Thank You For Holding: On Hold Series Book #2

by Julia Kent

  And then she mutters under her breath, something I can’t hear.

  “What was that?”

  She turns red. “Nothing.”

  I reach for her arm and pull her closer. “What did you say, Carrie?” My voice goes low, an emotional rumble, and suddenly all my worry about this is gone. Heat flashes through me, the space between us changing as she slowly tips her head up, catching my eye.

  Without flinching, she says, “Because I’m a 4 at best.”

  Before I can answer — and my response would have been a kiss, goddammit — we’re rudely interrupted by a talking cockroach.

  “WHAT?” A distinctly unwelcome British accent fills the air. “Did Ryan just call you a fucking FOUR, Carrie?” Zeke swaggers into the lounge and gives me a mock look of anger. He grabs Carrie out of my arms and spins her down into a dip, like they’re dancing.

  Rage makes me damn near blind. My arms are empty.

  And Zeke’s are full.

  “You are a 7 on your worst day, Carrie. An 8.5 if you work on it,” he says, examining her face from their half-bent position.

  “Uh, uh, thanks?” Carrie gasps. “But I don’t think you’re very good with math. Maybe you’re using the metric system?”

  Zeke’s eyes narrow. His nose runs along her collarbone and I’m an inch away from breaking his dick off and stuffing it up one nostril.

  “Nah. I know the difference.” He shoots me a look.

  “Thanks,” she says, a nervous laugh coming out of her. “Let me go, though.”

  “A beautiful woman in my arms wants me to set her free?” He kisses her on the cheek, but puts her upright. “Don’t let this bag of deflated ball sacs tell you you’re a four.”

  “I didn’t,” I say through gritted teeth. “Carrie gave herself that number.” I look at her pointedly. “And she’s wrong.”

  “You two are good for my ego,” she says with a giggle, pink returning to her cheeks.

  “Heard your ego needs a boost since you got dumped by the guy who used to come to O and treat it like a feast for his eyes. Man, the way he ogled Ryan,” Zeke says as he shakes his head and makes himself a cup of tea.

  “What?” She gives me an accusatory look. “Jamey didn’t, he wouldn’t…” Her eyes drift over my body, light and airy, like a butterfly landing on blades of grass.

  “Oh, he did. We should have charged him for visiting you here at work.”

  “Shut up, Zeke,” I warn him.

  “Why were you giving each other numbers?” He looks me up and down. “Ryan here’s a 7 at best.”

  “Hey!”

  “No, he’s not,” Carrie protests. She squints one eye, like I’m a diamond she’s evaluating for flaws.

  “Carrie told me I’m a 10.5,” I shoot back at him.

  Zeke’s snort sounds unimpressed.

  “What are you, then?” I challenge. “On Carrie’s scale, I’m a 10.5 and Henry’s an 11.”

  In a rare display of modesty, Zeke nods. “Yeah. That fucking redwood tree is an 11. I’ll give you that. But you ain’t close to a 10.5, mate. If anyone’s a 10.5, it’s me.” He preens, showing off his guns, giving Carrie a come-hither grin that makes me homicidal.

  How did we get from Carrie in my arms to eye-candying Zeke’s arms?

  Carrie starts to walk toward the door. I know her deal.

  Not letting her get away with it.

  “You need a date,” I start, tapping her shoulder. She halts.

  “A date?” Zeke puts his arms down and grabs his tea. As he sips, his eyes tip up, the lashes long. Those eyes miss nothing. He’s the biggest gossip at O — although he’s told everyone I am — and whatever I say to Carrie now will be repeated all over.

  “I — you know Jenny’s getting married. I’m the maid of honor. Jamey’s the best man.”

  “Right. Gotcha. So you need a crackerjack stud to take as a date.” Zeke purses his lips and thinks for a minute.

  “Exactly,” she says, breathless, her eyes darting to me then away.

  “Two birds, one stone,” Zeke adds cryptically.

  “Huh?” Carrie asks.

  “Impress the women who’ll think you’re a pathetic loser who just got dumped — ”

  “Hey!” I protest.

  “ — and make the gay ex a little jealous.”

