It’s genius.
I grin. “Ollie, I really hate to say I appreciate you, but I appreciate you, man.”
“Hold on. I’m going to put that on the calendar right next to the words Holt Got Played.”
“You are such a dick,” I say with a laugh.
He chuckles. “So, you’re good then? You’re calling Landry? And you’ll remember to bring up the project and not just your own personal one?”
“Yes, sir, I will.”
“Good.” Papers shuffle in the background. “Are you coming to the office today?”
I slip my hand into my pocket and feel the lace slip across my fingers. My brain tries to imagine the scarlet fabric on Blaire’s smooth skin. My blood heats my flesh, and I’m forcing a swallow as Oliver sighs at my pause.
“Yeah,” I say, “but it might be later.”
“Well, I’ll be here for another hour or so. Told Gramps I’d come over and watch golf with him this afternoon.”
“You have fun with that,” I say.
“I will. You should come too.”
I pull my hand from my pocket. “Gonna have to take a rain check.”
“I bet you are. Let me know what Graham says.”
“Will do.”
“Later.”
“Goodbye.”
I slip my phone in my pocket and take one final look around the suite. If Blaire hadn’t lost her credit card, maybe I could have left whatever we shared last night in this room. But she did. So now I have an obligation to return it.
“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do,” I say to myself.
I snicker as I head toward the door.
Gentlemanly, my ass.
Chapter Eight
Blaire
“That will be sixteen dollars and eighty cents—including the delivery fee,” the voice on the other end of the phone says.
I reach my free hand up to balance the towel wrapped masterfully around my head and sit on the couch. Towel secured, I yank my purse to my side.
Despite the long, hot shower I took immediately after getting back to my room, I can still smell Holt on my skin. A tingle fires through my body every time I move. Every raise of my hand, bend of my neck, stretch of my legs is another reminder both of Holt and of muscles I haven’t used in an embarrassingly long time.
“That’s perfect,” I say, pulling my mind back to breakfast. “Let me grab my card.”
My abdomen rumbles as I lift my wallet from the depths of my bag and flick it open with my thumb. I tell myself it’s from needing nourishment and has nothing to do with the rich, almost tobacco-like scent of Holt that just whispered through the air. The rumble turns into a tumble as the bottom falls out of my stomach.
“Shit,” I mutter as I balance the phone against my shoulder.
My driver’s license, building identification, and various other useless cards snap as I pull them forward one by one.
Where is my card?
I only brought one with me since I didn’t plan on doing much but working in the room. Each snap of plastic is louder. Every nook that comes up empty adds to the ball of weight forming in the center of my chest.
I toss the wallet to the side and begin sorting through my bag. The phone nearly falls from my shoulder.
Out comes a gummy bear wrapper and earbuds. Next is a backup battery for my phone and a pair of sunglasses. Irritated, I dump the remaining contents onto the sofa.
Still, nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’ve misplaced my card. Can I call you back?”
“Absolutely. Hope you find it.”
“Me too. Thank you.”
I press the red end button before tossing my phone onto the sofa. My heart strums in my chest as I hurry to my briefcase and pop it open. My credit card isn’t there. It’s also not in my suitcase, but I check it just in case.
Shit.
“Where did I have it last?” I groan, massaging my temples with my fingertips.
My brain is doused with a fog that somehow hovers over everything after I left the Landry’s house. Certain pieces are strikingly clear—Holt’s jawline through the candlelight at dinner, the sound of his voice on the balcony, the weight of his body on top of mine.
But that’s it.
Me, Blaire Michelle Gibson, the person who prides herself on attention to detail, has not even a shred of an idea where her credit card might be.
“This is mortifying,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.
I can imagine my brothers’ reaction to this story. Walker would grin but not say a lot—he’d just let the look in his eye do all the talking. Lance would outright laugh at me, and Machlan would make some asshole comment about getting laid.
Despite the fact that my cheeks heat, I find myself smiling.
I get up and go to the room phone beside the bed. Bringing the receiver to my ear, I press the zero button. The line buzzes a couple of times before a woman’s voice greets me … and asks me to wait. The line goes to on-hold music immediately.
The music does nothing but heighten my anxiety. Each beat amplifies the dread building inside me.
I had the card at the airport in Chicago to purchase a latte.
Did I have it to get the rental car? Yes, I did.
Okay, breathe.
Did I have it at dinner?
The line crackles as the attendant comes back.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman says. “How may I help you?”
I sigh, imploring myself to be patient.
“This is Blaire Gibson in room 1924. Has anyone turned in a credit card with my name on it?”
“Not that I recall. Can you hold, please?”
“Sure.”
The line gets muffled before she returns. “It’s not here. If it gets turned in, we’ll call your room or the number on file.”
“That would be excellent. Thank you.”
She laughs. “I wish all my customers were as pleasant as you this morning.”
“Bad day?” I ask as I rub my forehead.
