Page 16

C lara stared at the text message as she leaned on the kitchen island, the cool evening breeze running over her skin from the open window.

It was the third in the last three days from Holden.

How was she supposed to get space from him when he kept contacting her?

Did he want her to never get over him? Because that was how it felt.

She’d ignored the first text. Responded with a short “I’m fine” text yesterday. And just now, he’d texted to ask if they could talk.

About what? About how they kept doing this thing where she told him she loved him, he kissed her, then he pulled away and they were back where they’d started?

That wasn’t healthy.

At the click of a door opening, she set her phone down as Scarlett stepped into the kitchen.

She wore a pretty red blouse with black slacks. It was nothing like how she usually dressed.

Clara straightened. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” Scarlett said as she opened the fridge door.

“Got a date?”

“No. Just hanging out with some people from the running club.”

Clara frowned. “Who?”

“Malcolm. Deb. A few others.” She lifted out a plate of brownies that she’d made earlier and started placing them into a container.

Clara had been wondering why Scarlett made them. It was the first time she’d baked since moving in.

Should Clara be offended that she wasn’t invited to this little catch-up? She felt like she should be offended. And hanging out with people and eating brownies sounded a heck of a lot better than stewing at home about the Holden stuff.

Clara cleared her throat. “You know, I have no plans tonight. I could—”

“Sorry, Clara. If it was at a public venue, I’d invite you, but it’s at Deb’s house.” Scarlett popped another few brownies into the container before putting the plate back in the fridge. “I’ll see you later.”

Then she left. Just walked out. God, this was the same as high school when everyone she hung out with got invited to a party and she didn’t.

Now she really was offended.

Maybe that wasn’t rational. Scarlett wasn’t her friend, just a roommate. And sure, Clara saw everyone from the running club a couple times a week, but they weren’t really friends, either.

She shouldn’t be offended. She wasn’t. Absolutely not…well, kind of not.

What she was, was hungry. And if Scarlett wasn’t going to invite her to their little hangout, well, she could at least share her brownies.

She opened the fridge door, spotting the two remaining brownies on the plate.

They had her name on them.

And you know what? She didn’t drink often, but a vodka seltzer would go great with the brownies. Yes, those were Scarlett’s too, but right now, Clara didn’t care.

She grabbed the brownies and drink from the fridge and took them to the living room.

Maybe it was time to look for a new roommate. She really hadn’t wanted to, in case the new person was loud or messy or intrusive, but after the whole “are you investigating the hospital” conversation, she wasn’t as willing to have the other woman in her life.

She flicked through Netflix. Nothing. There was nothing that she hadn’t seen before that looked good.

Screw it. She was watching Notting Hill. She’d watched it a gazillion times and could probably recite the film scene by scene, but it was a comfort.

The second it was on, she grabbed a brownie and drink and leaned back on the couch.

How many times had she watched this movie while going through chemo? So many times she’d lost count. Usually, it helped the world make sense again. But today? Today she was distracted.

She was halfway through the movie, two thirds of her way through her vodka seltzer and one and a half brownies down, when her phone vibrated with another text.

She reached for the phone on the coffee table—only to almost tip right off the sofa.

She froze, and suddenly the room swayed.

What the heck?

She squinted at her cell, as if that could somehow keep it from moving.

What was going on? She couldn’t already be tipsy, she hadn’t even finished the whole bottle.

Maybe she’d drunk it too fast?

The doorbell rang, and she jumped. Who could that be? She wasn’t expecting anyone and Scarlett used her key.

She pushed to her feet, only to waver.

Okay, the liquor had absolutely gone straight to her head.

Slowly, she moved to the door. When she opened it, her jaw dropped.

Holden.

She felt like she should be annoyed that he was there. But all she could feel was this fuzzy warmth in her belly. It had to be the alcohol.

Her lips stretched into a wide smile. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you.” He ran his fingers through his hair.

Her gaze caught on those fingers. On the thickness of his knuckles. The veins in his hands. “You have sexy fingers.”

He frowned. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure. It’s nice that someone wants to spend the evening with me.” See, she didn’t need Deb’s little gathering.

Holden stepped inside, watching her closely now. “Are you okay?”

“Depends on what you mean by okay. I almost fell over when I reached for my phone and I’m blaming the vodka seltzer.”

