Page 20 of Fierce Love (Tucker Billionaires)

Chapter Sixteen

Hollyn

O utside the Tucker Millennium Hotel, I stare at the fancy gold and limestone exterior, and I text Posey again.

She and her fiancé, Brent, are already inside after having checked into the spa.

She’s never done a TV show before, so she couldn’t tell me if the request to come here was normal or not, but an internet search turned up several examples where producers or directors organized bonding events to help increase cast chemistry.

But as far as I know, it’s Posey, Brent, me, and Nate.

The four of us. Like some kind of warped double date.

At the most luxurious spa in Bellerive. Obviously, the double-date vibe wouldn’t be one Nate—Nathaniel—is trying to create, but it’s in the back of my brain, nudging me, just the same. Why would Posey’s fiancé be here?

Of all the places we could have built some chemistry—a bowling alley or laser tag or rock climbing—why would the production team choose a spa?

I didn’t ask Nate any questions when he texted with today’s date, time, and location. If I seemed reluctant, he might think I’m going back on the decision we made to forge ahead, to pretend like our past together is nothing.

The last thing I want him to know or suspect is that I can’t honor the fresh slate. That, for me, there’s no reality in which we can forget what happened—not any of it—no matter how much I might want some of it to have never happened.

I weave my way through the massive hotel, following the signs for the spa.

Clearly, I parked in the wrong lot, but I’ve never even stepped foot in this hotel, let alone considered booking myself in for a spa treatment.

There are no prices on the website, so I can only imagine how much production is paying for this bonding day.

Posey was delighted. And of course she would be. I bet she looks stunning in a teeny-tiny bikini. Whereas I’ve brought the most practical, no-nonsense bathing suit I own—the one I use for swimming laps at the YMCA—not the one I’d ever use if I was trying to impress someone.

Which is what I keep reminding myself as I turn corners and open doors.

Nate Tucker and Hols Davis are old news.

Just like our nicknames. Whatever chemistry I still felt on the love seat the other day was probably completely one-sided, and even if it wasn’t, I cannot let myself go down any roads with him.

This shapeless suit is the best defense I have today.

No sexy thoughts will be happening for Nate with me in this suit.

And if that makes me a little sad, I try to ignore that twinge as I open the final door and step into the dimly lit spa reception.

A platonic, sexual-tension-free relationship is smarter than injecting angst and confusion.

I know what happened and why and the reasons we can never be together again.

The reception room is all warm-brown tones and pale-pink flowers, and I approach the desk with a false confidence I honed in a variety of situations in New York.

It’s the same confidence I laid over my normal persona for the screen test with Posey.

Most of the time, it works well enough to get me through, sometimes even brings me success.

Imposter syndrome is just fear trying to hold you back.

Embrace it. Step into the discomfort. Don’t care about what others think.

Be you. All these mantras play on repeat in my head as I give my name.

They’re phrases I’ve had to repeat as I tried to rise through the ranks at Reyes and Cruz.

If you let people keep you down, they will.

Know your own worth. That’s a lesson I learned the hard way in Bellerive.

Or maybe it was know what you’re worth. Learned that one too.

The receptionist gives me a canned response on all the amenities of the spa, the services we can take advantage of because production has rented the whole facility for the afternoon.

I stare at her for a beat, dumbfounded. “The whole spa is rented?”

“That’s correct.” She checks her screen. “You’re slated for a massage at one thirty and a facial at five fifteen. In between treatments, you’re welcome to go in any of our pools, the sauna, hot tub, or any of our other specialty rooms.” She passes me a brochure.

“How many people are here?” I ask, suddenly wondering if I got it wrong.

“Four now, including you. Tariq Covington and his partner, Marshall, came down with a bug and had to cancel at the last minute. The rest of your party is already in the spa.”

So Posey brought her partner, Brent, and Tariq would have brought his. That means Nate must not have anyone special in his life, and he must have either assumed I didn’t or asked Posey. Knowing his status, and the thought of him asking Posey, even if it was just transactional, makes my pulse climb.

In the women’s locker room, I organize my clothes and other items longer than necessary while I wait for Posey to text me back, uncertainty thrumming through my veins.

I check the time on the wall clock and realize I’ve dawdled fifteen minutes away, afraid to leave, which is a waste of this experience.

I square my shoulders, tighten my robe, and head for the exit to the indoor facilities.

Maybe Posey is in a pool by now, wondering what’s taking me so long.

Nate and I agreed to pretend, and I can do anything I set my mind to for a few hours. Even pretend that Nathaniel Tucker doesn’t still set my pulse racing.

On the deck, I scan the area with trepidation, but I don’t hear any voices.

Quiet meditation-style music plays over the speakers, and I contemplate what to do first. With all of us having preset treatment times, I’m probably stressing for nothing.

Nate and Posey and Brent could all be in the middle of a service.

It would explain why she hasn’t responded.

That thought lets me release my breath, and when I spot the steam room beside the locker room exit, curiosity gets the better of me.

With Reyes and Cruz, I’ve had high-end experiences, but most of those were restaurants or being in a box at sporting events or concerts.

A spa is a luxury I’d never give to myself, and so even if Nate is here, even if it feels like a weird double-date scenario, I’m going to enjoy myself.

Experience it all. Take no prisoners. Bond with Posey and Brent.

