Page 9 of Holly Ever After

“Sure, let's call it that.”

With a huff, she stands before tippy-toeing awkwardly. She's trying to reach another paint brush on the top shelf, and it's not going well. Christ, she's like a kitten trying to reach a high branch. Didn't she grow at all since we were kids? I could swear she stopped at twelve and hasn't gotten an inch over five-foot-four.

Her jet-black hair is swept up in a messy bun, a few rebellious strands framing her face. That face—those light blue eyes that could pierce through steel, lips I've seen her bite when she's concentrating—they're features I've had to remind myself more than once not to stare at too long. And yet, I find myself looking anyway. My eyes trace down her figure to where her jeans hug her ass, and it's like my hands have a mind of their own, itching to—

Fuck.

Mark would drive my head through a wall if he knew the thoughts I’m having about his little sister.

“Here, I can get it,” I say, stepping in behind her. She tenses as I get closer, a stiffness creeping into her shoulders.

Ignoring her reaction—or maybe because of it—I press my front to her back, my height advantage obvious. She smells like paint fumes and cinnamon, a weird combination that I find oddly intoxicating.

Careful not to get paint on my shirt, I reach up effortlessly and grab the paint brush. “This what you were after?”

She lets out a shaky breath as she takes it from me. “Yes, thank you.”

“Ah, she has manners. Who knew?” I rear back, quick on my feet as she makes a genuine attempt to bite me. “So vicious.”

She groans, and I grin. She may drive me up the wall, but damn if it isn't a fun ride getting there.

We spend the next hour in silence, but I can't help noticing that her phone buzzes every few minutes. It's sitting on a nearby table, and each time it vibrates, she casts a side-eye glance at it like it's an object of dread. She never answers.

“You sure you don't want to get that?”

“It's nothing,” she says, but there's a crack in her voice that tells me it's anything but nothing.

I put my tools down and wipe my hands on a rag, my mind racing with questions I have no right to ask. “Holl, everything okay?”

She's visibly annoyed, her brows knitting together in that way they do when she's frustrated. “I don't remember inviting you into my personal life.”

And there it is. A brick wall. Not that I blame her, it's really none of my business. I've never been great with emotional stuff, especially not with women. Mark has always been the sensitive one, not me. My forte is physical labor and tangible results—emotions are just too messy.

She exhales, almost like she's trying to release whatever's bothering her. “Sorry. I'm just stressed, that's all.”

“Stressed is starting to sound like your middle name.”

“Yeah, well, Holly 'Stressed' Winters has a ring to it, don't you think?” She offers a smile, but it's too tight to be real.

I decide to let it go. If she wants to talk about whatever's bothering her, she will. Until then, I've got work to do.

Picking up my tools again, I turn back to my work, but my mind keeps wandering back to her. If anyone is going to stress her out, it’s me, no one else.

But what can I do? Even if I tried to help, she wouldn’t let me.

After a while, her intense supervision shifts from me and her bookshelf to her laptop screen. She's staring at it like it holds the secrets of the universe, but her fingers are hovering above the keys, frozen in place.

“Having a problem writing your sex books?”

“Shut up, Sean,” she snaps without looking away from the screen. Her cheeks are flushed, but it's hard to tell if it's from irritation or embarrassment. With Holly, it could be either—or both.

“If you need inspiration, you know where to find me.” I wink at her even though she's not looking.

She makes a gagging sound. “Gross.”

“I'm just offering my services. Very generous of me, don't you think?”

“Your ego is the only thing generous about you.”

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