  “Hey,” I protest a little softer, my response a Gordian knot of confusion.

  “Too bad you have to settle for Ryan. He’s a 7, you’re an 8… I’d take you myself but I’ve made other promises.” Zeke winks at me. “Brilliant idea, though, mate.” He pulls Carrie close and fake whispers, “Think about how it’ll play. Your best friend at work. You’ve carried a torch for him for years.”

  My skin starts to buzz.

  “But I — ” Carrie looks anywhere but at me.

  “For show, Carrie,” Zeke stresses. “You’ve spent all this time dreaming about him, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, to make love with him, to fuck him in the backseat of the car, how his hands would feel on your hips while he bends you over a wood fence at a Montana ranch — ”

  “We get the picture,” I growl.

  “Go on,” Carrie says, mesmerized. Her tongue peeks out between her lips and she licks before swallowing, hard.

  “And all this time, it turns out the flame he carries for you — get it? Carries? — is even bigger than your little torch. The cute surprise love story practically writes itself,” he adds with a flourish and a smirk, chucking her chin.

  “Nice fiction,” I say in a low, tight voice.

  “This could work?” Carrie’s voice goes up, high and thready the way women can get when they’re unsure.

  I take the lead.

  “Yes. Absolutely. Zeke’s story is a great fairy tale.”

  “Yeah, mate, well… some fairy tales can come true.”

  Carrie’s phone buzzes. She looks at it. “Jenny. Begging me not to back out of the wedding.” Uncertain, she gives me a look I can’t decipher. My bones feel bigger. The air feels thinner. Her eyes beckon, asking me to save her.

  “Tell her you met someone,” I reply back, confident and strong. “He was right under your nose all along.”

  “But you’re half a foot taller than me,” she points out.

  Zeke throws up his hands. “You two are hopeless.” He punches me in the gut. I tighten, catching the blow, pretending it doesn’t hurt. “We’re two minutes late for that divorce party.” He flashes Carrie a thousand watt smile. “Think about it. And if you don’t want Ryan, I can always change my plans.”

  I grab his arm and drag him down the hall. I can drown him in one of the 55-gallon drums of massage oil, right? Justifiable homicide.

  Chapter 7

  CARRIE

  Left turn into the drive, between stone pillars with a carved sign: Chatham Beach Inn. Underneath the logo, the words “An Anterdec Property” are painted in small, discreet letters. My prehistoric Hyundai seems to take a deep breath before climbing the hill. The air conditioning died about an hour into the trip. Normally that wouldn’t be a crisis at this time of year, but this has turned out to be that strange fall weekend when it’s eighty degrees.

  It’s a spectacular Cape Cod October day, but Jenny can’t be happy; her gown is heavy white satin.

  Angela, a bridesmaid, sits beside me. She’s been navigating since we turned off Route 6.

  “I cannot wait to get to my room and take a bath,” she says with a sigh of relief. “We have two hours until Jenny wants to meet with us. When does your boyfriend get here?”

  “He’s already here,” I answer.

  She looks at me, puzzled. “I thought he was coming later?”

  “Oh, right, Ryan!” I say quickly. “Right. He’ll be here later. He couldn’t leave work early.”

  “You were so lucky to find a new boyfriend so quickly,” she comments. “Last time I had a breakup, I didn’t have a date for six months. By Month Five, I was rubbing up against doorknobs.”

  “Right,” I re
peat, quieter this time. “Lucky. I sure am. I’m lucky.”

  We pull up to the main entrance. I hand my keys to the valet and open the back of the car to unload our suitcases and the garment bags with our dresses.

  The maid of honor outfit isn’t as bad as I feared. In fact, as these things go, it’s pretty great. I could have spent that $350 on other things, like, say, my cellphone bill, but still.

  The dress is strapless, knee length, navy blue silk faille. It’s fitted, and the top dips between my breasts. Best of all, it came in Tall sizes, so the waistline is actually in the general vicinity of my waistline. Navy suede strappy heels — four inches — thank God Ryan is tall. Jenny gave us dangly pearl earrings and necklaces as gifts, and she also gave us navy flip flops with silver seashells on them for dancing at the reception.

