by Cate Ashwood
Gage glared at me one last time, then turned his attention back to the TV.
Okay then.
“I heard they found another story by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in some guy’s attic a while back. How crazy is that? It was up there for something like eighty years and no one ever had any idea.”
I waited for Gage to react, but he stared forward, eyes trained on Mrs. Hudson as she scolded Sherlock for something. He had a housekeeper and no one thought he was a rich, spoiled brat.
“Have you read any of his books?” I didn’t even pause for Gage to answer. “I’ve read all of them—well, except the one they just found. I should see if I can get my hands on it. It’s been years since I read the others, though. Got through most of them somewhere around the sixth grade…”
Gage’s eyes hadn’t shifted once from where they were trained on the screen, and it was at that point I realized my babbling was making the situation more awkward than anything, so I shut up and concentrated instead on Mr. Cumberbatch and his insanely sexy accent.
An hour later, Sherlock had figured out who’d killed the woman, Gage had succeeded in completely ignoring me, and I was absolutely starving. “You got anything to eat?” I hadn’t eaten since that sketchy fucking burger at the pub.
“If I say no, are you going to nag me until I give in and get you something anyway?”
I shrugged. “Either that or rummage through your fridge myself.”
“You really are an overprivileged little shit, aren’t you?”
I laughed. I’d been called worse, after all. “Yep.”
Gage huffed a sigh, then surprisingly pushed himself to stand. “C’mon. I’ve got some leftovers you can have.”
I grinned and hurried after him. There was no way of knowing if Gage was any better in the kitchen than the cook at Whisky J’s, but I was willing to risk it. Perching myself on one of the stools at his breakfast bar, I watched him as he retrieved the container from the fridge and dished out a large portion of lasagna onto a plate to heat in the microwave.
“What if I don’t like lasagna?” I asked, just to be annoying, but my growling stomach betrayed me. I stared at the plate, turning around and around in the microwave as though it was the only thing I’d eat that week.
“Only psychos don’t like lasagna.” He grabbed some cutlery from a drawer and set it on the counter. “Although… given your recent behavior…”
And then I just about fell off my stool when he shot me a half smile.
The microwave dinged and he pulled the plate of steaming pasta out, then set it in front of me. The scent of garlic, tomatoes, and cheese filled the air. I pressed my fork through the perfectly cooked layers and brought the first bite to my mouth, blowing to cool it.
“Why Alaska?” I asked, sliding the fork into my mouth and immediately inflicting second-degree burns. I panted, trying to keep the molten cheese from touching the roof of my mouth.
Gage laughed at me. “Hot?”
“Just a tad.” I glared daggers back at him and blew dramatically to cool the next bite. “Anyways, you were saying. Alaska?”
“I wasn’t saying anything at all.”
“Come on,” I urged. “This is small talk. It’s what polite people do in situations like this.”
“Been in lots of situations like this to know, have you?” He poured two glasses of red wine and placed one on the counter beside my plate.
“Stranded talking to someone who wants nothing to do with me?” I shrugged. “A few times more than I’d like. Makes things a helluva lot easier if we call a temporary truce. You can go back to hating me tomorrow once Lyle gets here and hauls my vehicle off your property.”
“I picked Alaska because Logan’s here,” he said. His answer surprised me, partially because I didn’t actually expect him to answer the question, truce or not, and partially because of what his answer had been. Maybe I’d pegged him wrong. I’d assumed Gage was the type of guy who kept to himself, who didn’t form bonded relationships with friends, or boyfriends, or anyone.
His body language, in all the time I’d spent with him, had never really veered away from fuck-off-or-I’ll-throat-punch-you. Although thinking about it now, it was probably my presence that brought out that quality in him.
Lucky me.
I figured if he’d answered one, I might as well go for broke. “Are you and Logan…” I resisted the urge to motion with my index finger sliding in and out of my other hand.
“Together?” Gage supplied, which was probably a lot less vulgar.
“Yeah.”
“Just friends.”
“He’s straight?”
Gage shook his head. “No. It was the first thing we figured out we had in common, but it was never like that with us. We met in undergrad, and by the time we got to med school, we were inseparable. I hated that he left New York, but Logan grew up here. He always knew he’d end up back here. I think he hopped a plane the day he graduated.”
“You guys must be close if you followed him to this frozen wasteland.”
I shoved the last bite of lasagna into my mouth and began to push my plate away when I remembered how Gage had reacted to me leaving my boots. I stood instead and carried my plate to the sink, rinsed it, then placed it in the dishwasher. When I turned, Gage was watching me.
“What?” I asked, feeling self-conscious again.
“Nothing.”
Before I could press him to give me a real answer, he walked out of the kitchen and back to the living room.
I followed, and almost missed when he tossed me the remote.
“You pick something,” he said.
“You don’t wanna watch the next episode of Sherlock?”
“I wasn’t really following what was happening anyway.”
