Page 41 of The Inn Dilemma

“You know what’s sad? When I was a little girl, I wished they’d just get a divorce. Neither of them were open to counseling. They basically hated each other. One of the nights you and Chris camped outside because they were fighting, I heard Mom scream that she wished they never got married.” I shake my head. “It made me believe that she regretted ever having me or Chris.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Holt jumps in. “I thinkthat’s one of the very few things your mom doesn’t regret when it comes to your dad. Actually, I know that.”

“How?”

“I overheard her talking to Aunt Birdie one of the times she came to visit. She’d vent to her all the time about your dad. But one time she said, ‘Christian and Nova are the only two things that make this miserable marriage worth it.’”

“No, she didn’t.” I narrow my eyes, showing all my disbelief on my face.

Holt nods confidently. “Yes, she did. Despite her imperfections and the ways she messed up, she loves you two. And your dad does, too. Both of them are just terrible at showing it.”

A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “Thankfully, I have you to show me genuine care and concern.” I look around once more at all the effort he put into tonight. “Seriously, Holt. This means everything to me.” Without thinking about it, I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around his neck. I’m awkwardly perched halfway between his leg and the chair, but not for long. Holt pulls me fully on his lap and hugs me back so tightly that a few of the shattered pieces of my heart start to stitch back together. The emotional pain I constantly feel when it comes to my parents relents just a fraction.

Holt rests his forehead against mine once I pull back.

“You will always have me, SuperNova. I promise you that.”

Chapter Fourteen

Nova

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Crack! Thud.

The steady rhythm wakes me from my mid-afternoon nap. I sit up on my couch, stretch my arms over my head, and glance at the clock. Three o’clock in the afternoon. The buffalo plaid blanket slides off me as I stand and make my way to the window. I pull back the curtains and am very pleasantly surprised by what I find.

Holt Graves is chopping wood.

His flannel shirt is open in the front, showcasing the fit of the black T-shirt underneath that molds to his abs and broad chest. I swallow the lump in my throat, head over to the kitchen, and pull my water pitcher out of the refrigerator and fill up a glass. As if I’m being controlled by a puppet master, I slide on my boots and head outside. I watch in awe as Holt brings the axe down and splits each log with ease. His sleeves are rolled up and his hat is on backward. That surprise tattoo peeks at me from his forearm. It’s like a scene straight out of a contemporary mountain man romance book. Except I’m not a stranded businesswoman in need of lodging; I’m a disaster of a girltrying to piece her life together after making a huge mistake.

He’s so focused he doesn’t notice me for several more minutes. And in those minutes, I’m pretty sure my mouth turns into the Sahara Desert. Holt has always been good looking, but knowing a man is nice to look at and becoming attracted to him are two completely different things. Ever since coming home from Paris, I can’t help but acknowledge the pull I have toward him after each of our interactions.

After successfully splitting the last round, Holt looks up and finally sees me. He swipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm and gives me a smile that turns my legs to jelly. I awkwardly lift the glass in greeting before walking it over to him.

He thanks me as he takes it and swallows down several large gulps. I can’t tell if it’s sweat or drips of water that slide down his neck onto his chest, but either way, it has me mentally fanning myself.

“It’s like you read my mind,” he says, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth. His jaw is covered with day-old stubble, enhancing the hot mountain man vibe he’s putting off.

Boy, am I glad he can’t read my mind right now.

“Well, when I heard you chopping wood, I assumed you’d get thirsty.” I motion to his body, covered in a thick sheen of sweat. “Since you looked like you sweated out half your body weight.”

He gives me a playful smile. “It seems like you’ve paid quite a good deal of attention. How long were you watching me?”

I pretend like the burning on my cheeks is from the bright autumn sun and cross my arms over my chest. “You can blame yourself for looking so good out here in plaid, wearing that eyepatch and backward hat. It doesn’t hurt that you’re built like a ripped lumberjack. Lumberjacks are coming back to the romance world, you know.”

Holt’s eye flashes. “Oh yeah? What about your world?”

My mouth drops open, and I take several steps backward. This is flirting. Am I okay flirting with my brother’s best friend? Am I okay that Holt is dishing out even more than I am?

With a boldness I didn’t expect to have, I say, “Well, my world has been taken by storm by a war hero turned lumberjack, so…” I trail off, turning my face away to hide the mortification washing over me at my brazenness.

I hear the thunk of the axe sinking into his splitting log, then the crunch of leaves beneath Holt’s boots as he comes closer.

He makes a deep humming sound in the back of his throat that has my belly flipping. Brushing a strand of hair off my shoulder, he says, “I told you I’m no war hero.”

The air crackles with unshared words, unexplored desires. Finally, I work up the courage to face him and drop my arms to my sides. “You may not claim the title, but it doesn’t make it any less true.”

He’s silent for a long moment, staring at me as if he’s weighing my words. “How do you do that?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

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