Page 12 of Sunday's Best

I’m full—overfull, really—of steak dinner, polite smiles, and the touch of a man whose possessive hold and showy kisses made the food and wine churn in my stomach.

Logan was the center of attention the entire night, as per usual. Part of me used to crave the flickers of stray light I’d catch from being on his arm. After a year of trying to wedge myself into the radiance that surrounds Logan, I think I’m finally happier in the dark.

Which is why I didn’t care when Logan dropped me off at the trailer with a promise to be back soon and a grin that said he’d be lying to my face if I questioned him on it.

The trailer door opens slowly. I can tell it’s Holden from the sound of his footsteps.

Then the smell of gravy, cheese, and fryer grease washes over me. I know that smell. I’ve been thinking about it all damn day.

My eyes lift from the glow of my Kindle screen to find him standing in the open doorway, backlit by the white cast of the full moon, holding an off-white cardboard take-out container in his giant hands.

He holds it out to me. “You still want this?”

“I already ate…”

“I didn’t ask if you’d eaten.” His wrist twists slightly to shake the box in front of me, like he’s trying to lure in a stray dog. “You said you wanted poutine earlier. You made a face when Logan brought up steak.”

Oh… So he has been watching me. It wasn’t all in my head.

I set the Kindle aside and sit up straight, untucking my legs from the confines of my sweatshirt. “Holden, you didn’t have⁠—”

“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “It’s not a thing. The food trucks were closing up for the night. This is the leftovers they were about to toss in the trash.”

“So this is food poisoning disguised as a kind gesture.” With a sceptical brow raise, I accept the poutine and pick up a slightly-overcooked French fry to point at him. “I see you, Holden, but I think killing me off might ruin Logan’s summer a bit more than breaking up with him would.”

“I don’t think we’re at risk of either happening.”

I snort. “He’s out drinking again tonight, so don’t get your hopes up. I might be asking for a ride to the bus station again in the morning.”

Holden slips out of his boots and hangs up his hat, then moves to lean against the counter. Even in the dim light, he’s so handsome it makes my stomach hurt. His hair falls around his face in dark waves, and he rakes a hand through it before folding his arms across his broad chest. “You seemed pretty happy with him today.”

“Wow, a rare compliment from you. I thought my acting during dinner was quite believable, too.” Popping the fry into my mouth, I pat the bed next to me. “Have some poutine. If I get food poisoning, I want you going down with me.”

He doesn’t jump at my offer but stares at my hand spread across the dark-green quilt.

“I don’t bite,” I joke.

He huffs a breath that might be something related to a laugh and slides onto the bed, keeping as much space as possible between us. But the moment he sits, that gap could be as wide as a canyon, and I’d still feel the magnetic pull between us.

For a few minutes, we pick at the poutine—way better than the steak, by the way—in silence, and I can’t help but notice the way we’re slowly inching closer to one another, until the white takeout container is the sole barrier keeping our legs from touching.

When we’re down to a few straggler fries in the bottom of a vat of gravy, I lick the French fry salt from my fingertips, humming an appreciative sound. “Thank you for this. I was seriously craving it all day.”

“Do you always let him decide things for you?”

“Sometimes it’s not worth arguing.” I shrug, reaching to close the lid at the same time he does. Our fingers brush, and he pulls back as if the brief contact burns. “You know how he gets.”

Logan gets pouty. And sometimes mean. And occasionally irate. You never really know which reaction you’ll get, either, because he hides so much of how he’s feeling behind the outgoing and loud personality, until one little comment makes him drop the mask.

“Doesn’t mean you need to shrink yourself for him.” He searches my eyes, tugging at the loose threads of emotion in them. “You deserve better than that.”

“Pot, meet kettle.” I fidget with the cuffs of my sweatshirt, maintaining eye contact, determined to see his soul the way he sees mine. “You’re scared to tell him about your exciting new job. You don’t need to shrink yourself for him, either.”

His brows furrow, creating a deep trench between eyes that are as dark as a summer storm. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Sunday.”

“No? Then what do you call the shit you’re doing?”

“I’m… I was going to tell him, but then you decided to tag along, and I thought it would be easier on everyone if I didn’t.”