“No. It’s just that all of America is calling for a hotel room next week, and they aren’t taking nicely to the fact that all hotels in Savannah are booked. But that’s what happens when you have the Seafood Fest and a Kelvin McCoy concert in town the same week.”
She goes on about the concert and how she tried to get tickets, but they were sold out in twenty minutes. All the while she’s telling me this, a phones ring incessantly behind her.
“Well, maybe you’ll get some next time,” I say, raising my voice slightly in hopes it will draw her back to her, our, current predicament. “If you get my card, please call. I need to go cancel it, I guess.”
“Absolutely. Have an excellent day, Miss Gibson.”
“You as well. Goodbye.” I set the phone back on the receiver.
The towel wobbles on the top of my head as I sit on the bed. I remove it and unwind my hair from the bright white material.
I could call the restaurant from last night. And the hotel. And Holt.
While there is an undeniable pull toward the last option—and I even find my eyes searching for my phone at the thought—I quickly bring myself back to reality.
I left him this morning for a reason. It was a calculated, non-emotional rationale that I’m fully confident was the right decision. Nothing good would have happened if I had stayed.
The corners of my lips twitch.
Well, something very good probably would’ve happened—if I could be so lucky. But then it would get awkward with a walk of shame through a hotel in the morning rush.
“I need to cancel my card and move on,” I tell myself as I get to my feet. “It’s the logical solution.”
I run a hand through my locks as I make my way to my phone. As soon as I reach it, it rings. It’s an Illinois area code.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hey, Blaire. It’s Sienna.”
“Oh, hey. I didn’t recognize the number,” I say, switching t
he phone into my other hand so that I can detangle the opposite side of my head.
“I’m borrowing my friend’s phone. Mine isn’t charging and Walker and Peck are using a … whatever you use to air up a car tire to try to clean out the port.”
I laugh. “Oh, dear lord.”
“I know, I know. Anyway,” she says, her tone lighter than before. “I come bearing gifts.”
My stomach growls. “Of muffins? Please be muffins. I’m starving.”
“No. Better than muffins.”
“Not sure anything tops muffins right now.”
“This will. Promise.” She pauses for what I think is effect. “I come bearing … information. Well, information and a ton of questions, you little minx.”
She giggles.
I look at the ceiling as I fill with dread.
There’s zero chance she isn’t calling about Holt Mason. How that’s possible, I’m not sure. The simplest solution would be that her brothers mentioned that I left their house with Holt, but does word travel that fast between siblings?
It doesn’t in mine. Not that Lance doesn’t keep me in the loop regarding all their shenanigans, but I don’t hear about them the next morning unless Machlan, our youngest and rowdiest brother, has done something borderline illegal like punching someone in the face. That does warrant an early morning call. But this? The behavior I’m uncharacteristically exhibiting is, or was, characteristic for the Gibson boys. It’s never gotten me a phone call.
“It appears that Holt Mason has your credit card,” she practically sing-songs into the phone. “Wanna explain that?”
“I do not.”
She laughs. “Blaire! Come on. I want details.”
I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. “There are no details to be shared. I’m sorry to disappoint.”
“That’s bull, and we both know it. There’s only one reason a woman would be with Holt in a situation so … intense that she loses her credit card. Especially a woman like you.”
I can’t help but laugh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t exactly slum it, Miss High Brow Attorney. You’re beautiful, smart, and there’s no way you didn’t sleep with him, especially after Lincoln called and told me that Holt basically chased you out of there last night.”
What?
I get to my feet and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My skin looks bright. My lips are full. There’s a slight purple mark on the top of my breast that I can see as my robe dips in the front.
All in all, I don’t look as depressed at being on vacation as I thought I would. And maybe I have Holt to thank for that.
But did he chase me out of there last night? Not like she’s implying.
Although I don’t really mind the sound of it when phrased like that.
I grin. “Lincoln is adorable, by the way.”
“Lincoln is gross. He’s my brother and has way too much time on his hands at this point in his life. But anyway, Holt is not my brother, and he is smoking hot. I’ll have you know that I had the biggest crush on him my entire life. We used to see the Masons at events, and I’d literally drool over Holt. And Oliver. And Wade. I’d spy on them and drive my brothers crazy.”
I sit on the couch again and recline back into the pillows. “When I was little, Walker and Lance used to have their friends over, and they’d chase me with frogs. We had very different childhood experiences.”
Sienna laughs. “And look at us now. We’re practically sisters.”
“That’s … true.”
“So spill it, sister.”
I nestle down into the pillows and try to embrace the odd sensation washing over me. It’s slightly uncomfortable but strangely pleasant to have this kind of girl talk. Either way, it’s definitely new for me.
This kind of mindless chatter never involved me. Girls in high school or college—sometimes even now in the lunchroom at work—giggle over romantic comedies and men they see on social media. I’m always too busy to be drawn into irrelevant conversations. But it feels different with Sienna, and I wonder what life might’ve been like had I had a sister of my own.
“We had dinner,” I say. “He’s very interesting.”
She groans. “You’re so not doing this right.”
