Page 21

Let Your Hair Down

Mallory

H olland parks behind the Getaway Café—at least, I think that’s where we are. I may have dozed on the short drive from the golf course to Main Street…I can’t be sure. The next thing I know, the door is opening, and Holland has his head directly in front of me.

“Come on, Mal. Up we go.”

I groan. I swear my head feels heavier by the second. “Can’t I stay here?”

“No. You’d be stiff and cold. Come on. There’s a warm bed upstairs with your name on it.

I sigh and use all my effort to wiggle my way out of the car.

Holland closes the door behind me and wraps his arm around my waist. I’m too tired to protest, and I’m ignoring how much I’m leaning in to his side as he steers me in the direction of the staircase on the outside of the building.

As we’re nearing it, a door opens to its right, and Inez steps outside, carrying a garbage bag. “Oh! I didn’t know you were out here. Hey, you two. Aren’t you cute!”

Even in my sick stupor, I can tell by the wide smile on her face that she’s delighted to see Holland and me together—me slumped against him, looking like I can’t get close enough.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” I mumble—or at least I try to mumble. It comes out sounding like, thissislike.

Holland’s chuckle rumbles through his chest. I feel it against my cheek .

Shoot. Why is my cheek on Holland’s chest? I make an active effort to stand up straighter, but he’s got me clamped to his side.

“Mallory’s feeling a little under the weather. She’s heading upstairs to rest.” Holland tugs me toward the staircase.

Inez’s face transforms into a look of concern. “You poor thing. Holland, swing back down, and I’ll have some cinnamon rolls ready for you both when she’s feeling up for them. She’ll need her sustenance to get back on her feet.”

As if on cue, I stumble on the bottom step. I whimper, like a pathetic dog left outside in the rain. What is my life right now?

Holland pauses and releases his grip on my waist. For a moment, I teeter, and I think I may crumple to the ground, but then I’m being lifted.

“Will do. Thanks, Inez. I’m going to get this one into bed.”

Inez laughs lightly, and the words Holland said register in my brain five seconds later.

“Not together!” I call out weakly.

“She’s already inside.” Holland’s breath is cool against my cheek.

That’s not how it’s supposed to work. Breath is supposed to be warm.

So why does his feel like the cool breeze off the lake on a hot summer day?

I’m transported to the scene, Holland and I lying out on two beach towels, the sun warming my skin as the wind flutters my hair.

I swear I can hear the birds cawing overhead. But Holland hates birds.

And wait! I hate Holland.

He shouldn’t be in my lakeside, perfect day dream. I must be more feverish than I thought. I’m practically delusional right now.

“You did that on purpose,” I slur, trying to focus on Holland.

“What? I told Inez the truth.”

“You know how it sounded.”

“How did it sound?” Holland makes it to the top of the stairs and shifts me slightly.

“Like we’re going up here together. ”

I hear his key being inserted into the door, and then he kicks it open. He carries me inside, and my head is too fuzzy to consider how Holland is cradling me like I’m a bride he’s carrying across the threshold.

“Aren’t we?”

“You know what I mean.” I’m too exhausted to play his teasing games right now. “What if she thinks we’re going to be doing…stuff.”

“You’re in no condition to be doing any stuff . And I’m a gentleman, despite what you may think about me.”

He adds the last bit more quietly, and for a moment, I think I imagined it. I don’t respond, because what do I even think about Holland these days? Everything is blurry. Lines have been crossed. It’s a messy mess.

Holland keeps the lights off, so I can’t see what his apartment looks like.

Not that I’m in any condition to look around right now.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious to see how he decorates the place.

I bet it smells like fresh herbs and that he has a comfy couch, perfect for cuddling up and watching sports.

I wonder if he has a copy of Anne of Green Gables somewhere around here.

Ugh. No! That’s the fever talking. I absolutely, positively should not be curious about anything related to Holland…except his golf game.

“Do you want anything before you lie down?” he asks. He’s moving through the main space in the apartment, and I’m half asleep in his arms, hanging here like a limp noodle.

“No. I’m good.” My voice is hoarse.

Holland carries me down a hallway and pushes open a door to the right. He eases me gently down onto the bed, and I pinch my eyes closed because the reality of my vulnerability just crashed into me with the force of a Mack truck.

Why am I letting this man—my boss!—see me like this? How did I let this happen ?

A gentle finger drags slowly from my hairline, over my forehead, and down to the bridge of my nose. “Relax your face,” Holland says softly. “You’re tense.”

I force myself to take a deep breath.

“Good. That’s good. Just a sec. Do you remember what kind of medicine you took?”

I mumble the name brand, and he searches something on his phone.

“Okay. I’m going to grab you some ibuprofen and a glass of water.

That’ll help with your symptoms and those two drugs are fine together.

Don’t go anywhere.” I can tell he’s smiling as he says it, but it’s not in a goading sort of way.

It’s more in an I find you incredibly endearing right now sort of way.

Dangerous.

That’s what that is.

Unfortunately for me, I can’t get up, no matter how badly I might want to.

So I snuggle under the covers, wincing when my ponytail jabs into the back of my head. I’m too tired to take my hair down. Instead, I turn onto my side. If I can go to sleep, maybe I’ll wake up and find this is all a terrible dream.