“Well, okay then. If you’re sure. Stranger Things is awesome. You seen it?”
“I don’t watch much TV.”
“Yeah but everyone’s seen Stranger Things.”
“Clearly not everyone.”
I wiggled into my seat. “Prepare to have your mind blown.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Why are you still here?”
Two hours had passed, and the screen had flashed in front of me. I was fairly certain the actors had been trading lines of dialogue, but I couldn’t have given any more detail than that if you’d paid me. I’d been sitting there, watching Holden out of the corner of my eye. I don’t think he’d stopped moving since he sat down. The phrase “edge of your seat” actually applied to him. He moved to the front of the chair, perching himself up, gesturing and yelling at the TV, during particularly intense scenes.
I’d never seen anything like it.
Holden shifted his focus from Stranger Things to me. “Uhhh. Snowed in, remember? You got early onset dementia?”
I shook my head. “No. Not why are you still here in my house. I’m painfully aware of why you’re still in my goddamn house. I meant why didn’t you leave Sawyer’s Ferry after the first time I told you to fuck off?”
“Because you hadn’t heard me out.”
“And then I did, and my answer was no, and yet…” I waved my hand in his direction. “Here you are.”
“I thought this topic was off-limits.”
“I’ll give you a short exemption, but I get to call time when we’re done.”
“You certainly seem to enjoy rules,” he said, tilting his head as though he was appraising me. “Nope, scratch that. You like to make the rules. You’re a control freak.”
“Aren’t all surgeons?”
He quirked a smile. “Not me. I am plenty amenable to letting someone else be in charge… call the shots… take control.” And when he waggled his eyebrows at me, I got the distinct feeling he was referring to one area of his life in particular he didn’t mind getting bossed around.
My body responded to that thought, and I was distracted by the image of what it would look like to really boss Holden around. Just as I was venturing in on fantasy territory, I reined my
self back in.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
The smug look on his face had me thinking he knew exactly where my mind had gone but didn’t say so. He batted his eyelashes. “What was the question again?”
“Why the hell you didn’t leave when I told you to.”
“Oh, right. Because I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Well, before it was because if I went back to New York and you weren’t on in the plane seat next to me, then I’d be kicked out of the company. But after the last time you turned me down, my dad saved me the trouble of traveling all the way home before he booted me.”
“He fired you?” That didn’t surprise me. Philip was that heartless, but hearing Holden say it made it feel more personal.
“Yep. Which is why I showed up here tonight. You know, one last-ditch effort to save my job. My apartment. My life.”
“You’re being a little dramatic, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. Feels like the situation calls for it, though.” He gave his head a little shake, his frown dissolving so quickly I almost thought I’d imagined it, a little grin taking its place. “Feel bad enough for me yet that you’re willing to change your mind and come back to Manhattan?”
“Uh, nope.” But I did feel bad. Maybe. Sort of. If I were being honest, I didn’t know what I felt. Now that he was sitting in my living room, I had to admit I liked Holden more than I thought I would. Kind of. Slightly, anyway.
My initial assumption that he was exactly like his father was off base. He was nothing like his father, but I wasn’t sure the spoiled, entitled man-child curled up in my armchair was any better than the egotistical, money-hungry, coldhearted monster his father was.
Holden shrugged, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “That’s too bad. I’m too pretty for the streets.”
He was, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him. “I’m sure if your father could be reasoned with—”
“Uhh, have you met Phil?”
“Good point.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t have much luck reasoning with him, or you would still be leading the western world in medical research rather than putting Band-Aids on boo-boos in Frosty’s Asshole, Alaska.”
The defensiveness I’d felt toward him before was back, but the more I turned his observation over in my head, the more I realized he was right.
“I’m sure you’re well apprised of the details of my resigning.”
“No one’s told me a thing. The file my dad’s assistant gave me on you was delightfully vague on that part.”
“Oh right… I almost forgot about your stalker file.”
He shrugged. “It pays to be prepared. There weren’t any specifics on why you left, though. All I know was that you and my dad started the company, and then you left. But I do know that since you walked out, the company’s been in a slow decline. Dad’s been tight-lipped about it, but my guess is that investors lost faith when you walked out the door and he’s getting worried.”
“He told you he’s worried?”
“Of course not. But if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here. He wouldn’t be asking you back. Period.” Holden had lost his playfulness. “So if you care about the future of Westbridge, you might want to think about at least getting in contact with him… hearing what he has to say.”
“Hmm.”
“Do you? Care?”
I met Holden’s gaze. “I don’t know.”
When had this turned into a conversation about Westbridge? So much for keeping any mention of that company or Philip out of my house. Although I’d started it, I supposed.
“Westbridge was meant to help people. I gave up being a surgeon and put my whole life into it.”
“So what happened?” He was perched on the edge of his seat again, his focus trained solely on me.
