Page 66 of Holly Ever After

“You're good with her,” I say without turning around, focusing on setting the oven timer.

Sean taps his knuckles against the kitchen counter, a thoughtful look on his face. Running a hand through his still-wet hair, he finally says, “Yeah, thanks.”

“You're worried about her?” I can't help but ask, sensing there's more to his emotions than he's letting on.

His gaze drops away. “I'm worried about what being in a different environment will do to her. She's not used to change.”

Just as I'm about to reply, my phone pings from where it sits on the counter. I pick it up and see a picture from my mom. In the photo, Brenda is sitting in a chair by the Christmas tree, a blanket draped over her lap, and a mischievous smile on her face as she holds one of my books.

I bite back a smile, turning my phone screen toward Sean. “She seems pretty comfortable to me.”

He glances at the screen and then throws his head back, groaning. “Jesus Christ, is that one of your books? The one with the—”

“Don't even say it,” I interject, cutting him off.

“Too late. The image is burned into my mind. My mother is reading your...your...”

“Sexy literature?” I supply helpfully, unable to keep a straight face.

“Jesus Christ,” he repeats, making a beeline for the front door.

“What the hell are you doing?” I call after him, genuinely puzzled.

He returns a minute later, lugging his heavy toolbox into the house. “Fixing something. Anything is better than thinking about you corrupting my mother with your…sexy literature.”

The idea is so absurd and his reaction so over-the-top that I burst into laughter. “Oh my God, you're serious. You'd rather play handyman than consider the fact that our moms are adults who can read whatever they want?”

“Damn straight,” he says, heading for the guest bedroom. I haven’t really touched it since I moved in, but I’m sure it will be perfectly functional by the time Sean takes his frustration out on it.

The sound of a drill starts up from the other room, drowning out my continuing laughter. After a moment, his voice echoes from the spare room, “Hey, where do you keep your nails?”

“If I had any, I would keep them in the bathroom, like any other woman,” I shout back, still laughing.

“That's not what I—never mind!” he yells, followed by the sound of what seems like a whole shelf crashing down.

“Everything okay in there?”

“Perfectly fine,” he yells back, but his voice cracks, making me laugh even harder.

Twenty-Six

Cabin fever is a thing. A very real, very annoying thing. I didn't think it was possible to get tired of doing nothing, but as the daylight starts to wane on yet another day, I realize I need to find something else to do other than Sean. I’ve tried distracting myself with writing, but his presence in this cottage has proved too inspiring. Apart from some finishing touches, I’ve all but finished the book.

We've already gone through a series of board games, indoor mini-golf with some improvised putters, and some terribly cooked meals courtesy of Sean, who claims he “doesn't do kitchens.” But he wanted to practice and seeing him so domesticated in my kitchen is delicious.

There’s a battle going on inside me. I’m too stubborn to let go of all the hard feelings we’ve built up over the years. Yes, most of it was trivial, but it’s how we are. How do we change it now?

Yet, having him here has shown me just how lonely I am. Is loneliness all this is? Am I craving touch so much I’m willing to find it in Sean? The pounding under my ribcage tells me it’s something completely different. It’s something scary. It’s something my body is already growing accustomed to. It’s something I not only like, but love. I love having his hands on me. I love the relief that washes over my body when he touches me. And it’s confusing because I went into this knowing what it was. Sex. Simple. I can deal with that. It has clear lines. But those lines are beginning to blur. I’m not sure where I stand any more. Especially when he fucks me like a man starved but touches me like I’ll break.

It's in those simple touches, I’m losing myself.

But none of it matters because he’s also Mark’s best friend. My brother can never find out about this because it would gut him, and I never want to get in the way of their friendship. The only person who knows and loves my brother as much as I do is Sean. There’s no choice to make, and I wouldn’t ask him to.

Blowing out a long breath, I head to the storage closet for some more scented candles and almost trip over a box of old photos. I pull it out, sit cross-legged on the floor, and start flipping through the pictures.

“Whatcha got there?” Sean asks, appearing in the doorway. A trail of sweat creeps over his bare chest, and I remind myself breathing is necessary if I plan on getting out of this storm alive.

Those hands might have been carved from years of hard work, but his body is the man’s temple. He works on keeping it in the shape it’s in. I’m just the lucky benefactor of getting to watch him workout in my living room.

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