Page 28 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

T he last week passed in a blur—of lips pressed to bare skin, soft moans muffled in the dark, and her body tangled with mine like we’re both afraid to let go. And maybe we are. Maybe holding each other is the only way we know how to breathe right now.

Mac and I haven’t been able to keep our hands—or hearts—off each other.

And still… every damn time I look at her, my chest aches in the best way.

My pulse kicks like it did the first time I realized I was in love with my best friend.

It hasn’t dulled, not once. The fire still burns hot in my veins, like she's stoking it with every glance, every kiss, every breath.

We’ve scoured every place we could think of with the guys, searching for Lola, but she’s up and vanished like a gust in the wind. Previously it was like I couldn’t turn a corner without bumping into her.

Mac’s been spending more time in Braden’s room. Considering she couldn’t look at the door it was marked difference. I hope it was not in fear of her coming back to find more of him missing. Like Lola is a monster creeping in to steal sentimental items of his… of her brother.

She gave the boys his music books—pages of lyrics and notes Braden never shared, like he was saving them for something special. It damn near wrecked me, seeing her hand them over like she was passing a piece of her heart into our palms just to keep it safe.

His acoustic’s already in the van with the rest of our gear. That was one thing she didn’t have to ask about. That guitar’s not going anywhere without me. I promised her it’d come back in one piece.

This morning, she walks down the stairs wearing his old hoodie—drowned in it, really—her bare legs peeking out beneath the hem, hair still damp from her shower, cheeks a little pink from the warmth of the steam. God help me.

I’m sitting on the counter, nursing a coffee I forgot to drink, boots half-laced, watching her like she’s the only thing in the world that matters.

The kitchen’s alive with the usual noise—Chace and Sam arguing over snacks, Trey complaining about how early it is.

Banter flying left and right like we aren’t all secretly wired with nerves and excitement about Reverb In The Pines.

This weekend’s more than just a festival.

It’s the first time we have performed live in months.

But the second Mac steps into the room, time slows.

My hand automatically reaches for her, fingers brushing her hip as she passes.

I trail the touch up under the hoodie, palm splayed against her warm skin.

She gasps softly, shooting me a look over her shoulder.

That look—the one that says I see you. I want you. Later.

I lean in, brushing my lips just behind her ear. “You’re not wearing any panties, are you?” I whisper low enough only she can hear. Her breath catches, and she shakes her head slightly. My grip tightens just enough to make her squirm.

Trey groans from the fridge. “Can we not have a live porno before breakfast? Damn.”

Mac rolls her eyes, cheeks flushed, and slips away from my grip with a smirk that tells me I’ll pay for that later—in the best way.

“Let’s go, rockstars!” Chace calls out, slapping the side of the van keys against his palm. “Reverb waits for no one!”

Trey grabs his coffee and hauls his bag over one shoulder. Sam double checks the gear list for the fifth time like he doesn’t trust the universe to get it right.

The energy is electric, buzzing with the kind of anticipation that only comes before a gig—the promise of music, fans, late nights under string lights, and the kind of memories that cling like cigarette smoke and sweat.

I grab Mac’s bag in one hand, my guitar in the other, but before we head out, I pull her to me. Kiss her slow. Meaningful.

“You good?” I ask, searching her eyes.

She nods, eyes shining. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

Goddamn. This girl.

“We’ll be right out,” I call over my shoulder to the guys, already reaching for Mac.

She lets out a surprised squeal as I lift her clean off the floor and toss her over my shoulder like she weighs nothing. My hand slides down to tug Braden’s hoodie lower, covering her bare ass before any of those assholes get a look.

“Logan!” she laughs, hitting my back playfully. “What are you doing?”

“Saving my sanity,” I grunt, marching us straight back up the stairs.

I kick the bedroom door shut behind us and lower her slowly onto her feet, my hands firm at her hips. Her hair’s a mess, her smile wicked, her legs bare—and I swear I’m about to combust.

“Baby,” I murmur, brushing my fingers up her thighs, “any other day, I’d let you strut around like this. Hell, I’d worship the ground you walk on while you do. But knowing you’ve got no panties on, surrounded by three guys who don’t know how to keep their eyes to themselves?”

I take a step closer, crowding her against the bed, voice lowering to a gravelly whisper.

“That shit’s gonna kill me. My cock’s gonna be hard as steel all day. So please—and I’m asking real nice here—put some on.”

