Restraint - Adriana Locke Page 0,33

The only way she won’t take me up on it is if she’s proving some other point to herself. Or if she pushes back just because I pushed first.

Which could happen.

“How about this?” I ask, rethinking my tactics. “I’ll text you my address. You are welcome to come at any time. If you get driven crazy by the colic kid tonight, come on by. Or wait until tomorrow. That’s cool too. Totally up to you.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says matter-of-factly.

I want to ask her another question just to keep her on the line, but Wade’s drawings taunt me from across the room, and I feel like maybe I can concentrate on them now.

“I’ll text you in just a minute,” I say.

“Thank you, Holt.”

“No problem. See you soon.”

“Goodbye.”

There’s a hesitation in her tone that makes me think she didn’t expect to get off the phone either. But for both of our goods, I press the red button anyway.

Thirteen

Blaire

“Vacations are so good for you,” I say in my best Sienna impression as I pilot my car down Cobblestone Way. “I just read a study that says you work harder and smarter when you’ve had a chance to relax. And Holt is so cute.”

I blow out a breath and try to relax back into the driver’s seat.

“This is all that screaming baby’s fault. Not mine,” I tell myself. “I could’ve held on until morning. I know I could’ve.”

The street is lined with giant oak trees. Their curved, drooping branches hang with picturesque Spanish moss flowing nearly to the ground. Houses are tucked back from the road, encompassed by large lots and obscured by the vegetation. With the final rays of daylight streaming through the foliage, it’s almost as though I’m driving through a movie set.

In this particular movie, however, the heroine isn’t a fashion designer coming home to get divorced or a bride-to-be heading to the beauty shop with her mother. This time, the leading lady is a displaced attorney heading to the house of a man she met a whole two days ago—and slept with once—as though it’s a good idea.

Because that’s what people do who graduated J.D. summa cum laude in law school. I’m really putting all my intelligence to good work these days.

As though the universe can sense my wobble, the numbers 1942 appear out of thin air. The numbers are black and pop against the brick mailbox that sits next to a wide driveway. A lamp sits on either side.

I turn toward the house.

My headlights flicker on as I slip beneath a row of moss-heavy trees. I travel around a little bend before I see the house itself.

“Holy shit,” I whisper.

Sitting in front of me is not just a house but an estate. Tall, white columns stand on the porch and frame a massive wooden door. The roof is slate gray, and the house itself is a warm, almost yellow paint that nearly glows in the sunset.

The driveway, a stamped concrete that makes it feel like you’re driving on stone, forms a y at the front steps. The right arm wraps around the side of the house; the left leads to an oversized four-car garage with doors the same gray as the roof.

It’s immaculate and incredible, and the landscaping adds to the secret garden, magical ambiance.

I park the car just as Holt appears on the porch.

“Dear lord,” I say, turning off the ignition.

He’s wearing the same jeans from this afternoon but has replaced the white button-up with a black T-shirt. And he’s barefooted.

Of course, he is. He knows how to play me like a fiddle.

He hops down the stairs with a spring in his step. “You found it,” he says as he pulls my door open.

“I drove past it five times, it’s so small.”

He makes a face as I climb out of the car.

“That’s something a guy never wants to hear,” he says, shutting the door behind me. He reaches in the back and grabs my bags and briefcase from the back seat. “But I’m glad you made it even if it took you five tries.”

“Six. But it was worth it. I can carry those,” I say.

He silences me with a look. The heat in it makes me shiver. After ensuring his point was made, he starts toward the porch.

“On a serious note, this place is beautiful,” I say as I follow him. “You are now officially never invited to my apartment in Chicago.”

“I didn’t know I was invited before.”

“Well, you weren’t. But you’re really not