Page 6

HOLT

“So, how was your date?” Ridge’s voice echoes through my phone speaker while I run on the elliptical.

“Eventful.”

He snorts. “What the hell does that mean?”

By the time I finish telling him about the events of last night, he’s rolling, laughing so hard I can barely understand what he’s saying. “Well, she certainly sounds perfectly imperfect.”

“Hell, yeah, she is.”

For a few seconds, he’s quiet. “You really like this girl, don’t you?”

When I don’t respond, he already knows the answer.

“And you’ve known her for how long?”

I look at the smart watch on my wrist. “Forty-four hours, but who’s counting?”

Ridge groans. “And she’s not lying about knowing who you are? About knowing your fame? Knowing what kind of money you have?”

“I’m positive. There’s just something about her.”

He snorts, “You mean she’s fucking beautiful.”

I chuckle. “Well, there is that. But there’s more. I just don’t think she would lie to me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because I wouldn’t lie to her,” I answer honestly.

Ridge is about to say something else, but he’s cut off by the blaring alarm of the firehouse. “Gotta go.”

“Be careful, man.”

“Always, brother.”

***

She’s dressed in another killer black dress when she answers the door. Off the shoulder, formfitting, and sexy. With fuck-me heels. Her black eye was a little harder to hide today, but she still did a good job. The purple and blue is now mixed with that sickly healing-yellow color, and I can still see some of the bruise peeking from underneath her makeup. Her hungry eyes travel the full length of my body, from head to toe. When her breath catches in her chest, I know she likes what she sees.

What I wouldn’t give to wrap her in my arms and spend the whole afternoon in bed, making love and fucking until we’re so exhausted we can’t even lift our bodies from the sweat-soaked sheets.

Blinking, she shakes her head and gathers her thoughts. “I’m overdressed.” She pouts, staring at my ballcap, T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip flops.

When I texted her, telling her I would pick her up at three, she asked where we were going. I told her it was a surprise. I guess she just assumed it would be a normal, intimate dinner date, replacing the one interrupted last night. Although, I don’t know anyone—at least our age—who goes to a nice restaurant for a dinner date at three in the afternoon.

“This is why I don’t like surprises.”

I take a step toward her. “Don’t lie, Merit.”

“Mmmm?”

I take another step. My chest brushes against her. Gently grabbing her arms, I unfold them, placing them by her side. “You love surprises. It’s written all over your face.”

Her eyes glitter with emotion, and her tongue darts out, wetting her lips.

“Tell me the truth,” I urge her.

My thumbs circle around her wrists. I can’t stop touching her. I wanna touch her for the rest of my life.

Looking down, she takes a step back, removing herself from my grasp. Lifting her chin, she stares into my eyes. “Fine. I used to love surprises. But that was a long time ago. Now I’m not so sure how I feel about them anymore.”

Oh well, I’ll take what I can get at this point. Begrudgingly, I concede. “Okay, whatever you say.” I nod at the darkened hallway. “Go change into something casual.” Stepping into her condo, I shut the door with my foot. “I’ll wait.”

She’s halfway down the hall when she turns around, pointing a finger at me. “And no snooping.”

I lift my eyebrows, feigning innocence. “I would never snoop through your things.”

She smirks. “Don’t lie, Holt,” she says, giving me a dose of my own medicine. Swinging her hips left and right, she disappears into her bedroom.

I like her like that. I like Playful Merit. Confident Merit. Busting-my-balls Merit. One day, she’ll be nothing but those things.

Somehow, I think it’s my job to get her there.

Because I’m not too keen on UN Ambassador Merit.

Well, I mostly keep my word. I don’t pull open drawers or pilfer through the cabinets or anything, but I do look at the magazines and books on her coffee table and the framed photographs on the bookshelf.

No wedding photographs. No vacation photographs. No date photographs. I don’t see Edward in any of these pictures. And I know what he looks like.

Unlike Merit, the dangers of the Internet weren’t enough to keep me away. I did an online search for her. And him. And the two of them together.

I read a few articles about big cases that he won or lost. The university’s law review fawned all over him on numerous occasions, no doubt trying to schmooze a big donation from him. I saw picture after picture of the two of them from the local society magazine showing them at different functions and fundraisers. Each time, they stood next to one another, smiling. No matter how many pictures I looked at, I saw the exact same things… One, they never touched. He never had his arm around her, never held her hand, never kissed her. Two, in every picture she wore a black dress. Modest, kind of sexy—snug and short—but still somewhat respectable attire. Just like the dresses from last night and today.

