, but I ask, “Holden?”

He sighs, eyes angling in my direction. “What, Wren?”

“How far up does that tattoo on your arm go?”

Holden looks at me directly this time, shifting his body to face me. “What?”

“It’s a simple question,” I say, not bothering to look in his direction, even though I can feel the weight of his stare lingering on me.

“Why do you want to know?” I can hear the wary tone in his voice, and I have to hold back my grin.

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