Page 21 of Win You Over

Holden

I did not sleep well. Despite being exhausted from both jet lag and all the sun and swimming, I could not sleep. First, the nightmares creeped in, but I woke up before they could steal my breath or leave me panicked. And then, I was too aware of the scantily clad man in the bed with me.

I hadn’t considered sleeping arrangements when we first arrived.

I guess I presumed we’d have separate rooms, but then Charlene had looked so flustered about the mixup and I didn’t want her stressing when she’d been so welcoming to me.

Without giving it much thought, I agreed, saying it was fine.

And it is, though, I’ve only shared a bed with Theo before, and that was totally different.

I’ve never once wondered what it would be like if I rolled over and wrapped my body around Theo.

That thought kept me company in the early hours of the morning.

Then, when I finally got my mind to settle, Remington shifted, his arm coming to land over my side, where I lay with my back to him.

All I could think then was how would it feel to edge myself backwards, picturing the way his arm might tighten around me.

Wondering if his body would be soft and warm from sleep, and if he woke up to find us in the position, would he care? Would he want that?

When the first light of dawn peeks through the window, I sit up in bed, hit with this sudden thought of my dad.

I don’t know what causes it, but it makes my heart race and I look to the left, to where the side table is and where I would usually keep my knife in its black box.

But of course, it’s not there. It’s back at Remington’s place on the other side of the world.

It’s the first time since we left the US over twenty-four hours ago that I’ve thought about Dad, and that both surprises and saddens me.

Very few days have passed since he died that I haven’t thought about him.

When I was younger, the main thought was why?

Why did Dad leave us? The childish, irrational part of my mind blamed myself.

Maybe I wasn’t a good enough son. Maybe if I had loved him harder, he would have stayed.

The grown up part of me understands he had an illness and it was never about me.

My mouth is dry, thanks to the air conditioning in the villa, so I climb out of bed and make my way out of the room, closing the door softly behind me and pad downstairs to the kitchen.

You’re safe here. I remind myself, sucking in a breath before walking into the kitchen. Holden’s dad is at the table, a laptop open in front of him.

“Morning,” Curtis greets me and gestures to the laptop. “Charlene will have my balls if she finds me doing work while on holiday. Thankfully, she likes to sleep in when we’re here.”

He points to a fancy-looking coffee machine.

“Coffee is fresh, if you want some.”

Wordlessly, I walk towards the machine, find a mug and fill it, the rich, nutty aroma of black coffee filling the air. Looking at the door, I contemplate finding somewhere else to sit, maybe outside or in one of the other sitting rooms, but Curtis decides for me, kicking the chair out opposite him.

“Sit,” he says. He stands up, opens a cupboard and returns moments later with a box of cookies. “I’m not meant to eat these. Too much sugar for this old man.” He winks like he’s letting me in on his secret. “But rules were made to be broken, weren’t they?”

My pulse quickens, and my throat constricts, but I take the seat, nodding in reply. Holding the mug in two hands like a shield, I lift it to my lips, blowing on it before taking a sip.

Curtis bites into a cookie, the crumbs landing on the white t-shirt he’s wearing, paired with a pair of shorts covered in tiny lions.

It must be amazing to be loved by someone so much that they worry about what you eat, and dress you in their favourite animal prints.

There is no doubt in my mind that Charlene picks out his clothing.

“I had an assistant when I first started working in my father’s company,” Curtis starts talking and I sit back in my seat, crossing my legs under the table.

“I met her on a train, of all places. She was crying, dressed immaculately in a pinstriped suit.” He takes a bite of cookie, swallows, and then continues.

“I sat next to her, offered her a tissue and when I asked what was wrong, she shook her head and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. As the train passed from station to station, I got her life story. After a traumatic childhood in which she stopped speaking, Lori had achieved her dream of graduating from business school, but she found, as she so often had in her past, that people wouldn’t give her a chance.

Not when she couldn’t talk or interact with others the way it was expected of her.

That day, she had been turned away from yet another interview.

