Page 7

C lara gasped as the scraper slipped from her fingers and her hand slid against the wood, a splinter cutting into her palm.

Holy godfather, that hurt. And why was this her third injury in the span of an hour? Surely she should be able to follow a simple YouTube clip without a dozen injuries. They made scraping flakes off wood look so easy. It should be easy, shouldn’t it?

She went to the bathroom to grab tweezers from the drawer. It’d been years since she’d had to remove a splinter, but it shouldn’t be too hard.

She tried to grab the end of the splinter, only to cringe at the sting of pain.

Well, apparently, nothing was easy for her.

She tried again, her nose wrinkling at the pain. Good Lord, she could go through chemo, but she couldn’t deal with a splinter?

The doorbell rang.

And that was the universe telling her to give up.

She went to the front door, not bothering to look through the peephole before opening it.

Her jaw dropped. “Holden.”

The man was here…at her house…and she was a mess. Like, mess -mess. Had she even done her hair? No. Well, technically yes—she’d pulled it up into a messy bun, but she was pretty sure she hadn’t looked at her reflection once.

His gaze ran down her body, something dark and primal flashing through his eyes. And that’s when she realized what she was wearing…

The sweatshirt. His sweatshirt. The one he’d given her to wear that night at the street party all those years ago.

The one she’d told herself a million times to return, but as time passed and she’d continued to wear it, it’d started to feel too late.

Not to mention, it had become worn and faded after so many washes.

“I can explain—” she began quietly.

“Don’t. It looks good on you. Better than on me.”

And it probably appeared to be all she was wearing. She had tiny workout shorts underneath, but the sweatshirt drowned her.

She cleared her throat. “What—what are you doing here?”

He lifted a toolbox. “Here to fix that floorboard.”

“I told you that you don’t need to do that.”

“And I told you that I would.”

Man, this guy was frustrating. Cute, and made her flushed and nervous, but frustrating. “Well, you’re too late.”

His brows rose. “You fixed it?”

“I’m in the process of fixing it.”

He glanced down at her hand. “With tweezers?”

“No, smart guy. These are for my splinter. But that’s a battle I am not winning.” She held her hand up as if to prove the splinter’s existence.

He stepped forward and gently gripped her wrist. His touch made all the fine hairs on her arms stand on end and her heartbeat go fast and loud.

“Lucky for you,” he said quietly, voice deep and raspy, “I’m an expert at removing splinters.”

That didn’t sound safe. What did sound safe was about ten miles of distance between them. “You don’t need—”

“Come on.” He stepped around her and walked straight into her house like he’d been here a million times.

Almost on autopilot, she closed the door and turned. And holy mother of hell, he made her hallway look small. Although, he only remained there for a second before setting a hand on the small of her back and guiding her toward the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we’ve known each other for so many years and I’ve never seen your house,” he said, almost to himself.

Seven. They’d known each other seven years, and he hadn’t seen her house because, after a person declared their love and the recipient didn’t reciprocate, distance was best. “Well, this is it.”

He went to the sink and turned on the warm water before gently grasping her wrist again and guiding her hand under the stream.

“A little trick my mother showed me,” he said, face close to hers now. Far, far too close. “Warm water softens the skin around the splinter and can loosen it, making it easier to get out.”

She frowned. He never spoke about his mother. She’d always assumed it was too painful. His mother had passed away from cancer when he was a teenager, and he’d had to go into foster care until he turned eighteen. “Sounds like she was a wise woman.”

“Either that or she was desperate for a quick way to remove a splinter from a kid who didn’t sit still.” He smiled at her before taking her hand out of the water and slipping the tweezers from her fingers. Then, as if he’d done it a hundred times, he easily slid the splinter from her palm.

No pain. None. In fact, she hadn’t even felt it.

“I take it back,” Clara said softly. “Your mother wasn’t wise. She was magic.”

His gaze met hers, and there was something in his eyes she couldn’t name. An emotion that ran deeper than the usual ones Holden let people around him see.

But then he blinked and stepped back. “Why don’t you show me this floorboard?”

She swallowed hard. “This way.”

She led him down the hall. When they stepped into Scarlett’s bedroom, Holden crouched near her tools. Although, she used the term “tools” very loosely. There was a scraper, a piece of sandpaper, and a bottle of wood filler. Holden’s tool kit looked a bit more extensive.

He ran his finger over the large split in the floorboard before glancing at her stuff again. “You were going to use wood filler?”

“No, I’m going to use wood filler, as per YouTube telling me to.”

He gave her an “I don’t think so” smile. “This crack is too deep for wood filler. You need epoxy resin.”

“Oh. Um, okay. I’ll need to go back to the hardware store and—”

“I’ve got it in my toolbox.” And without another word, he lifted her scraper and just started working, beginning where she’d left off but making it look a heck of a lot easier.

Holden could feel Clara’s eyes on him as he worked. She’d left the room a couple of times in the last hour but always returned after a few minutes, sometimes just standing in the doorway. Other times sitting on Scarlett’s bed and chatting.

He cleared his throat and glanced up. “So, this is Scarlett’s room?”

“Yeah. She’s been asking me to get the floorboard fixed for a while. It squeaks whenever she steps on it.”

