Page 24 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
I bat away the memory with a few deep breaths, focusing instead on setting out the pizza boxes where the trays of fajitas used to be. Now is no time to be fantasizing about false realities. Not when Holt’s own words are still echoing in my head.
“It’s in the past. Let’s move on.”
I’ve barely opened the first pizza box when Tate appears with an empty plate, grabbing two slices and smashing them together like a sandwich.
Being that I didn’t so much as taste a fajita earlier, I nab an extra-large slice for myself, draping it over a plate before escaping to the living room, which has quickly emptied, thanks to the alluring scent of pepperoni wafting in from the kitchen.
I settle into one of the leather loveseats, blotting the grease off my slice with a napkin before bringing it to my lips. The cheese stretches off the crust, like it should on a true East Coast slice, and for a moment, I feel at ease again. That is, until Holt takes the seat next to mine.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks, arching a brow.
“It is now. By you.” There’s an edge of sass to my voice that I wasn’t quite planning on, but Holt doesn’t seem the slightest bit bothered by it.
“Great. Because I thought you might need something to wash that down with.”
I glance down to see a brown paper grocery bag in his grip. I didn’t notice it when he arrived, what with the leaning tower of pizzas he was carrying, but now he has my full attention. The bag crinkles as he reaches in and pulls out a slender glass bottle filled with a light pink liquid. Rosé.
“It’s your favorite, right?” he asks, presenting me with the bottle.
I accept it, careful to make sure our fingers only brush briefly on the handoff. But even that split second is enough for the electricity to leap from his fingertips to mine. “How did you know?”
“I may have asked your assistant,” he says, a devious smile threatening the corner of his lips. “I actually thought about bringing it in a flask, for old time’s sake.”
A quiet chuckle escapes me at the memory of us sharing sips of whiskey in his room at the frat house. Now I feel a little sheepish about the fact I wasn’t brave enough to extend the invitation for tonight’s gathering to him personally. I had my assistant, Aspen, call him instead.
“I don’t need anything to help me drink this stuff any faster than I already do,” I say, grinning. “I’ll grab us some glasses.”
Before I can get up, Holt shakes his head, reaching back into the bag and pulling out an insulated cup that looks like a cross between a stemless wineglass and a travel coffee mug. “I got you this too. Figured you might need it with all the stress of your new job. You could bring it to the office. Maybe with coffee, though.”
This time, my laugh is anything but quiet. “You have no idea.”
And just like that, it’s as if no time has passed between us. The six years that sped by between me scrawling a note on his dresser, and him stepping into my office last week, feel like the blink of an eye.
This is the same man I spilled my heart to after a few sips of whiskey, the one whose bloody knuckles I tended to, even when he insisted I could leave. The same man who, in a matter of hours, came to know me almost better than I knew myself. And that scared me.
But looking at him now, I wonder what it was that I was so afraid of.
8
* * *
HOLT
It’s my first official day reporting for duty, and I have a meeting with Eden and Les at nine in her office at Elite Airlines Arena.
The first hockey game is only days away, and there’s been some talk in the media about another protest. It pisses me off to think about what Eden has to endure. She comes into work every day to do her best, and yet some troublemaking idiots want to make her life more difficult. It only makes me want to help her more. Must be some underdog complex. Fuck the naysayers and all that.
The building is impressive—a steel-and-glass structure where the hockey team plays also houses the team leadership’s offices. I’ve never been here for a game, but I’m sure the experience is quite different. The building is eerily silent and deserted on a Monday morning. A lone security guard waits at the main doors, and a cleaning crew buffs the concrete floors on the ground level, but other than that, it’s quiet.
I make my way to the elevators, remembering the somber look on Eden’s face the last time we were alone together here. She seemed relaxed enough at the team dinner at her place, so hopefully she’s settling into her role here with a little more confidence.