  My suitcase is packed with my own outfit for the rehearsal, and everything else I might need for the weekend. A sweater, jeans, shorts, some tops. The sleepwear choice was harder, considering my roommate. I settled on a silk slip, not too long, not too short.

  It’s not like Ryan and I are really together, but you know, I can’t wear pajama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt. Someone might see, and get the wrong idea.

  Or the right idea. Whatever.

  Angela and I haul our bags out of the car and head into the lobby to the registration desk. We get our keys — our rooms are on the same floor — and turn to look for the elevator. I’m scanning the lobby when I see two very tanned and handsome men coming through the entrance door, wearing white shorts and polo shirts and carrying tennis racquets. They are laughing.

  My heart lands in my stomach.

  It’s Jamey. And… Devin? No.

  Kevin.

  I spin around and face the elevator, praying that the doors will open now and swallow me up. Before the new and improved Happy Couple gets over here.

  “So, Angela,” I start, “Want to meet up before we meet up with Jenny?” I don’t even know what I’m saying. I am babbling.

  Open, please, please open.

  The light that shows where the elevator is has not moved. Apparently an entire family is moving in on the third floor.

  “Carrie?” I hear behind me, in Jamey’s familiar voice.

  It’s showtime.

  “Jamey!” My voice reflects nothing but surprise and pleasure. “Oh my gosh, how have you been?” I lean forward and kiss him on both cheeks.

  He looks at me a little oddly, but air-kisses me back.

  “Um… you remember Kevin?” Jamey asks, eyeing me nervously.

  “Of course I remember Kevin! From the map store, right? It is so nice to see you!”

  Kevin is having a deer-in-the-headlights moment. Angela is smiling politely, waiting to be introduced.

  The elevator door finally opens. The passengers file out and we crowd in.

  “This is Angela. She’s a bridesmaid. Angela, this is Jamey and, um, Kevin. Jamey is Jenny’s brother. Kevin is, um, Jamey’s friend.” That all sounds perfectly normal and reasonable. “We’re on the fourth floor,” I add.

  “Boyfriend,” Kevin corrects. “I’m Jamey’s boyfriend. We’re on the fourth floor, too.”

  “My boyfriend will be here in a few hours,” I announce. “He had to work today. I’m so excited for everyone to meet him. Jamey, you might remember him from O? His name is Ryan. He’s really tall and handsome and has an engineering degree from Cal Tech and we love all the same movies and I can’t wait to see our room, I think it has an ocean view and a huge bed and we’ll probably be late for everything because we just won’t want to leave the room, Ryan just never wants to get out of bed, you know how it is when you’re in love — ”

  Everyone is staring at me.

  Shut up, Carrie.

  Mercifully, the elevator stops and the doors slide open.

  Jamey clears his throat. “Well, okay then. What number are we, again, Kevin?”

  “412.”

  I look at my room key. 410.

  Great. Just… great.

  “Looks like we’re neighbors,” I say.

  “I’m 431. Guess I’m in the other direction,” Angela says, with what sounds like relief. “See you all later.” She sets off to the right, trotting.

  The rest of us turn left, trooping down a long, hushed hallway hung with prints of sailing ships.

  I stop at number 410. “So we’ll see you at the rehearsal tomorrow,” I offer, my hand on the door handle.

  Kevin keeps walking to their door. “I really need a shower. You coming, Jamey?” He disappears inside.

  “Just a sec.” Jamey hesitates, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “It’s really good to see you, Carrie. I think about you all the time. I... I miss you. Are things really going well?”

  “What do you mean? Of course! I’ve never been happier.” I push the door open and drag my bags inside. Jamey moves to help but I turn, blocking his way. I do not want him inside this room… our room. Where we were supposed to stay, together. Like always. “Thanks. I have to get ready for Ryan now. He’ll be here soon. Any minute. So… ” I’m closing the door now, not looking at him.

  “Maybe we can talk later,” he says.

  “Maybe.”

  The door clicks shut and I lean my back against it, eyes shut tight. I will not cry. I will not cry.

  My phone pings with a text, and I pull it out of my bag.

  It’s Ryan: Hey beautiful almost there what’s our room number?

