Page 38 of Off the Beaten Path

Surprisingly, his voice doesn’t hold its usual gruffness. It’s soft as silk, smooth as expensive whiskey, rich like decadent hot fudge. I feel it down to the tips of my toes.

“Noted.”

His boots scuff against the floorboard as he moves away, and a wave of cold air rushes into the place his body vacated. Picking up his discarded tool bag, he asks, “See you at Matty’s?”

I nod. “See you at Matty’s.”

I’ve never noticed how loud Matty’s can be, or how dim the lighting, until I’m sitting at a table with Holden Blankenship, achingly aware of the shrinking space between us as we lean in to hear each other over the din of music and voices.

“It’s the end of January,” Holden says, and my eyes fasten on the way his throat bobs as he takes a sip of his beer.

“Christmas spirit is all year long.”

Holden’s eyes narrow, amber glinting in the light. “You just like to mess with me.” His voice is a match to sandpaper, lighting a fire beneath my skin. “Admit it.”

“I like to mess with you,” I say, my hands tightening on my glass, humming with contained electricity.

Holden leans in as the music grows louder, the live band matching the energy from the crowd. I can’t help the way my eyes drift over the planes of his face to settle on the full curve of his bottom lip.

“Why?”

I take my time letting my gaze trail back up to his eyes, pausing to focus on the dark beard covering his jawline, the dusting of freckles across his nose, the curve of his high cheekbones, the little wisps of hair escaping from his bun.

I press my thumb to the space between his brows, just a brush of the pad to the skin. “You get this wrinkle right here,” I tell him. “I like it.”

The words hang in the space between us, and time stands still as I wait for him to respond, to see if this new, intangible thing between us is going to die like embers in the grate or catch on the tinder and blaze to life.

“I—”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the front door to Matty’s open. Charlotte walks in with Adam Brunner, one of the few single firefighters in town.

“Charlotte’s here,” I say before I can think better of it, before I realize I’ve cut off whatever Holden was going to say.

Holden’s body stiffens, and he swivels around to follow my line of sight. When he sees who she’s with, his shoulders relax. “She’s with someone,” he says, relief in his voice.

To my surprise,Idon’t feel relieved by this, because there was a chance to pretend, to push the limits, and now it’s dissolved. I don’t really want to examine why I want that chance so badly. Because this isHolden, and I guarantee that this burgeoning attraction I’m feeling toward him is entirely one-sided.

It doesn’t stop me from saying, “We should probably keep up the pretense anyway.”

Holden turns around to face me, eyes intense and assessing once again. I don’t know if I hope he can read me or not. I wish I could read him, because I feel like since we sat in here a few weeks ago, shocked to find out we were more than just neighbors who don’t get along, every interaction has been a mixed signal, a green light followed by an immediate red, a push forward and then a pull back.

I’m craving an open highway in the dead of night, no one else around for miles.

Holden finishes off his beer, never pulling his gaze from mine, and heat coils low in my stomach, spreading to the tips of my fingers, the arch of my ears, the space behind my knees. Pushing back from the table, he says, “Let’s play pool.”

Instead of leading the way, he motions me forward, and I startle when his hands find my hips, guiding me through the crowd of people toward the dim corner where the darts and pool tables are. The warmth of his hands seeps through the wool of my sweater, and with every gentle press of his fingers to move me around a table or person, that heat turns into a pulsing ache beneath my skin, a buzzing hum of awareness at his body behind mine.

Holden stops us in front of the empty pool table, his front brushing against my back, his weight leaning heavy into mine as he reaches for the rack. When he speaks, his breath warms that spot on the back of my neck where my collar has slipped again, and I can’t help but shiver at the memory of his hands there. “Are you any good at pool?” he asks, voice just above a raspy whisper. He doesn’t have to yell this close, his lips pressed to the shell of my ear.

“Yes, actually,” I say.

His fingers tighten on my hips. “Charlotte doesn’t know that.”

My breath staggers in my chest, my heart pounding against my ribs so hard I wonder if he can feel it with the way his body is pressed up against mine, not even a sliver of space between us.

“Then you should probably show me,” I say, and I swear I feel that rarely present smile lift against the curve of my ear.

“Guess I will.”

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