Page 17 of Sunday's Best

“Logan’s not worth it,” I whisper, taking a slow sip of the sweet liquid.

“Nope.”

“We’ll be back home soon, and maybe I’ll finally move on.”

“Are you, uh…” He trails off as he seems to consider his words. “Are you going to break up with him?”

“Well…” I roll my lips together. I want to break up with him, for obvious reasons. And I will… eventually. But I don’t want to fuck up Holden’s summer and, more importantly, I’ve scoured the local rental listings and there’s nothing available for at least another month. I’d rather stay in a long-distance relationship neither of us are really committed to than be forced to temporarily move in with my mother. “No, I’m not. Not yet…”

He gives me a tormented look, and I can’t wrap my head around why.

“He’s kissing another girl right now. I saw them.” This is the first time I’ve ever admitted to somebody that my boyfriend cheats on me. I hate it, but for some reason, I think I can trust Holden. At least, I want to trust him. “I mean… they’re probably having sex by now, actually. She was already down to a G-string and a bra when I walked away.”

Holden sputters his drink, clasping a hand over his mouth to keep from spitting it everywhere. “It’s way too cold out to only be wearing a G-string. Sounds unsafe.”

“That’s your take away?” I mumble around another sip.

“You deserve better than him, Sunday. So much better. If I was—” He looks down into the depths of his wine cooler. “You should be with a man who goes out of his way to make sure you have everything you want, and who would rather cut his own dick off than do anything to make you cry.”

My brows rise in amusement. “If you find a man like that, please point me in his direction.”

He tosses back the rest of his cooler and winces. “These are fucking gross. I don’t know how you stand them.”

“Maybe you should go back to your toddler yogurts and leave the rest of the coolers for me, then.”

His lips slant into a smirk. “Don’t knock ’em ’til you try ’em.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say, pushing myself up off the sofa, a little unsteady. The wine cooler hangs at my side, and though it’s only half-finished, I feel the happy buzz tingling in my cheeks and hands.

“If you like it”—he produces a tiny bottle of yogurt—“you have to get your own. I don’t share.”

The air between us is thick in the way it tends to be as a summer storm rolls in, and I step closer to bridge the gap. Not for the first time today, I’m hoping to feel the accidental brush of his skin on mine.

I take the bottle, not because I want to drink it, but because I want him to shut up about it. It’s not the taste of his kiddy drink that I’m after. It’s the sweetness of revenge.

“Sunday.” Caution edges his voice. Holden tracks my movements, attentive to the heavy rise and fall of my chest and the lick of my lower lip as I plunk both of my drinks down on the counter.

There’s electricity in the air, sparking against my skin in warning. If I do what I want to do, I won’t be able to take it back. I’ll be as insensitive and selfish as Logan—a thought that has no right to thrill me as much as it does.

I’m in Holden’s space now. He smells like shampoo and soap and laundry detergent and man. My fingers ache to touch the well-worn cotton, to clutch it and pull him into me. My thighs squeeze against the all too familiar ache.

“You’re not supposed to be looking at me like that, angel,” he says with that sexy, infuriating rasp of his.

I tempt fate with another small step. “How should I look at you?”

“Like I’m the devil.” He strokes his rough hand along my jaw. I can see the pulse beating in his neck. “Like you hate me.”

Seven

“Idon’t hate you, Holden.”

Holden tips my chin upward, pulling me to the balls of my feet.

“Fuck. We shouldn’t do this.” His voice is gruff, but his fingers are gentle as they trail behind my ear and tangle in my hair. He’s holding me loose enough I can walk away, but tight enough to keep me steady.

Our kiss is soft and delicate at first, his breath providing more pressure than his lips. It’s hesitant. Held back. And I press my hips into him, blanketing myself in the weight and warmth of his arms, giving in to the thing we’ll never be able to take back.

One of his hands feathers down my spine, pulling my back into a pleasured arch. I fist his shirt, rocking my hips into his to feel the hard length of him against my core. I want him closer. Deeper. I want as much as I can get before either of us is stricken by our consciences.