She told me it was like her body was betraying her. ”

His words resonate with me. I know what that betrayal from my own body and mind feels like. I sip on my coffee and listen to the warm timbre of Curtis’s voice as he tells me the rest of the story.

“I read over her CV, right there on the train, and then hired her on the spot. My father was furious, but she was the best assistant I ever had. She kept me in line, bossed me around like she ran the place,” he chuckles fondly.

“In truth, she probably did! She approached work and life with a gusto that was missing from so many at the company, and her energy was inexhaustible. It was no wonder her and Charlene bonded so well.”

When Curtis takes a break in his story, he stands from the table again, walks over to the counter nearest the fridge and returns with a pen and a green block of sticky notes. He pushes them in front of me.

“Remington said we had to put them in every room of the house.”

My heart warms, tripping over itself at the gesture. Remington Langford is dangerous for my health.

What happened with your assistant? I write, my hands rushing over the paper.

He finishes his cookie, giving me a sly grin when he reaches into the tin and takes out another and I return it with a grin of my own – a mutual understanding that I’ll hold tight to his secret.

“She stayed with me for twenty years, before her husband got a job in another state that was too good to pass up. She was the most efficient, warm-hearted, organised person I’ve ever worked with.”

I can talk. I write, having this desire to explain even though he hasn’t asked. There is something about this whole family – their compassion and understanding – and that makes me want to open up to them.

When I’m comfortable with someone and depending on the environment. Often, I can picture the words I want to say, but there’s this barrier stopping me.

“Do you feel anxious when you can’t talk, or do you feel anxious and then you can’t talk?”

I mull over his words, understanding the difference in both these scenarios.

Both. I write.

“Hmm,” he muses, before taking another sip of his coffee. He doesn’t ask anything more, instead changes the conversation to a topic that has my cheeks flaring hotter than the coffee in my mug.

“Charlene doesn’t buy this relationship between you and Rem,” he admits. Curtis pushes the tin of cookies towards me and I take one, the sugar sweet on my tongue when I bite into it.

“She knows our boy too well. But, I disagree – which doesn’t happen often and I would never voice out loud. I think whether or not it’s real, our boy is smitten.”

I work the back of my throat, pushing through the cotton wool in my mouth while shaking my head, disagreeing with his assessment of how Remington feels about me.

Curtis taps the side of his nose, a sign of yet another secret held between the two of us.

“Morning,” a voice says from behind us and I spin around to find a still partially naked Remington, leaning against the door frame. “Why are the two of you awake so early?”

“Asks the man who is also awake so early,” Curtis remarks.

Remington walks into the kitchen, and in a move that feels all too familiar for something he’s only done once before, he presses his lips to my cheek.

“Hi, pretty boy,” he says. The nickname sits differently now that I know him. I hated it when he aimed it my way in the ring. Now? Now I want to ask him to say it again.

“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice a quiet whisper that caresses my skin, much like his kiss did.

Our eyes meet, his a sapphire blue to rival the sea outside, and I hum in response, not giving a definitive answer.

“Your sister and Rupert will be here in a couple of hours,” Curtis says, interrupting our stare-off. “Fancy putting on some clothing before then? Or will you be gracing us with all this,” I turn to see him wave a hand at his son, “for the rest of the day.”

Remington chuckles, and much like he does when he shows off for the crowd before a fight, he runs a hand down his too perfect chest.

“Jealous, old man?” he jokes, and Curtis laughs, throwing a half-eaten cookie at his son. They bicker back and forth and I settle into my seat, my now cool coffee at my lips as I marvel at how unexpected this family is.

I decrease the speed on the treadmill, my t-shirt clinging to my sweat drenched skin. I did not plan on working out while here, so was wholly unprepared clothing wise.

“Who exercises on holiday?” I ask, each word punctuated with a sharp inhale as I work to catch my breath.

Next to me, Remington, who surprise, surprise, is shirtless, sweat glistening on his torso, slows his pace.

“People who plan to spend two weeks eating gelato and wedding cake.”

I groan, but he has a point.

Decreasing the speed further, I go into a warm down, before stopping the treadmill altogether and stepping off.

Remington does the same, throwing a towel my way, which I dab against my forehead.