Page 24 of Holden

“The rest is history?”

He half smiles, half frowns. “Something like that. But you know how it is—tough to leave the past fully where it belongs. There’s always a reminder, sometimes painful, always enlightening.”

I swallow a bite of tuna, allowing it to awkwardly slide down my throat. It’s delicious, but the taste is tainted by the bitter reality of my situation. Holden’s assessment speaks to my heart, and I’m concerned that he somehow knows the secret I’m carrying. I don’t want to deceive him, but how can I tell him the truth without him running away?

Isn’t that what I’d do? What I’ve always done?

We continue eating in reflective silence until the waiter returns with side dishes for us to share— an asparagus risotto, a yellow and red beet salad, and roasted carrots sprinkled with feta cheese. He tops up our wine glasses, bows, and then leaves us to our private conversation.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I register we’re not the only two people in the restaurant, but I love how intimate this table is. Tucked away in a corner, with the view of Manhattan pulsing in the background. The conversation around us turns to white noise, and I focus on finishing my “hour” with something concrete.

“How did you come up with the company name?” I finally ask.

“Ah that.” Holden grins. “Daylight symbolizes the dawn of a new day—a fresh start. Which we all needed, of course. And the ‘Holdings’ part is symbolic of our vow to hold onto this fresh start and protect it with everything in our power. That was our commitment to each other. It binds us even now.”

In reality, the three of them built a fortress around themselves, allowing few people within their inner circle. Mason and Lucas have been found love, let people in. Holden remains closed off though, a stoic guard of that binding vow. What—or who—can pierce that armor?

Is it completely stupid to wonder if I can?

“And did it work?” I whisper, heart pounding.

His answer means so much. As though, his ability to move forward can somehow be the catalyst for me to let go too. If I’m ever to move on from this, I need to shake the fear, the sadness…the guilt.

“Sometimes…”

Holden glances at his watch. I expect him to say that time is up, but instead he puts down his fork and stares at me with such curiosity, my heart opens like a book. I’m sure he will read into all of my secrets and fears, my innermost desires.

“Your turn,” he says.

I assume he’s talking about sex, and my heart leaps into my chest. “Here?”

He chuckles. “Possibly yes, but that’s not what I meant. Tell me something about you…” His voice drops to a whisper. “Other than how sweet your pussy tastes, because I figured that out all by myself.”

My eyes widen so fast I’m sure they’ll pop right out of my head. “Holden!” I cup my hand over my mouth. It’s the first time since he told me to call him Mr. Quinn that I’ve used his first name in public. Was I out of line?

Surely no more than him!

“I enjoy getting a rise out of you, Chelsea.”

His teasing tone makes it easy for me to start talking about myself, and before I know it, I start telling him about my childhood.

“My mom isn’t much of a cook,” I say, truthfully. “So, when we moved from Maine, it became the ultimate foodie adventure. On a budget, of course, because we never had a lot of money.”

It’s an understatement, but I’m not interested in Holden’s sympathy. Sure, we ate boxed macaroni and tuna out of the can, but Mom and I made it work. Built a life on the run, even with the nightmare of the past always just one step behind us. If Mom had her way, we’d have kept moving…

“So you travelled the country in search of the best hot dog?”

“That’s not even wrong,” I say, laughing. “Chicago, in case you’re wondering. They top the wieners with mustard, fresh onions and tomato, and then sprinkle it with seasoning salt.”

“Sounds decadent,” Holden says. “I’ll have my cook make it immediately.”

I grin the cheesiest grin of my life. “I’ll have to test it to make sure it compares.”

“So in addition to finding the world’s greatest hot dog, what else did you find on your travels?”

“Books,” I say, almost wistfully. “And cute bookstores.”

The adventures of others became my escape. I read voraciously as a young girl, burying my nightmares in other people’s dreams and imaginations. Their stories became mine, until suddenly, I wasn’t me anymore. I was Alice down the rabbit hole, or Charlie on a mission to find that magical chocolate bar. Anyone who wasn’t Chelsea Moorehouse, daughter of a mass murderer.