“Doesn’t sound like a huge problem.”

Clara lifted a shoulder. “I like to think she doesn’t want to wake me when she gets home late, but I’m not really sure if she cares about me that much.”

“Does she get home late a lot?”

“A lot a lot. She’s barely here. Her job is her life.”

“What does she do?”

“Investigative reporter. You’ll never see her without her phone or laptop in hand.”

He nodded, needing to physically stop himself from glancing at her for the hundredth damn time. But fuck, she looked good in his sweatshirt. There was something about her wearing his clothing that made him want to be possessive as hell.

But she wasn’t his, so that was a stupid thought.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded. “Anything.”

“Do you think it’s suspicious for someone to have a fake ID?”

He stopped, his biceps contracting before he looked up. “Yes.” A big fucking yes. “Who has a fake ID?”

“No one. It’s just a general question.”

She was lying. He’d worked out over the years that when she lied, she fidgeted. And right now, she was messing with a thread at the bottom of the sweatshirt.

“A fake ID means someone’s trying to do something without their identity being revealed,” Holden pushed.

She nodded quickly. “I thought so too.”

What was she not telling him?

“We had to use fake IDs during missions sometimes,” he said, as he started applying the epoxy. “It was always to do something so dangerous that being caught meant putting our lives and the lives of our loved ones in jeopardy.”

Clara’s brows furrowed. “I don’t like the idea of you being in danger.”

“Hazard of the job when you’re in the military.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Every damn day. I miss the brotherhood and the purpose it gave me. I miss the team environment. The military gave me a family when I had no one. But nothing lasts forever.”

“I disagree.”

He looked up. “Name one thing that can last forever.”

“ Love .”

His hand paused, that single word kicking him in the gut.

She shook her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

A faint click sounded, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it. What was that? The back door opening?

Clara heard it too, because she stopped and looked at the bedroom door.

He rose. “Does Scarlett usually enter the house from the back?”

“No. And she usually isn’t back until later.” Clara stood. “But I can—”

“No. Stay here. I’ll check.” Because who the fuck was entering her house through the back door?

Clara frowned but nodded.

He grabbed the wrench from his toolbox and quietly slipped out of the bedroom and into the hall. The faint sound of footsteps reached his ears—someone walking on kitchen tiles.

He stepped into the kitchen—only to stop at the sight of Clara’s roommate, wearing a black cap on her head. Her head was down, gaze on her phone as she typed something.

Then she looked up at him and gasped. “What the hell?”

He pushed the wrench into his back pocket. “What are you doing coming through the back door?”

“Excuse me? I live here. I can come in through whichever door I want. What are you doing holding a wrench like a machete?”

Except, what she was doing wasn’t normal.

Before he could respond, footsteps sounded behind him. Then Clara’s soft voice. “Scarlett. It’s just you.”

“Your boyfriend seemed to be about to whack me with a wrench, Clara.”

She frowned and opened her mouth, but Holden got in first.

“You never answered my question,” he said quietly, not letting her off the hook so easily. “Why’d you come through the back door?”

“That’s none of your damn business.” Scarlett’s eyes flashed between them. “I’m going to my room.”

“Holden’s just fixing the floorboard,” Clara said quickly.

“It’s fixed,” Holden said, not taking his eyes off Scarlett. “Just needs sanding.”

“I’ll do that later,” Scarlett muttered, as she skirted around them.

Why the hell was this woman so rude?

The second she was gone, Clara’s nose wrinkled. “I’m sorry. She’s moody. But nice and quiet for my acupuncture clients.”

“I’ll get my stuff.”

By the time he reached the hall, Scarlett had already dumped it all outside her door.

Thank you, Scarlett.

When he got to the front door, Clara was already there.

She stepped outside and closed the door behind them. “I really am sorry about her.”

He waited until they reached his truck and he’d put his supplies in the back before responding. “It’s overcast.”

“What?”

“She was wearing a cap when it’s overcast outside. Does she do that often?”

“Um…I don’t think so. But maybe I just haven’t seen her do it. A lot of women do. She usually doesn’t get home in the middle of the day, though.”

His gaze shifted to the house, then up and down the street before looking back at her. “It was her with the fake ID, wasn’t it?”

“No. Well…yes, but don’t tell my brothers.”

“Why not?”

“Because they overreact—exactly like you’re doing right now in your head.”

“You’re not concerned that the woman you live with has an illegal fake ID?”

“It’s not my business.”

The fuck it wasn’t. “It sure as hell is. She’s living in your house. If she’s in trouble, you’re in trouble.”

“She’s not in trouble.”

He could have laughed. “You don’t know that.”

“She’s an investigative reporter. I bet she uses it for that.”

“Doesn’t matter. She shouldn’t be putting herself in situations where she needs to use it ever.” He stepped closer, his hand twitching to touch her. “Just…be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

She was also trusting…too trusting.

Then, because he couldn’t stop himself, he reached up and cupped her cheek, his voice lowering. “I don’t want anything happening to you.”

Her gasp was soft and airy, and did she lean into his touch? “It won’t.”

It had better not. “Call if you need anything.”

She nodded, and he forced himself to lower his hand. To step back and walk away even though each step felt as unnatural as the last.