Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83550 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He turns his head to look at me, his expression unreadable in the dim light that filters in through the window. “You’re welcome.”
The space between us feels charged, like it’s holding something neither of us is ready to name.
“Why don’t you drink?”
I glance at him, startled by the question. For a second, I consider brushing off the inquiry and lying, but I’m too tired to come up with something convincing. “My mom,” I admit. “She’s… not great with alcohol.”
He nods, his expression unreadable. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
“Yeah.” I pause, then ask, “How’d the meeting with your dad go?”
His jaw tightens as he stares at the ceiling. “The way it always does.”
I shift onto my side, watching him. “Do you want to talk about it?”
His gaze slices to mine. And for a moment or two, it looks like he might say something else. “Nah. But thanks for the offer.”
Then he rolls onto his back, and the silence stretches between us. Even though I close my eyes, sleep doesn’t come easily.
Not with Bridger so close.
18
Bridger
Rain patters against the window. It’s a soft rhythm that pulls me from sleep. For a handful of seconds, I lie there and stare at the shadows that dance across the ceiling, listening to the steady sound of water hitting glass. It’s calming, almost hypnotic, and I’m about to let it lull me back to sleep when I hear something else. It’s a faint sound, sharp enough to stand out against the rain.
A whimper.
I blink, half-convinced I imagined it. But then it happens again, quiet and muffled. My pulse kicks up as I roll onto my side and glance toward Holland. She’s facing away from me, her frame curled tight under the covers. The sound repeats, low and almost broken, and I realize with a jolt that it’s coming from her.
She shifts slightly, her head turning toward me, her lips parting as a faint, shaky “No” slips out.
Shit.
I push myself up on one elbow and lean closer. Her brows are furrowed, her breathing quick and uneven. The sight has something clenching in my chest.
Holland Tate—sarcastic, sharp, and untouchable—is having a nightmare.
My hand hovers hesitantly over her arm. She’s not exactly the kind of person who welcomes comfort, but seeing her so vulnerable and fragile pricks at me. Carefully, I lay my hand on her back. The heat of her skin seeps through the thin fabric of her tank top.
“Holland,” I murmur. “Wake up.”
She moves again, her features twisting as another whimper escapes from her. “Nooo,” she whispers, her voice thick with fear.
“Holland,” I say more firmly before shaking her arm. “You’re all right. You’re safe. Wake up.”
Her eyes fly open, wild and unfocused, as a soft sob tears from her throat. The fear and confusion within that cry hit me like a punch to the gut. This isn’t the Holland I’ve gotten to know over the past three years. It’s not the girl who can slice me in half with a single look or leave me speechless with her sharp tongue.
This Holland is raw, exposed, and I really fucking hate that I’m seeing her like this.
Without thinking, I pull her into my arms. She stiffens for a heartbeat before collapsing against me. Her fingers clutch at my chest, as if I’m the only thing anchoring her to reality. I rest my chin on top of her head as my hand rubs soothing circles across her back.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, kissing the crown of her head. “I’ve got you.”
Her breathing slows as her sobs quiet into shaky inhales. We lie like that for a long time. The rain outside is the only sound that fills the room.
“You want to talk about it?” I ask before tacking on, “They say it helps.”
She releases a shuddering breath, her voice muffled against my chest. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“I have no idea. The experts, I guess?”
She shifts slightly, her head tilting to look at me. Her face is pale, her eyes red-rimmed, but there’s a flicker of humor in her expression. “You don’t strike me as the type to listen to experts.”
I smirk. “Don’t let it get around. I have a reputation to uphold.”
There’s a hint of a smile that tugs at her lips before it fades, leaving something softer in its place. “Do you think we could pretend for a little bit that we don’t hate each other?”
Her words catch me off guard, but my response comes easily. “I don’t hate you, Holland. I never hated you.”
She snorts, but there’s no real venom behind it. “Could’ve fooled me.”
My fingers drift to her hair, sifting through the soft strands. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I pushed you away after we slept together because I was scared.”
It’s so much easier to admit the truth in the darkness that blankets us.