She bites her bottom lip, eyes glittering with challenge and heat.

“You do it for me,” she says, her voice sultry, daring, as she lifts her arms and lets the hoodie fall just enough to reveal her soft curves, her trust in me.

Fuck.

I reach into her drawer, fishing out a pair of black lace panties, and drop to my knees in front of her.

My fingers graze her legs as I slide them up—slow, deliberate. She shudders, her breath hitching, her eyes never leaving mine.

“You have no idea what this view does to me,” I mutter, placing a kiss on the inside of her right thigh. She trembles. “You let me worship you like this, angel... and I’ll never stop.”

Another kiss, softer, higher this time. “This mouth?” I whisper against her skin. “It was made to ruin you in the best ways.”

She gasps, her hand tangling in my hair, eyes wide and glassy.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” I ask, sliding the lace into place and running my hands up her sides. “That ache building low and slow? That’s all me. And I’ll take care of it the second we’re alone tonight.”

By the time I’m on my feet again, she’s breathless and dazed, cheeks flushed, lips parted like she’s still catching up to everything I just said—everything I just did.

I grin down at her, tugging the hoodie gently over her hips, fingers brushing the waistband of the lace.

“Now,” I say with a wink, “be a good girl and make sure you dress warm. It’s gonna be a long day.”

She groans softly, rolling her eyes like she’s annoyed—but that smile, that blush, that look in her eyes?

That’s mine, and I never plan on letting it go.

The hum of the road beneath the tires is a steady lull as we cruise east out of Vancouver. Mac is curled into my side in the backseat of the van, her cheek resting on my chest, legs tangled with mine like it’s always been this way.

Up front, the guys are arguing over the setlist—again. Sam’s threatening to throw Chace out if he sings Wonderwall one more time. Trey’s already halfway into a bag of gummy bears and trying to convince everyone we should open the set with an acoustic. It’s chaos. Familiar. Loud.

Perfect.

But I tune it out.

Because the only thing I care about is the girl in my arms.

We drive through the day and into the deep hush of night, chasing the heartbeat of something that feels like freedom. Like magic. Like the kind of Fall that brands itself into memory.

When we finally reach Montreal, the world transforms.

Reverb In The Pines isn’t just a festival. It’s a forested dream brought to life.

A winding dirt road snakes through towering pine trees, their dark silhouettes crowned with fairy lights that glitter like fallen stars. The air is crisp and laced with the scent of cedar, pine, and something warm and sweet—burnt sugar, maybe. Or just anticipation.

As the van creeps deeper, the scene unfolds in bursts of color and music and firelight.

Massive canvas tents stretch between trees—some lit from within like lanterns.

Stages bloom from the forest floor, strung with dreamcatchers and vintage rugs.

There are hammocks suspended between trunks, food trucks serving wood-fired pizza and gourmet coffee, and open-air bars nestled beneath arched boughs.

People dance in the dirt, laugh over fire pits in the dusk, share whispered songs under the stars.

It’s not quite as big as Coachella… but with its different sections, booths and stages among meadows and woodland it makes something special.

Like a festival in a fairytale, only the food is better, and the hygiene is…

well, its young people drinking booze from wine boxes and plastic cups in the wilds of Northen America.

Our VIP villa sits tucked at the edge of it all—half-hidden behind hanging vines and glowing lanterns, rustic and quiet.

Wood and stone meet velvet throws and warm golden light, with a private balcony that overlooks the festival’s beating heart.

There’s even a fire pit, already crackling beside two rocking chairs and a bottle of wine waiting on a small table.

Mac yawns as we step out of the van, her eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s… beautiful,” she says softly, her hand sliding into mine.

I press a kiss to her temple. “Not as beautiful as you.”

Inside, the guys are fighting over beds, and someone’s already claimed the minibar, but none of it registers. She’s still holding my hand. Still wearing Braden’s hoodie. Still looking at this place like it’s something out of a dream.

In this moment—just Mac and I and the stars above—I know I’d follow her into any forest, through any fire.

Because loving Mac is like standing in a clearing after the storm—lungs full of air, heart full of light, and the quiet knowing that somehow, against all odds, I made it home.

Mac turns to me with that spark in her eyes—mischief and wonder all rolled into one.

“Let’s go get food and look around!”

I grin, already reaching for her hand. “Hell yes.”