I didn’t want to get into this. I didn’t want to rehash everything that had happened, but the way he was looking at me like I was the one with all the answers…
“Somewhere along the way, our mission became warped. Your dad was one of my mentors, an attending at Grace Memorial, and when I’d completed the study on clotting response in patients with traumatic injury, it sparked something.” I could feel the anger start to well in my throat. “I knew your dad came from money. He had the connections, and I had nothing but the knowledge and the passion. I approached him with the idea to start a company, focusing on surgical trials as we could, but never losing sight of patient care. I wanted to help people.”
His eyes were locked on me, and my anger transformed into something else. The way he was staring at me, his pupils wide in the low light, his body angled toward me…
He shook his head. “That’s admirable. But let me guess. My dad wanted to make money.”
“It didn’t start that way. He was young. I was younger. We were both wide-eyed optimists totally invested in the cause, but as the company grew and became more successful, we expanded into other areas—areas that were more lucrative. New departments were created—clinical trials, medical research, but the most profitable were the pharmaceutical trials and cosmetic surgery center. I told myself that the vanity projects would pay for the life-saving ones, but eventually, those vanity projects eclipsed the rest.”
“And that’s not the way you wanted to see the company going.”
“Nope. I tried to talk to Philip about it, but by then, the amount of money rolling in was too big a temptation. The idea of shutting down even a portion of the areas that were so lucrative wasn’t one he was willing to entertain. By that time we had enough investors and board members who agreed with him that I didn’t stand a chance of winning the argument.”
“So you left.”
“Philip approached me about a buyout. I think I was a thorn in his side for far too long, nagging him about returning to our roots, and I think if I’d rejected his offer he would have tried to oust me by any means possible. I was happy to leave, though. Westbridge isn’t the company I started. That company died a long time ago.”
Holden let out a long breath. “I had no idea. I didn’t start there until after you left, and I don’t exactly keep tabs on business.”
“Okay, time’s up.” I slapped my hands against the tops of my thighs. The evening had soured, and my mood with it. Against all logic, I’d actually been enjoying Holden’s company, but memories of Westbridge and the promise the company had held for me turned to ash in my mind. It was still a sore spot two years later, and I didn’t think I’d ever be able to reminisce with fondness over it all.
Fuck Philip for poisoning a company that could have been great.
And fuck him twice for sending his kid out to dig shit up that I’d buried long before.
“No more discussion of your dad, Westbridge, any of it.”
Holden stood up and leaned against the arm of the chair, his arms folded across his chest. “I have one last question.”
I opened my mouth to tell him no but closed it again. I was the one who’d brought the topic up, after all. I could answer one question. I braced myself. “Fine, go ahead.”
“You’re positive you don’t want to even hear what my father is offering before you turn it down.”
Just the question I’d been expecting. I wasn’t sure how many different ways I could say it or how I could make sure the message got through this time. I went with “I don’t think I’ve ever been as sure of anything in my life.”
“Good.”
That definitely hadn’t been the response I’d anticipated. “Good?”
Holden pushed himself off the chair and uncrossed his arms, gripped the hem of his shirt, and lifted it up and over his head in one motion. I sat there staring at him, long stretches of smooth skin over toned muscles. My brain was officially fried, and no matter how hard I grappled to figure out what was going through his head, I couldn’t seem to wrap my own brain around what was happening.
He stalked toward me.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Seducing you. What’s it look like?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “You’re seducing me?”
He stepped closer, and straddling my legs, dropped himself onto my lap.
He smelled faintly of bergamot and the wine we’d had earlier, and without thinking, I lifted my hands and slid them along his thighs. He shifted closer and I stopped breathing.
“Now we’ve gotten all that serious business out of the way...” His voice was low and breathless, and I wanted to wrap myself in it.
“Serious business,” I repeated, having no idea what the hell he was talking about, but he could have said anything at that point and I wouldn’t have cared. I wanted him from the first moment I’d seen him, but when he was right here, when my hands were on him, I realized how much.
He leaned in, his breath ghosting against my skin. I tightened my grip on him as his lips connected with the curve of my neck. “I came here with one goal: to convince you to come back to New York. It was unachievable from the beginning, and maybe my dad was looking for a reason to take everything from me. I have no idea. But there’s nothing I can do about it now, so instead, I’m gonna do what I’ve wanted to do since I walked into that bar.”
“You trying to guilt me into having sex with you?”
Holden laughed and rocked against me, the ridge of his erection pressing against my belly. I was as hard as he was, and I knew he could feel my cock against his ass. “I don’t have to guilt you into anything. You want this as bad as I do.”
He had a point.
CHAPTER NINE
My heart was hammering so hard, I wouldn’t have been surprised if Gage could hear it.
Stripping to half-naked in his living room had been a risk. He could have thrown me out on my ass, but I’d seen the way he’d looked at me. There was irritation and frustration there, but not enough to mask the desire that simmered behind it, and as the evening had worn on, that irritation had eased. As I’d pulled my shirt off, I’d just hoped he’d be willing to overlook all the noise and see this for what it was.
