Page 53 of Broken Romeo
I square my shoulders. “Why not? He’s sweet and sexy and talented… and he wants me.”
Unlike some people at this bar.
For all of Holden’s bravado, when push comes to shove, he doesn’t even want people we work with to know we had a history once. Hell, he wouldn’t even let me answer Missy about my Alma mater. He clearly doesn’t want them to know we went to the same Ivy League undergrad.
He seems to want me, but only when it’s convenient to him. And only when no one will see us.
The fluorescent light above us flickers, bathing us in a harsh, cold glow. The unforgiving light illuminates the dark bluish circles beneath his eyes. For the first time, I see how tired and stressed Holden seems.
He rakes his hands through his hair and closes what little space was between us in a few steps.
I sway, trying to back away, but I hit the sink, pressing painfully against the cool porcelain. I can’t tell if I’m hazy from my buzz or from the proximity to Holden, but either way, my mind is fuzzy and my impulse control wanes. I slide a lazy glance down his body and the muscles that push against the high thread count of his cotton shirt. His biceps look thicker than they did in college. He’s bigger, broader and I ache to reach out and grip the muscles to see if they feel different, too.
“Nolan’s not a bad guy… he’s just a serial showmancer.”
“Showmancer?”
“Yeah. You know… showmance. A romance that only lasts as long as the show. I don’t want to see you fall victim to yet another one of his romances. Even if it is good for publicity in the short term, his relationships always end badly and usually in the middle of the show, ruining the run.”
I gulp and sink into the realization. Holden’s not jealous. He doesn’t want me for himself… he’s looking out for the show. Again. When am I going to learn?
The bathroom spins and I close my eyes, which only makes the sensation worse.
When I open my eyes, Holden’s standing even closer, towering over me. His fingers trail over the waistband of my jeans and he tugs them, slipping one finger inside and gliding it along the elastic of my panties. “What color are they?” he asks, his voice hoarse.
“Why?” I lift my brow, challenging him. “Are you in the market for panties?”
He doesn’t answer me. His gaze is cast down at my hips as he keeps stroking that single index finger back and forth over my hipbone.
“So,” I push, “Is that the only reason why you don’t want me sleeping with Nolan? Because of the show?”
He mutters a string of impressive expletives, yanking his hand back and out of my waistband before saying, “Dammit! You know that’s not the only reason why.”
But I don’t know. Not at all. It’s the first time in years that he’s even remotely suggested that he still has feelings for me.
I gulp back the emotion rising in my throat and whisper, “Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth—”
His humorless laugh cuts off my speech. “Still reciting Shakespeare every time things get tense? Nice Kate. Real mature.”
“Oh, I’m Kate now, am I? I guess I must be acting really immature, since that’s what you call me when I’m acting like a … what was it… childish freshman?”
He lifts his hands to my face, and with a single finger, he brushes a stray hair off my cheekbone, tucking it behind my ear. “Isn’t it exhausting? Hating me so much?”
“Not as exhausting as forgiving you,” I whisper.
His brows jump. “How would you know if you’ve never forgiven me?”
“How can I forgive someone who’s never officially apologized?”
He looks like he’s going to argue, but instead, his firm lips part and I can smell the spiced scotch on his breath, mixed with a faint scent of peppermint. Thick, dark hair falls in soft waves across his forehead, and it’s not fair that he was able to touch my hair and yet I’m frozen where I stand, too terrified to move, let alone touch him. With a blink, his long, black lashes flutter.
“Kate,” he whispers, bringing his hand to cup my jaw. He tilts my gaze, forcing my eyes to meet his. “I’m sorry—”
Before he can finish the apology, the bathroom door swings open. My stomach plummets as Missy stands there in front of us, an arrogant smirk displayed on her thick, scarlet lips. “You weren’t kidding when you said you ‘got lucky’ were you, Kate?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Holden