The door to the bedroom squeaks, and I blink my eyes open, watching as Holland strides across the room.

He fills the space with his broad shoulders and strong legs and nice butt.

He doesn’t look like a dream. He looks like a handsome, very real man—one who I should absolutely not be checking out right now. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The bed dips a second later, and I blink my eyes open to find him sitting near my head. He holds his palm outstretched, and there are two tiny pills in the center of his giant hand. “Can you sit up and take these?”

I nod. My throat is on fire, and I can’t tell if it’s with humiliation or the result of whatever I’m sick with, but the glass of water Holland produces from his other hand may as well be a fountain in the middle of the desert .

I wedge myself to a sitting position, leaning against one elbow. I reach for the medicine with my other hand, but I misjudge it, and I end up knocking Holland’s fingers and sending the pills clattering to the floor.

I curse. “I’m sorry. I’m such a mess.”

Traitorous tears press against the backs of my eyes, and I snap them closed again, trying to stop from crying in front of Holland.

“Here. It’s okay.” A hand slides to the back of my neck, gentle yet firm. “Open your mouth.”

I don’t even know what’s going on right now, and usually, I’d have a lot to say about taking orders from him—about not being in control of myself—but right now, I do what he says.

“I’m going to put the pills on your tongue, alright?”

I nod, and then I feel the pads of his fingers and taste the bitterness of the medicine.

“Here’s your water.” The cold lip of a glass is at my lips next, and he guides the drink into my mouth. “Good. That’s a good…job.”

I swallow the ibuprofen hard, registering that Holland just stopped himself from calling me a good girl. The man knows me well. Even in this cold medicine-induced delirium, I think I might have bitten his head off for that one.

“Now you should get some rest,” he says quietly.

I go to lie down, and my ponytail jabs into the pillow. I wince.

“What is it?” Holland is right there, fluffing my pillow, hovering like a mother hen.

“Can you take my hair down?” I rasp.

“I…your hair?” His gaze travels away from my face to the top of my head before he meets my eye again. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”

His hands come up, and I feel the tug at the crown of my head. He gently pulls the band down, and then there’s sweet relief as my hair tumbles free. I whimper with pleasure. I snuggle in and am about to close my eyes when he delicately moves a strand of hair behind my ear.

I blink up at him. “Thanks,” I whisper .

“Don’t mention it.” He’s staring at me with something that looks a lot like affection, but the fever is making me loopy so I can’t trust what I’m seeing. “Now you should sleep,” he says.

I don’t argue. What’s done is done. Holland has me here, at his apartment, in his spare bedroom. So I may as well rest. I can reestablish some boundaries after a long nap.

I awake with a start, and I bolt upright. Where am I? The room is dark. The curtains are drawn. The bed is extremely comfortable.

Holland .

I sigh, covering my face with my hands. Oh gosh, Holland took care of me. Holland brought me to his apartment. How long have I been sleeping here?

I spot my cell phone on the bedside table and check the time. “Six p.m.?” I say the words out loud. I’ve been asleep for eight hours.

I swing my legs to the side and stand. The rest was worth it. My head feels a million times better than it did this morning, but I’m starving.

I waffle for a minute. I don’t want to face Holland…like, at all. But I can’t stay holed up in his guest bedroom forever.

Oh no. What are the producers going to think? I was supposed to be back at Daisy’s Inn by noon, after practice.

This makes me move my feet, embarrassment about Holland seeing me in such a helpless state aside. I scramble for the door and hurry to the living room. The apartment is empty, but there’s a note on the island counter.

Mallory,

I didn’t want to wake you, but I had to leave for my date.

I should be back by seven. There’s chicken noodle soup in the slow cooker if you’re hungry, and Inez dropped off a care package from her and the Kasper sisters.

I can vouch for how delicious the cinnamon rolls are.

I know they’re for you, but if you save me one, I’ll love you forever.

Don’t worry about production or getting back to Daisy’s.

I talked to Vivian. Make yourself at home, and I’ll see you soon.

H

I read the note through twice. Why does Holland sound so…so nice? And normal? And like he’s actually enjoying taking care of me? Where’s the catch? When is he going to use this as leverage?

Any minute, I’m sure. But if I’m not here after his date, then he won’t have the chance to lord this over me.

Or if he is being nice, then we don’t have to have the whole awkward conversation of how are you feeling? Good. How was your date? Good.

That might be even worse than his teasing.

I’ll walk back to Daisy’s and regroup. If I don’t have to talk to him about this day right now, I might be able to save some of my pride.

That’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to bail on him and put off the awkwardness for as long as possible. Heck, maybe I can pretend this never happened, and we can settle right back in to our coach and player relationship.

My stomach rumbles.

His chicken noodle soup smells really good. The clock on Holland’s stove says it’s only ten after six. I have plenty of time for a quick bowl before he gets home. I’ll clean up after myself and be out of here before he returns.

I ladle myself a bowl, snag a cinnamon bun for good measure, and sit down on a barstool. I eat the soup like a lion devouring its prey.

It’s a good thing there’s no one here to witness me, because I’m slurping it everywhere. It’s delicious.

I put the bowl to my mouth to lap up the remaining broth, and I freeze when the door to the apartment creaks open behind me.