He inched closer. “How many did you drink?”

“Zero-point-seven-five of a bottle…but that’s an estimation.” She turned, only to immediately kick her foot into the wall. “Sweet baby carrots, that hurt!”

Holden’s reflexes were like lightning as he grabbed her arm. “Clara, what’s going on?”

“I think I drank it too fast.” She massaged her temple. “I need to lie down.”

The room began to spin again.

Without hesitation, Holden slipped an arm around her waist and behind her legs and lifted her up against him.

She gasped and touched his chest…his very sculpted chest. “Oh…this is nice.”

It was a two-second walk to the couch, but in that time, she managed to feel many muscular ridges.

“This is probably the best chest I’ve felt in my life,” she said, speaking her thoughts out loud. “Not that I’ve felt many chests. Most men’s chests don’t appeal to me, but yours is like a fine wine.”

He set her on the couch.

Her gaze zeroed in on the TV screen. “Want to watch Notting Hill with me? I haven’t gotten to the, ‘I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her’ part. It’s my favorite. Although, it might not be your favorite, if our past conversations are anything to go by.”

Holden lowered in front of her and studied her eyes. “Are you sure you drank only half a bottle of vodka seltzer?”

“I’m as sure as a dog in a bone factory.”

Not even a twitch of his lips. Well, she thought she was funny.

Holden scanned the room, as if it held answers to all his questions. His gaze landed on the half-eaten brownie. “Where did you get that?”

She scoffed and little bits of spit flew out of her mouth, and she quickly covered it with her hand. Whoops. “Sorry.”

“Clara—where did you get the brownie?”

“The fridge.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Who made them?”

“Scarlett, for her private little gathering tonight that I didn’t get invited to. Pretty silly, if you ask me. I’m great company.”

He lifted what was left and smelled it, then he sat on the couch and studied her eyes some more.

The feeling of euphoria while having Holden’s eyes on her was actually kind of nice. Screw Scarlett’s gathering. This was better.

She reached out and smoothed the line between his brows. “You frown too much.”

“It’s what you do when you’re angry.”

She cringed. “Is it because I started Notting Hill without you?”

“Because your roommate laced those brownies.”

Her eyes widened. “With what?”

“Marijuana.”

Clara gasped. “She did not!”

“Then explain what’s going on.”

She closed her eyes and leaned back. “Can’t. Too tired.”

“I’m getting you water. And when your roommate gets home, we’re having a conversation with her.”

Holden’s footsteps sounded, and she cracked one eye open to watch his back as he opened a cupboard door and grabbed a glass. Even though the world was foggy and moving in circles, Holden was crystal clear. The strength in his back through his shirt. The way he moved with such power and purpose.

He looked good in her house. Exactly why she hadn’t wanted him in it.

“I need to ask you something,” she said softly.

Those muscles in his back visibly tightened as he filled the glass with water. “Okay.”

“Why does loving me scare you so much?”

Every muscle in Holden’s body tightened, and for a second, he didn’t move.

Slowly, he forced himself to turn, glass of water in hand. “Now’s probably not the best time for that conversation.”

She snorted. “If it were up to you, there would never be a best time.”

It was true. He was a damn coward.

He returned to the couch and handed the water to Clara. Her eyes were half hooded, her lips stretched into a small smile. “Thank you.”

Fury coursed through his veins that her roommate had laced the brownies. He didn’t fucking care if they weren’t meant for Clara, they were in her house. Why had she done it?

Clara sipped some water, then looked at the glass, her brows pulled together and, despite the drugs, she suddenly looked focused…almost sad.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly.

“This book that I read while I was going through chemotherapy.”

Holden wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Still, he asked, “What book?”

“It was called The Slight Edge . And there was one part that hit me so hard. Olson wrote that on average, only ten people cry at a funeral.” She looked up at him. “You live an entire freaking life and only ten people are sad enough that you’re gone to cry.”

His voice softened. “People will cry at your funeral, Clara.” Although, that wouldn’t be happening for a long fucking time.

“ Then ,” she continued like she hadn’t heard him, “he wrote that the number one factor that determines whether people will go from your funeral to your burial is the weather. So if it rains, half of those non-crying, pretend-to-love-me fakers won’t be there for my final moment before I’m put into the ground. ”

“You’re not going to be put into the ground.”

“One day I will.”