Page 111 of In Your Dreams, Holden Rhodes

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We drove up furtherinto the mountains before he pulled into a driveway. A house sat among the trees, but it was too dark to make out any distinguishing features, and he hadn’t left any lights on.

Once we got out of the truck and jogged through the rain to the front door, I took in the modern log cabin architecture and large windows. He pushed the door open without unlocking it.

“You don’t lock your door either,” I pointed out.

His expression was wry as he followed me inside and flicked a light on.

“Oh.” My mouth dropped open and my gaze roamed the foyer. “Holden. This is quite nice.”

Wood floors stretched the length of the foyer, into the open concept living room with vault wood ceilings. Giant windows reached from floor to ceiling. He flipped another switch and the living room illuminated with warm light. The furniture was mid-century modern with some antique pieces from the early nineteen hundreds and modern accents. The seating area revolved around the TV, but a brick fireplace stole my attention. Built-in bookshelves towered along one wall, filled with books, picture frames, and a few decor knick-knacks.

A dark red rug with a Persian-style pattern spread over the living room floor, and a similar runner ran up the hall to what I assumed was the kitchen. Stairs led to bedrooms, I assumed. Beside us, a table held a couple books, a brown glass bowl, and a short lamp that had turned on when Holden had hit the switch beside the door.

Holden’s home was like him—warm, inviting, and incredibly cozy. Rich with character, glowing with love and affection.

And the paintings. From where I stood in the foyer, I spotted three. One in the foyer spanned most of the wall, splashes of greens and blues and browns, so similar in style to a famous local artist. Another down the hall to the kitchen, a modern piece with jarring shapes and colors that somehow still worked in the space because it matched the runner rug’s color palette. Another painting hung in the living room.

I gasped and pointed at it. “Holden, that’s the other painting, like the one in the gallery.”

On the canvas, a couple embraced, naked with faces buried in each other’s necks.

He watched me for a moment before he nodded. “That’s it.”

The intimacy of the piece captivated me, holding my gaze. He had this in his living room. He stared at it every day. I thought about him with his head buried between my legs and my core thrummed.

I sighed. “Your home is lovely. It’s like an old library.”

He dropped his keys, phone, and wallet into the bowl. “I’m in construction,” he said, as if that explained how his home had been so beautifully, carefully decorated. “Come on.”

He began up the stairs with my bag and I followed without a word, pausing to study the photos on the way up. Photos with his brothers. A teenage Holden with the same brooding expression, too young for stubble but with that thick, dark hair I loved to run my fingers through. A smile pulled at my mouth. Even as a teenager, he was a grouch. Holden’s gaze pinned me from the photo, simmering and brooding, and I swallowed.

He cleared his throat right behind me. He glanced to the photo I had been studying of him and his family before he tilted his chin up the stairs. “I put your stuff upstairs and I, uh,” his gaze cut to mine, “ran you a bath.”

I blinked at him. “I’m sorry. You what?”

He frowned deeper and his hand came to my elbow. “You’re shaking.”

My chest shook with shivers. My t-shirt, jeans, and socks were soaked. My hair stuck to the back of my neck.

He led me upstairs to the bathroom and something about it was familiar and comfortable. Like I lived there. Like we’d done this a hundred times. Something warm and longing shimmered through me.

I poked my head into the bathroom. Of course, it was beautiful as well. The standalone, modern tub shaped like a giant ceramic basin sat beneath a big window. No curtains or blinds or frosted glass, but his house was in the middle of the mountains so it was just the bears and raccoons peeping in. Dark amber tile decorated the floor. A bold choice.

Holden paused at the door, crossing his arms. The worry from earlier still lingered in his eyes. “I’ll be downstairs. Or you can go to bed if you’re tired.” He stepped into my space and lifted my hoodie over my head, and then my t-shirt. His eyes dropped to my bare chest and my nipples prickled. His mouth hitched and he leaned down to press a kiss against my jaw, hands sliding my pajamas down.

I stepped out of them when they hit the floor and my body thrummed with anticipation. He straightened up to look at me and I bit my lip.

“Not now,” he murmured, kissing me again. “Get in the bath. You’re freezing.”

Bubbles floated on the surface of the bath and I could smell cucumber. A bottle of body wash sat on the counter. My mouth tugged into a smile. This was probably all he had on hand.

Holden had noticed I was cold and ran me a bath. My throat closed up and tears stung my eyes.

“Honey,” his voice was soft like velvet. “What’s the matter?”

I couldn’t tell him no one had ever taken care of me like him. No one had driven three hours in the middle of the night or drawn me a bath or bought me a stupid raincoat I loved.

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