Page 44 of The Rebel (Looking to Score 1)
Why am I letting myself get so worked up? For all I know, Holt might have been joking when he made that comment. After all, last night when we crossed that boundary, I was the one who said it was a one-time thing. Not that it’s stopped my memory from replaying every moment of it.
As it turns out, Gretchen was very wrong about me getting Holt out of my system. If anything, one taste of him has only left me craving more. Every time his stormy eyes met mine today, I remembered that wicked look that danced through them moments before he proceeded to give me the best orgasm of my life.
I want to explore this thing with him, but I have no idea how to proceed with caution—especially for someone in my role with this organization. It’s a virtual human resources nightmare, if I’m being honest. Nothing about this situation is smart on my part. But as I learned once long ago, sometimes good girls need to be bad.
My phone buzzes, interrupting my stargazing, and I ready myself for an email from Aspen, or a notification from ESPN about the game. Instead, what I find makes my eyebrows shoot up, while simultaneously sparking a warm, jittery feeling in my chest.
I swipe my thumb over the notification, opening the text. Congrats on the win, BTW. Don’t know if I said that before.
A smile tugs at my lips as my thumbs fly across the keyboard, firing off a reply. Thanks :) What are you still doing up? Our flight leaves early tomorrow.
Normally, protocol would dictate that one should wait a little while before responding to a text from a guy, but something about Holt has me feeling a bit more eager than usual.
Much to my surprise, he responds not with another text, but with a phone call.
Jesus. Here I was, scrutinizing every word of a potential message to him. Meanwhile, he has the guts to just call out of the blue? That’s the kind of confidence I need to tap into.
After a brief, centering breath, I answer. “Hello?”
Holt’s low, rough voice washes over me. “Hey. You finally done working for the night?”
My teeth sink into my lower lip. “Yes, I’m done. Were you checking up on me?” I ask quietly.
His laugh is a low chuckle on the other end of the line. “Something like that.”
I drop onto the corner of the bed, and just like every time I’m with him, all the tension I’ve been hanging on to slips away. “Well, thanks for checking in.”
“As much as I’d like to accept the accolades, this call is less professional and more personal in nature,” he says somewhat shyly.
“Oh?” I ask, biting my lower lip.
“I was serious about what I said earlier. No pressure, but I’d really like to see you again.”
I pick absently at a hangnail, weighing the angel on one of my shoulders against the devil on the other. I was so hung up on how to phrase a text to Holt asking if I could see him tonight, that I didn’t even consider the details of that possibility.
If one of the players spotted me leaving our head of security’s room in the morning, every bit of the respect I’ve managed to build over the past month would be as good as gone.
Then again, we pulled this off back in Detroit. Sure, our rooms were right next to each other then, but we might be able to duplicate a similar arrangement—I swing by for a bit, then leave quietly before it’s late enough for anyone to get suspicious.
“Eden? Are you there?”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, drumming my fingers against my thigh. “Just figuring out logistics. Maybe I can just stop by for a little while?”
“Sounds good. Room sixteen fourteen.”
“Perfect,” I whisper. It’s three doors down from mine. “See you soon.”
Pressing to my feet, I inspect myself in the mirror and smooth out my hair before slipping out the door and toward his room, all the while formulating an excuse for if I happen to bump into anyone else on the way. Holt’s room just so happens to be close to the vending machines at the end of the hall. I’m happy to blame my trip on a late-night potato chip craving.
But for the second time tonight, luck is on my side, because I don’t encounter another soul until Holt pulls open his door.
“Hi,” I say as his dark eyes roam over me, lingering in all his favorite places before finally settling on my face.
“You look incredible,” he says, his voice low.
I’m dressed in a pair of jeans and a peach-colored T-shirt with slip-ons on my feet. I washed off all my makeup earlier, but I’m grateful for his compliment all the same.
“Thanks,” I murmur, taking note of how the man fills out a pair of jeans and a T-shirt so well, it should be a crime.
