Page 13 of Sunday's Best

“Sounds a lot like what I’m doing—trying to keep things smooth so it’s easier on everyone.” I shrug.

“Everyone except you,” he whispers, eyes dropping to where I’m wringing my hands inside my sweatshirt sleeves. He follows up with a light touch to my forearm, which makes my heart do a small flip. “You aren’t happy.”

He doesn’t phrase it as a question. It doesn’t need to be asked.

I shift in place, bumping the takeout container out of the way, and his rough, denim-clad knee brushes mine. It’s accidental, and the way I crave more is devastating. From his audible swallow, I know it’s affecting him, too.

“No,” I admit. “But poutine helps.”

We both smile. His eyes glint in the pale light, and his hair curls adorably around the shell of his right ear. I’m tempted to twirl that stray lock around my finger. We’re sitting so close now, I’m sure he can hear the drum of my heart against my ribs. Alarm bells may be going off, but the rush of blood in my skull drowns them out.

“Poutine helps,” he echoes. His gaze traces my lips before my name slips out on the back of a ragged exhale. “Sunday…”

“Holden.” I’m so breathy, I barely recognize my own voice.

His hand lifts off the quilt, hovering before thudding down next to my thigh, rather than on it. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s your trailer,” I offer.

“Yeah…”

The air between us is charged and humming like the generator outside. I lean in, my body betraying me, and he leans in, too.

He leans in.

He feels it, too.

For a single, reckless second, I think he’s going to kiss me.

Instead, he pulls back, standing so abruptly, the bed shifts under me and I nearly lose my balance. Sliding back into his boots, he reaches for the trailer door handle.

“Holden?”

Face hardened, eyes icy and private, Holden turns to me with the same grunt of annoyance I’m used to from him.

“Thank you.” For the poutine. For seeing me. For stopping before this became something neither of us could undo.

Six

While I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m a morning person, I’ll admit that having time to read my book and enjoy a full cup of coffee before I need to deal with either of the Kearney brothers is a luxury worth setting an alarm for.

When we pulled into our new stop somewhere in rural Saskatchewan just before midnight last night, I considered cancelling this morning’s alarm. Sleep is arguably more important than being able to drink coffee in peace. And besides, we’ll be parked in this spot for the entire weekend, so I won’t have Holden rushing me out the door in the morning.

But when I was twelve, my mom brought home a life coach named Jay, who loved to spew bullshit about habits taking twenty-one days so he could make my mom feel shitty about her supposed lack of willpower.

I don’t know… I guess it stuck with me, because his nasally voice wouldn’t shut the fuck up until I pulled myself out of bed this morning.

But the rain pattering on the metal roof and the steady rumble of the furnace is lulling me back to sleep in my cozy dinette corner, and no amount of smut, coffee, or concentrated eye-widening seems to be helping me wake up.

Holden lets out a loud, reverberating yawn as he stretches out on the sofa bed. I’ve done my best to ignore the state he wakes up in—pajama pants slung low on his hips, tousled wavy hair, and a softness in his face that seems to harden as soon as he’s properly awake—but it’s a lot easier when I’m not facing him immediately after reading a hot sex scene in my book.

A woman only has so much strength at six a.m.

“You’re up early again.” The gravel in his voice rasps my skin like the rough touch of a callused hand.

“The peace and quiet is nice.”

“I know. That’s why I always get up early—so I can be alone.” As he sits, his bare feet land on the vinyl floor planks with a smack. I don’t look at him. I know what his morning stretch looks like, when his muscles are flexed and lickable, and I know I don’t have it in me to pretend I’m disgusted by the sight today.