Page 39 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
“Did you?”
He shrugs. “I got through some of it.”
“And did it help?”
“I don’t know. It’s about these three guys who team up to help make this horse—Seabiscuit, that was an underdog, a horse no one thought could win—into a champion.”
“I’m familiar with the gist of it,” I say, recalling seeing the movie many years ago. “But why did your therapist recommend it?”
I’m also curious about why he sees a therapist, but that conversation feels a bit too heavy for a moment like this. He’s already exposing part of himself in offering me the book. Just knowing he’s trying to help—well, it makes me sympathetic.
Holt blows out a sigh, rubbing his palm along the stubble on his jaw. It makes a soft, scratching sound that I know I’ll be thinking about for the rest of the night.
“She said I had to let more people in. Not be so self-reliant. You know, like the guys in the book. It takes all three of them to get the job done.” He stares down at the cover, flipping through the pages for a long moment before finally meeting my gaze.
“So, did you?” I ask. “Let more people in, that is?”
The smallest smirk forms on his lips. “Not really, no.”
I can’t help but laugh. “At least you’re honest.”
When he passes the book to me, I run my thumb along the well-worn spine, inspecting the back cover. “So, what are you saying?”
“I guess I’m saying that you don’t have to do everything yourself. It’s up to the entire organization. The coaching staff. The players. It’s up to the marketing department. Up to the fans to show up. You have to rely on them. If you fail, you fail together.”
A nervous chuckle escapes me. “How comforting.”
“The point is, the only thing you can control is your own actions,” he says, his voice gentle. “Control what you can and let go of what you can’t. Trust your team to do their part.”
It’s quiet between us, a comfortable silence in which we do nothing but stare into each other’s eyes. His are so expressive, clouding and clearing as his mood shifts. Right now, they’re a soft gray, the color of an old comfy sweatshirt I used to have back in my Sutton days.
Everything about Holt is like a perfectly preserved memory that I’m desperate to slip back into, just like that sweatshirt. Even though my brain is constantly screaming at me to be professional, my body has other ideas. He’s just so handsome. And protective of me. That combination is dangerous and really does something to a girl.
“I was worried about you, you know,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “After the emergency room visit.”
I slouch back into my seat, folding my arms over my chest. “I was fine.”
“I texted you,” he says. “On the plane. You never responded.”
“I know,” I whisper to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
More silence, and this time, it’s not so comfortable. It’s heavy with all the unspoken words that are begging to be said, the ones we’re both avoiding. But if ever there was a time to be vulnerable with him, it has to be now.
I move from the couch to the spot next to him on the bed, close enough to breathe in the scent of mint and eucalyptus and man. “Can I admit something to you? Something not work-related?”
“Anything, Eden.”
I swallow hard, hoping he really means that. Because I think part of why I’m so twisted up inside is because of this man right here.
“I haven’t really been able to stop thinking about that night we shared,” I admit on a whisper, steadying my gaze on the hotel logo on my slippers.
I pause, turning back to assess his reaction, but he’s silent, his soft eyes attentive. I’m hoping he’ll say something in return, but when he doesn’t, I resort to rambling, desperate to fill the quiet.
“I know it’s crazy and it was so long ago, and we were practically teenagers back in those days, but I just can’t—”
Holt doesn’t give me the chance to finish that thought. Instead, with a shift of his weight on the bed, he closes the short distance between us, breaking every invisible boundary with one press of his full lips against mine.
One kiss. That’s all it takes for me to throw every doubt, every rule I’ve set for myself, out the window.
In this moment, I curse my twenty-one-year-old self for ever leaving this man’s bed. Because the way he kisses me—gently, deeply, sweeter than I’ve ever been kissed before—is something I never want to run away from.
He sucks gently at my lower lip, running his tongue along it and sending a rush of endorphins surging through my system, the kind that make me act against my better judgment. Suddenly, my hands are gripping his shoulders, pulling him in until we’re toppling back, his body moving over mine in a slow, greedy grind.
