Page 20 of Win You Over

“Holden, dear,” Mom says. “You make yourself at home while you’re here, okay?

Help yourself to anything and if there’s something you need that you can’t find, you let Curtis or I know.

” Holden lifts his sunglasses, perching them on the top of his head, then nods and smiles at Mom, the two of them sharing an unspoken moment before Mom stretches out on the sofa and returns to her book.

Dad, who was doing a crossword earlier, has now emptied a puzzle onto the large wooden table where he’s sitting.

Pushing up from the sofa that was intent on swallowing me, I lead Holden over to the outdoor bar and retrieve two cold beers. I hand him one and then climb down the few stairs to the lawn and over to the pool. Holden follows next to me, perching on the edge of a sun lounger.

Putting down my beer, I make a running start and leap into the pool, tucking my legs up to create a cannonball that hits the surface with force.

“You coming in?” I ask once I’ve emerged from the depths of the pool. “Water’s beautiful.”

He shakes his head and sips his beer.

Swimming over to the edge of the pool closest to him, I fold my arms on the concrete and kick my legs out behind me, treading water.

“It’s hotter than Satan’s bedroom out here,” I remark. “Trust me, you’re going to want to come in.”

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, then looks down at his lap where he’s picking at the label on his beer bottle.

“ Kitty Cat,” I singsong, “Please come in here with me.” I push back from the wall and open my arms wide, making ripples in the water. “It’s so lonely on my own. You don’t want your boyfriend to be lonely, do you?”

Holden huffs, looking over his shoulder and then back towards the pool.

“You’re ridiculous,” he remarks, his voice soft and sweet like cotton candy, with a delicious lilt to his English accent.

“Don’t pretend you don’t love that about me.”

While I can’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses, I’m pretty sure he rolls them. Boy’s going to get them stuck like that with how often he does it.

“Debatable,” he retorts. “If I’m a cat, then it’s obvious I don’t like water.” Holden tips his head sideways as he stands, puts his beer on the table, and walks closer to the edge of the infinity pool.

“That’s not entirely true. The Turkish Angora is a breed of cat that is very fond of swimming. In the wild, big cats like jaguars and tigers are also known for their affinity for water.”

Holden sits down, his legs dangling in the water.

“I’m not even going to ask how you know all of that,” he says.

“I am very intelligent,” I reply. “Now stop stalling and get in the water, Booker.”

Holden leans back on his hands, tipping his face towards the sun. I watch as a bead of sweat trails down his neck and to the hemline of his black tee. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and I am once again unable to tear my eyes away.

When he straightens, he takes off his sunglasses then leans forward and from his seated position, dives headfirst into the pool.

He swims from one end to the other and then back again. Like a fish, he moves through the water with the smooth, fluid grace of a creature born to swim. When he pops up to the surface, a few feet in front of me, he’s smiling.

We spend over an hour swimming laps and hanging over the edge of the infinity pool, watching the still, calm sea below us.

“Is it a private beach?” Holden asks. The beach sits in a U-shape, surrounded by rocks on either side. A narrow path winds from the left side of our garden, through thick vegetation, before widening as it reaches the sandy shore.

“Yeah. That part,” I point to the end of the path, then drag my finger upwards. “That’s ours. Over the rocks, that’s the neighbours. And further along, there’s a larger beach that belongs to one of the holiday resorts.”

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You own your own beach.” He says it quietly, and not to me.

I’ve never been ashamed of my wealth, or my family’s wealth.

The truth is, my father bought this place out of love – for my mother, for this island, for the peace he finds sitting on the patio doing a crossword – it was never about status or ownership.

But I can see it from other people’s perspective too.

It’s why I never date, because it’s so often the first thing people see when they look at me.

And I’m not this. I’m not the money. I won’t deny I love everything it affords me, but I have never let it define me. At least, I don’t think I have.

“Can we go?” Holden asks, his voice breaking through the spiral I was on my way down.

“Any time you want,” I reply.

“Lunch is here,” Mom calls, and I turn to see her walking down the garden, a tray in her hands.

Holden and I jump out and meet her at the loungers, where she places the tray on the table.

It’s laden with seafood skewers, garlic prawns and grilled calamari, as well as a Sardinian salad of fregola pasta, herbs and roasted lemons.

She throws a bottle of sun cream at me, which I catch with one hand.

“Top up. You don’t want to look like a tomato in the wedding photos.

You too, Holden. Your skin is very fair.

The Italian sun will burn you alive.” Her accent is stronger when she’s here.

I’ve noticed it before. It’s like when she’s away from our town and my father’s business, she relaxes into the person she really is.

Without the stress that the Langford name brings, she can be this – wife, mother, farm girl with a penchant for big cats.

“Yes, Mom.”

She leaves us and I turn to Holden, the sun cream uncapped.

“Take off your shirt, and I’ll do your back,” I offer, already pouring a generous glob of cream into my hand.

“I’m fine,” he replies, lying back on the lounger still in his wet t-shirt, the drenched fabric crinkling where it sticks to his chest and stomach. He places a towel over his legs and leans back, his face tipped towards the sun.

“You can burn through your tee, so you really should put some cream on,” I suggest. My mother will not forgive me if I let Holden burn.

He shakes his head adamantly, his body pressed to the back of the sun lounger.

Not for the first time, I wonder why he won’t take his tee off – he never does when he fights and he is pretty resolute in his decision not to remove it now. Not wanting to pressure him, I drop the subject.

We eat in silence, though it’s not an unsettling silence.

I’ve quickly learned that quiet is a comfortable place for Holden.

When we’re done eating, we lie on our separate loungers; me telling Holden about the island until the heat becomes too much, and we both dive back into the pool.

We spend the rest of the day doing that, climbing out, drying, drinking beer, and then throwing ourselves back into the cool water.

Not once does Holden remove his t-shirt.

After a light dinner of white fish and more salads, my eyes can barely stay open and Holden’s eyes are drifting shut where he’s lying with his e-reader in his hand, on the sofa on the patio. Mom and Dad have already retired to their room on the opposite side of the villa.

“Booker, bed,” I say, standing and nudging his arm. He groans, like the mere thought of moving his body and traipsing up the stairs is all too much. I switch off the lights and lock the door, then make my way to our room, Holden right beside me.

“I usually sleep naked,” I quip, raising an eyebrow at him. He rustles in my suitcase, pulling out a pair of cotton boxers and throws them at me. “Fine,” I say, in jest. I obviously wasn’t going to sleep naked next to Holden.

He disappears into the ensuite, and I slide out of my swim shorts, pull on the boxers and then slip beneath the sheets on my side of the bed.

He emerges from the en suite ten minutes later wearing the cutest pair of plaid pyjamas.

It’s like sleepy Holden is a seventy-year-old man.

The only thing missing is a pair of slippers. It’s fucking adorable.

His messy brown hair, paired with the thick black-rimmed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, though? Holy fucking shit, they do something to me. Holden Booker could be the poster boy for hot nerds everywhere, and that, it seems, is my new weakness.