Page 17 of Holly's Grizzly

It doesn’t matter at all that I’m way too aware of Irving and his devastatingly handsome smile. It doesn’t matter that I’m tempted to shiver and pretend like I’m cold, so maybe he’ll come over here and give me some more of his incredible body heat. It doesn’t matter that every time he does or says something nice to me I’m torn between bursting into grateful tears, telling him to knock it the hell off, or wrapping my arms around him for what I’m sure would be the warmest, softest hug in the world.

Admitting to any of that would be certifiably pathetic, and just because I’m so damn broken that any little crumb of care feels like water in the desert doesn’t mean I need to make it his problem.

“And besides,” Irving says, drawing my attention out of that spiral, “there’s nothing we can do about it tonight, right? So we might as well just sit back, relax, and enjoy the blizzard.”

Despite myself, a small laugh slips out. “Yeah. I guess we can do that.”

6

Irving

“Alright, tell me where you’re hiding them.”

“Hiding what?”

“The weighted dice you’ve been using to absolutely wipe the floor with me.”

Holly laughs behind her hand, and the sound of it is enough to soothe away the bruise to my pride over losing the last four rounds of Yahtzee. Light, bright, not forced or polite, Holly’s laugh nestles itself right into the center of my chest.

“It’s just luck,” she says with a delicate shrug of one shoulder, not looking contrite in the slightest.

“Yeah, sure,” I say as I stand and pick up the empty bowl of popcorn we’ve been sharing and the two mugs we used for tea and carry them back to the kitchen.

“A degree in mathematics helps, too,” Holly calls after me. “Statistics and probability and all that.”

“Fine,” I call back. “Then next time we’ll play Jenga, and you’ll be cooked.”

She laughs again, and that same satisfied ache kicks up behind my sternum.

Holly has finally stopped thanking me for every little bit of kindness, though from what she told me about her piece ofshit ex, the compulsion makes more sense now. So does her hesitance to ask for help, and her insistence to fend for herself.

Understandable, but still not something I’m going to compromise on. As long as Holly’s here, she’s my guest, and she’s going to have to get used to letting someone else carry a bit of the burden she’s no doubt gotten used to dealing with all on her own.

When I return to the living room, she’s curled up on the couch, eyes shut as she rests her head on a throw pillow, though they flick back open when she hears me approach.

And godsdamn, those eyes are beautiful enough to get lost in.

The piercingly bright blue of the sky over the mountain in springtime, they crinkle at the corners when she smiles up at me.

I almost lose it again, the small scrap of restraint holding back my grizzly’s rumble of pleasure, the soul-deep instinct that’s so damn satisfied to see her happy and safe.

A content, relaxed Holly is an entirely different person than the woman I carried through the woods, or the woman who was so adamant about trekking back outside instead of accepting a place to stay. It’s enough to make me want to curl up on the couch right next to her, or, better yet, carry her upstairs and tuck her into the soft flannel sheets on my bed.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “I’m like ninety-five percent certain I’m about to conk out and end the night early.”

“It’s alright. You’ve had a long day.” Despite my better judgment, I sink down onto the opposite end of the couch. Not close enough for the two of us to be touching, but the proximity makes my fingertips ache. I fold my hands together in my lap and ignore the sensation. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to take the bed?”

With a knowing smile, Holly shakes her head and burrows a little deeper under the blanket she’s got draped over her.

“I’m good here.”

“You’d be better in an actual bed,” I grumble, but she doesn’t budge. “And I really don’t mind sleeping down—”

“Irving,” she says, and the sound of my name on her lips is enough to startle me into silence. “You’re chronically generous, and I’m chronically allergic to accepting anyone’s help. I don’t think either of us are going to fundamentally change tonight, so let’s just get some sleep.”

“I think you’re overestimating my generosity.”

She arches a sleepy brow. “I don’t think I am. And I’m also way too cozy here to let you win this one.”

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