Three and most importantly, in every picture, her smile was fake.

She’s given me that fake smile a couple of times, and I immediately knew that it wasn’t genuine. How did I know? Because I’ve been lucky enough to have been on the receiving end of her genuine smile a few times as well. Trust me, the difference is night and day. And now that I’m looking at these pictures on her bookshelf, I see nothing but joy all over her face. I see her real smile, her true smile. I see people, that I guess, must be her mom and dad. Maybe her grandparents. There’s a picture of her as a little girl, holding hands with a man. They’re both laughing, in a big field of thick, green grass, with the sun setting behind them. There’s a picture of her with casts on both her right wrist and her left arm, at the same time. She’s sticking her tongue out, posing for the camera. It looks like she’s in middle school. There’s a striking black and white image of her and an older man sitting on a wooden porch. She’s watching as he shucks corn. There’s even a picture of her and Kyra standing in the store. She’s grinning ear to ear, holding a dollar bill in the air.

“I thought I said no snooping.”

“It’s not snooping if it’s out in plain view.” I stand motionless, giving myself time to soak her in.

That’s better. So much better.

She’s wearing a pale pink blouse, short gray shorts, and flip flops with pink flowers on them. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks radiant and fresh, and she even wiped off her red lipstick.

Clearing my throat, I reach up, turning my ballcap around backward, giving myself a better view of her legs. It only takes me a split second to realize she likes it when I do that. Her face flushes, and I can see the pebble of her nipples from across the room.

Holy hell.

I would crawl across glass to kiss her right now.

Screw that. I would go through all my surgeries again just to be able to kiss her.

She must sense her body’s response because she nonchalantly lifts her arms, blocking her chest from my stare, and pretends to scratch her chin. “I’m ready whenever you are. I apologize for the wait.”

I ignore her apology—and my growing erection—and point to one of the pictures. “Who’s this? Your parents?”

Unable to help herself, she walks over, standing next to me. “Yeah.”

“They look happy. What’s their names?”

“Deke and Marie.”

I look at her, studying her profile. “Tell me your full name, Merit.”

She turns to me, squinting her eyes. “You’re dating me and you don’t know my name?”

I smirk, teasing her. “We’re dating?”

Her voice lowers to a frustrated whisper. “You know what I mean.”

“Of course, I know your name. But I haven’t heard you say it out loud. And I don’t know your middle name.”

She cocks her head to the side and rolls those gorgeous eyes.

I knock my shoulder against her. “Humor me.”

“My name is Merit Eliza Browning.”

Doesn’t sound quite as good as Merit Eliza Hill, does it?

That thought comes out of nowhere, hitting me like a thunderbolt and practically knocking me off my feet.

When did I become such a lunatic? I look at my watch. Forty-eight hours. I’ve only known her for forty-eight hours. I thought I would never experience this level of attraction with someone, this level of longing and desire—both physical and emotional. And here I am, after forty-eight hours, basically signing a mental marriage license.

She’s like a magnet for my body and soul, constantly pulling me to her.

“What about you? You’re not gonna tell me your middle name?” she asks.

Now I know she still hasn’t googled me. “Holt Matthews Hill.”

“Matthews? With an ‘s’.”

“Yep. My mom’s maiden name.”

She softly smiles. “That’s nice.”

Turning back to the pictures, I point to the one where she’s covered in casts. “What the hell happened here?” I say with a laugh.

“I broke my right wrist and my left ulna.”

“At the same time?”

She purses her lips, her face full of mischief. “I told you I was accident-prone.”

“How in the world did you do that?”

“I fell off the harvester.”

“Harvester? Did you live on a farm?”

“My family owns a sod farm in South Alabama. We grow Bermuda grass.”

Well, that’s a new one. “Seriously?”

“Mmm-hmm. My great-grandfather started it after World War II.”

I nod, wanting her to continue.

“After the war, there was a subdivision boom, and sod was in high demand. My great-grandfather came home and had to figure out a way to support his young family. He bought some land, borrowed money until he was eyeball deep in debt, and started planting.”

“That’s amazing.”

Her smile is soft and genuine. “Thanks.”

I can’t help it. I inch my face closer to hers.

That damn and glorious magnetic pull. Inch. Inch. Inch.

Clearing her throat, she pushes away from the bookshelf. “So, I guess I’m ready to go.”

I do my best to clear my lust-filled brain. That’s a pretty tall order, but somehow, I manage. “You’re not ready yet. You need a pair of socks.”