  RYAN

  I swing into the semi-circular driveway at the resort and end up third in line. Valet parking. Of course. My 1992 Mazda Miata is an oldie but goodie, the original red shine a little duller, but she made the trip from California to Massachusetts just fine when I moved here a few years ago. Weekly car washes in the winter keep her rust-free.

  My sisters call her my first love. Pretty sure they’re right. Dad helped me buy her and we rebuilt the engine together the summer between high school and college. 119,000 miles and going strong. I love going for rides during leaf-peeper season in Maine and Vermont, the only time of year I run up the miles on my baby. Fun day trips.

  Now that I’ve seen more of the Cape, I’m thinking we need some summer excursions, too.

  We. Me and Carrie.

  I move up to second in line and run my hands on my thighs, hoping I don’t leave sweat marks. It’s all pretend, this boyfriend-for-the-wedding act, but it’s also real. Too real. It’s almost more real by being fake.

  I get to touch her. Kiss her. Be an animal in public who can’t get enough of her, all to show everyone that she’s moved on.

  But this is also my chance. Fake it ‘til you make it, right?

  A valet takes my information, asking for the room number. I text Carrie. I give him the number.

  A hotel room. One bed. Ocean view. Alone with Carrie at a romantic seaside inn, at a wedding. Weddings are like tiramisu for women. The aphrodisiac that just keeps on coming.

  Or something like that.

  I check in and take the stairs up, hanging bag in hand. By the time I use my cardkey, I’m a little sweaty, a lot excited, and as I enter the room I freeze.

  Carrie’s luscious ass faces me, on the bed. Her head is down and she’s crying.

  Not the greeting I expected.

  But that view. That ass. Her skirt is pulled up, exposing her knees and thighs, the soft undercurve of her sweet, round ass just peeking out from the hem. Her entire body is shaking and she’s sobbing, her fists punching the pillow she’s buried her face in.

  Without taking my eyes off her, I hang my suit bag on the closet door and stop, taking a deep breath. She doesn’t realize I’m here. I have an unadulterated, unfettered view of pretty much every man’s fantasy (minus the clothing), until she sits up and turns around, still on her knees, ass up, her hair swinging over the back of her shoulder, her face submissive and pleading.

  Oh, kitten.

  I know, I know. Her emotional state should trigger empathy in me, right? I’ll get there. I will.
Give me a minute. Maybe even two.

  “Ryan!” Carrie starts sobbing, again, her face crumpling. I take one big step toward her and halt, struggling not to show that I need to adjust my, uh…. stride before I can reach her.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for her shoulder. “You saw Jamey, didn’t you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Wild guess.”

  She lets out an adorable little huff of sad laughter. I look at her, stroking the wet hair off her face, tears ravaging her makeup. With wide, red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks, she looks so helpless.

  So beautiful.

  “I got here too late, huh? Sorry, traffic on Route 6 was terrible.”

  “You’re actually early. It’s okay.”

  “No, C-Shel. It isn’t. No guy is worth being like this over.” Except me, I think, and I’d never do this to you.

  “Thanks. It’s just… Jamey was with Kevin, and — ”

  “So he did bring him after all?”

  “YES!” she wails. “And he’s cuter than me!”

  I look at the stamped-tin ceiling and scratch my chin, trying not to laugh. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “He’s tan. And fit. Fit like you! And he has great pores! It’s like God’s mindfucking me. I mean, who finds a guy with great pores? My pores are like the Grand Canyon cloned a million times! I’ve been replaced by a Ralph Lauren ad. Kevin runs an antique map store and he has better skin. And better clothing taste. And — “

  “And he’s gay,” I say softly. “Like Jamey. Your pores had nothing to do with it. You did nothing wrong, kitten.”

  She frowns. “Did you just call me ‘kitten’?”

  Oh, shit.

  “Um, yeah. Just, you know — practicing. I came up with some great names for you. You know. For when we’re being boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  The frown disappears.

  I leave out the words in public on purpose.

  “Oh.” Sniff. “That makes sense.” Sniff. “I like it.” My hand migrates to her back, between her shoulder blades, and I rub the spot, feeling her melt beneath my touch.