Avoid Nate like he’s infected with a deadly disease. Perfectly reasonable behavior.

I hang my robe outside the door, relieved to see mine is the only one there, and I open the opaque door, slipping in as quickly as I can to avoid letting the steam billow out.

For a beat, I stand still, letting the plumes of steam swirl around me, moisture dampening my skin, and then I let out a deep sigh. Being alone with my thoughts might not be the best idea, but it’s better than the alternative.

“That bad, huh?” a deep voice says from somewhere in the thick fog.

I jump, startled to realize that not only am I not alone, but the one person I don’t want to be alone with is in here.

“Seems you might be in need of a day to relax and unwind,” he says, still a disembodied voice in the room.

His voice, even detached from the intense physicality of him, still does strange things to my insides.

My stomach flips, and heat pools low in my belly.

His deep rumble reminds me of all the hours we spent on the phone, hushed whispers in the middle of the night, breathing in sync, a constant longing for each other that never seemed to subside no matter how close or far apart we were.

“I’ll come back later,” I say. “I didn’t realize anyone else was in here.

” I put my hand on the door handle, but before I can leave, his big hand lands on mine, a gentle cage.

I don’t even understand how he approached without me sensing it.

His chest, slick with sweat, presses against my back.

My heart stalls and then revs, threatening to drive full speed out of my chest. Nathaniel Tucker is a shot of adrenaline, right to my heart.

Fight-or-flight isn’t what’s happening, though.

No part of me wants to run. My body, my traitorous, traitorous body, aches to sink into his embrace, back my ass up against his hips, see whether he feels what I feel. The best worst idea I’ve ever had.

“Don’t go,” he says, his breath stirring the wisps of my hair that aren’t secured in my high ponytail. “There’s plenty of room for both of us.”

We stand there, breathing in short, quick breaths. Asking him what he’s doing is on the tip of my tongue, but part of me doesn’t want to break this spell that’s been spun between us. It’s deliciously familiar, and no other man has ever had the ingredients to make desire rise in me this quickly.

“Is there enough room in here? Feels a bit tight,” I say, and I haven’t turned around. The air is heavy around us. He’s got me pinned to the door, but I don’t feel trapped.

“Snug, not tight. Hot and sweaty,” he murmurs. “I hear it’s a good stress reliever.”

“Yes,” I say, my voice breathy. His words coupled with one of his hands covering mine, the other pressed against the door beside me, might be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me. Every point of contact is wild and alive. “Stress relief is so good.”

“It’s bad for you to keep it bottled up,” he says, his lips so close to my ear that I think I can feel them even though I can’t. Even though I want to.

“So bad,” I murmur.

“You probably need that.” His voice is smooth and deep and so close. “Some relief. I was hoping to help.”

“You were?” I’m drunk on his proximity.

“Yes.” His tone is now rough with want.

When I rotate to face him, the cool glass of the door brushes against my back, and my lips part with a little gasp.

His gaze gets stuck on my mouth for a beat, and time slows to an unbearable pace.

If it’s possible, the air grows thicker, steamier between us.

His thumb skates across my bottom lip, and I consider drawing it into my mouth, letting my tongue swirl around it.

Then he’s scanning my face with that familiar intensity, as though he can’t get enough of the sight of me. And I want to let him sink into me so badly. It’s a physical ache, thrumming through me. My body is begging for what I remember he can give me, what I’m sure he could give me again.

“You’re still so fucking pretty,” he says, and his knuckles brush my jaw before his palm settles around the back of my neck. “Tell me no. Tell me to walk away. Tell me you don’t want any of this.”

“Nate,” I say, my tone pleading, but I have no idea what I’m pleading for.

Mercy? And I’m not even sure what that would look like, whether it would mean fucking me here in the steam room or turning and walking away.

The smart choice is obvious, but I’ve never been smart with Nate, and that’s always been my problem.

“Tell me,” he says.

“You don’t want this,” I say, suddenly desperate to keep what little space still exists between us. “You don’t want me.”

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t want,” he says, his voice like gravel. “What I want is for you to tell me you still feel this .” And the way he says the word, he might as well be slipping a hand inside my bathing suit, separating the folds, finding me hot and ready.

My brain almost short-circuits with how badly I want him, but a tiny voice from my subconscious wonders whether Nate is the type to play games now.

I hurt him; he hurts me. Maybe getting me to admit I still want him, that I’m the one who couldn’t let go, is what he needs so he can reject me, get revenge for how I abandoned us.

“If you don’t want this, you need to tell me now.” His thumb makes slow circles on my neck, distracting me, making me want to arch into the contact. “Otherwise, I’m coming for your heart, Hols. And I won’t stop until you’re Hollyn Tucker, and everyone knows you were always, will always be mine .”

A chill races across my skin at his words, like someone doused me in cool water. I’ll never be Hollyn Tucker, and I sealed that fate when I left last time. The air around us is stifling, hard to breathe.

“I can’t,” I say, my voice cracking, gasping for air. “I can’t.” I shove him away, and he stumbles back, far easier than I would have expected. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to stop me.

Head down, I slip out the door, grabbing my robe and tying it tightly, before disappearing back into the women’s locker room.

And I fear the only thing this day will bring is a desire for things I’ll never have again.