CHAPTER TEN
I woke up a little after six the next morning to an empty bed. I wondered if Holden had cleared out early, but a loud clatter from downstairs answered that question. I pulled on pants, decided not to bother with a shirt, and headed down to see what my unexpected houseguest was getting into.
“You didn’t strike me as a morning person,” I said, shuffling over to the coffee maker to find that the coffee had already been made.
“I’m not. At all. But I’m still on New York time, and you snore.”
“I do not snore.”
“Oh, yes you do,” Holden insisted.
I ignored him. “You cooking breakfast or starting a one-man pots-and-pans band? It was tough to tell from upstairs.”
He rolled his eyes at me as he pulled the pan from the oven. “I made bacon and eggs. I was starving.”
“Lasagna didn’t hold you over?”
“Not after the energy I expended last night.”
I poured a cup of coffee for him and carried it over, setting it down on the counter and resisting the urge to slide my arm around his waist and pull his body against mine. “I did most of the work.”
Giving myself some distance, I went to sit on one of the stools at the counter. This wasn’t me. In fact, this was totally out of character for me, although I’d never had a man stranded in my house before. But the easy domesticity of watching him cook me breakfast had me feeling a bit out of my depth.
I didn’t do mornings-after because I didn’t do one-night stands. I did relationships, and that wasn’t what this was. This wasn’t anything. And yet, it was somewhat difficult to sit there and watch Holden cooking in my kitchen, wearing my Columbia sweatpants—rolled at the waist so he didn’t trip over the length of them—and not feel something. I didn’t know what that something was, and to be honest, I didn’t want to look at it too closely.
What I did want to do was put my hands on him again, to stand near him, bury my face against his shoulder, and inhale the scent of him. It was like someone had drugged my coffee, except I hadn’t taken my first sip yet.
I didn’t even really like the guy—well… there were certain aspects I liked a whole fucking lot, but a part of me wished I’d never discovered those parts.
“I figured scrambled was the safest,” Holden said, holding up the spatula as he turned toward me, pulling me from thoughts of bending him over the counter and forgetting about the food altogether.
“Scrambled’s good.” I forced my mind back on track. “Is this your first time cooking?”
“It is not. I cook all the time, thank you very much.”
“I woulda pegged you for the type with a private chef.”
“Not hardly. And anyway, there’s no need when there’re so many restaurants in New York to try,” he said over his shoulder, turning back to mix the eggs. “I order in to my office most days, but I like to cook on my days off. It’s relaxing.”
Well, that was one thing we had in common, I supposed. Seeing the food was almost ready, I stood and walked to the cupboard to grab a couple of plates, then set them on the counter next to him. “Neither of your parents strike me as the type to have taught you.”
I wanted to touch him, to run my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, but I shoved my hands in the pockets of my sweats and sat back down.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of my parents walk into the kitchen, let alone cook in it.” He set out the plates and dished the food onto them. “My roommate at boarding school taught me the basics. His dad was a chef, and I spent winter break with him in junior year. The rest I’ve picked up on my own through trial and error. And there was a lot of error.” He laughed as he carried our breakfasts over and placed the dishes on the counter in front of us. Dropping himself into the stool next to me, he held up his coffee. “Cheers.”
I clinked my mug with his, though I had no idea what we were toasting, then dug into my food.
“Were you always at boarding school?” I asked, surprised to realize I actually wanted to know more about him.
“Almost. Hillcroft Academy, grades four through twelve.” He shrugged. “It was better than being at home. Most of the time I ended up crashing at a friend’s place for holidays and breaks. The few times I did come home, I spent most of it by myself. My mother was busy with her philanthropy work, and my father… well… you know Philip.”
“Yes, I do.”
The conversation fell silent then, and the room felt heavier.
“I’ve already called and left another message with Lyle, so hopefully he calls me back soon.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that.”
“Well, because you haven’t already done enough for me by letting me spend the night, feeding me, and not shooting me on sight yesterday afternoon, could I add a ride into town to that list? Frankie’s booked me a flight out first thing tomorrow morning, so I need to pack up my shit at the hotel and get ready to fly back to New York.”
“That was quick.” My gut tightened, but I ignored it. He was going home in less than twenty-four hours. I’d gotten exactly what I’d wanted. Before long, my life would return to normal. Holden would be on a flight out of Alaska, and I would go back to who I was before I knew he existed.
Clean break.
Except what were we even breaking from? Nothing. Nothing to break because nothing had been started. I reminded myself that a couple of rounds of—admittedly very hot—sex meant nothing.
“I’m gonna have to get my shit together back home eventually, and the sooner I get away from the snow, the better.”
“You gonna be okay?” I didn’t know why I felt compelled to ask.
“Definitely. I always land on my feet. A friend said I could stay with him and his cousin until I figure things out.”
We finished our food in silence, and afterward, Holden tidied the kitchen.
“You don’t have to do that. You cooked. I can clean up.”
“Washing the egg pan is literally the least I can do to say thank you for not letting me freeze to death in the front seat of a Chevy…” He paused a beat. “And for everything else too.”
“You’re welcome.”
This wasn’t how I thought I’d be spending my morning, but now that we were here, I had to admit, it was kinda nice. If Holden had been any other guy, representing any other company, showing up on my doorstep for any other reason, I would have had him in my bed so fast he wouldn’t have known what hit him.
But his last name was Prescott, and I didn’t know what to think. It was difficult to reconcile the guy I’d gotten to know in the last twelve hours with the guy who’d shown up two days before, trying to get me to sign a contract to return to Westbridge.
Ultimately, though, it didn’t matter. Tomorrow, he’d be gone and I wouldn’t need to think about it anymore.