I bite my lip before letting it pop free. “That’s not what he said.”
“Blaire!”
I laugh, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”
“No! Don’t be sorry. This is what I’m after. This is how it works. Now keep it going and tell me what else he said or didn’t say, did or didn’t do.”
“I just … We had dinner. We had a nice time. I left early this morning and apparently left my credit card behind. That’s it.”
That is it—more or less.
But when I say it like that, it feels too simple. Too cut-and-dry. Too much like I met some random man in an equally random place and slept with him, and that was that. Because while all that is true, there’s a thread to it that isn’t.
Holt.
Not one single thing about that man is ordinary. He’s not the man you meet in a bar or the acquaintance you agree to hook up with because you’re desperate for a release after a workweek from hell. Those types of guys deliver mediocre, forgettable performances. I’m usually neck-deep in work briefs with a laser focus by ten o’clock the next morning, not having a discussion with my brother’s girlfriend about the events of the night before.
So while that might be it, it also might not be a complete summary of the events of the evening. I still might be figuring that out.
Sienna sucks in a breath. “You’re totally going to call him and go get it, right?”
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I haven’t eaten. My heartbeat races at the thought of seeing Holt again. My insides twist as I try to determine what the best course of action is to resolve this predicament.
“He’s the perfect vacation fling, you know,” Sienna says cautiously.
“He was a great one-night stand.” I get to my feet. “I need to go, Sienna, and deal with this card issue. Thank you for calling me and letting me know where it is.”
“I am going to teach you how to be a sister yet.”
I chuckle. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Hopefully with more detail.”
“Goodbye, Sienna,” I say, holding back a laugh.
“Bye, Blaire.”
I end the call but leave the phone in my hand. With my hair wet against my shoulders, I stare at the device and wonder what to do.
Chapter Nine
Holt
“And then Wade acted like I was crazy,” Boone says. “I told him to go double-check his facts and call me back and maybe I’d answer. Can you believe that?”
“Nope.”
I give myself a mental pat on the back for getting the timing right with my response. I have no clue what he’s talking about nor do I care.
Boone is the youngest of my brothers but only eighteen months after Coy. The two of them were buddies growing up while Ollie and I book-ended the other side. That left Wade in the middle. He’s now your proverbial middle child with two older CEOs on one side of him and two heathens on the other. Sometimes, I feel sorry for him … especially when Boone is on his back.
The late morning sun streams through my office windows as my brother starts in again.
“Anyway,” Boone begins, “Mom called this morning and wants everyone over for brunch next week since Coy will be home. I’m supposed to spread the word.”
I tap the edge of Blaire’s credit card against my desk. Each tap makes it seem like my brain is being split farther in two.
Half of it is here, in my office, processing my conversation with Graham Landry and listening to Boone. The other half is perplexed with a raven-haired woman who I’m now considering might be fucking with me.
I don’t really believe that. She’s not the game-playing type. I’m positive about that. Mostly. But she’s also not t
he leave-your-credit-card-behind kind of woman, yet here I sit, holding it. It makes a man wonder if this is a game or some fucked-up gift from above.
“You’re coming, right?” Boone asks.
I sit back in my chair and pull my thoughts back to the present. “Of course.”
“Okay. I’ll let her know.”
“Like Mom’s not going to call us all and give us a run-down on her menu and ask if we have any requests.”
“She asked for my help,” he says with a hint of pride. “I’m just doing what I said I would.”
I scoff. “Whatever. She’s just trying to keep you busy so you keep your dick out of … what’s-her-name.”
I can hear Boone’s jaw drop. Or maybe it’s just the way he gasps and hides a chuckle right after. Either way, his reaction makes me laugh.
“Mom does not know who my dick is in,” Boone says.
“The hell she doesn’t. Mom knows everything, and the sooner you realize that, the better.”
“She can’t possibly know I’m fucking Daphne Monroe.”
The edge of Blaire’s card presses into my thigh as I move it back and forth.
“Boone,” I deadpan. “You don’t think Daphne is running her mouth to everyone who will listen—especially to all the women at the country club? That girl is shooting for the Mason family trifecta or whatever it would be called with five people.”
He laughs. “You mean four because Wade isn’t gonna fuck her.”
I laugh too because he’s right. Wade’s not going to get a piece of that because Wade doesn’t get a piece of anybody. If Oliver and I are workaholics, Wade is whatever the next level of that is because no matter how busy Ollie and I get, we do our own versions of dating. Wade does not.
“I’m not fucking her, either,” I say, wrinkling my nose at the thought of banging Daphne Monroe. “I guess trifecta works, after all.”
I flip the card into the palm of my hand and rub my thumb across Blaire’s name.
Maybe I should just stick it in the mail or have someone run it over to the Landry’s.
The raised, gold letters spelling her name prickle against my skin. I can’t help but remember how she felt against me last night. But as I think back, I realize the best part wasn’t the curve of her waist or the way she fit so perfectly around my cock.
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