Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

" Y our loft?"

"Yeah, we can't take this study session back there," Holden said casually, pushing off from the Angela's desk to stand tall before her. "It's quiet, comfortable, and we can work undisturbed through the three-day weekend."

"I don't know..." Angela cocked an eyebrow. He could see the wheels turning in her head. He wanted to know what she was thinking.

"Do you have family plans for the holidays?"

New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day were over the weekend this year. To compensate, most businesses were closed on Monday.

Angela averted her gaze. "No, I don't have family plans."

He leaned in closer, the warmth of his breath brushing against her ear as he confided, "I don't really do the whole festive family thing either. Got disowned when I took up a career in the adult film industry."

Her eyes met his again. There was a connection there, but Holden didn't know exactly what the new ties were made of.

"Okay," Angela conceded. "Let's go to your loft."

Five minutes later, they stepped out into the crisp winter air. The Chicago streets were alive with the holiday spirit left over from Christmas. Sparkling lights hung like constellations above them while the scent of roasted chestnuts wafted from nearby vendors. Holden felt Angela's arm loop through his as they navigated through the crowd, her body heat seeping into him like a promise of what was to come.

"It's like walking through a Christmas card."

"Except you're with a guy who's more used to being on a 'naughty' list than a nice one."

"Maybe naughty can be nice for a change," Angela shot back, her dark eyes twinkling mischievously under the holiday lights.

Holden's heart thrummed with anticipation. Indeed, this holiday season promised to be anything but conventional. He felt the crunch of fresh snow under his boots, a rhythmic counterpoint to the pulsing energy of Angela's laughter as they threaded between throngs of holiday revelers. The city glowed with a festive luminescence that cast an almost magical sheen over everything. He stole a glance at her, her cheeks flushed from the cold—or perhaps from the anticipation.

"Acting was my first love," Holden began, his voice low and tinged with a hint of nostalgia as they paused beneath the amber glow of a street lamp. "My folks, they loved watching me on stage back in high school. But when I decided to take it seriously, go full time... well, let's say their applause faded."

"So you turned to modeling?" Angela prompted, her breath a misty cloud in the chill air.

He nodded, the memories sharp and clear as the icicles hanging from nearby shop awnings. "Yeah, catalog modeling. Then nude modeling. Eventually, naked acting was the next logical step. Money got tight, and honestly, I enjoyed it—at first."

They resumed walking, the silence between them filled with the unspoken recognition of shared vulnerability. The night sparkled around them, the twinkling lights reflecting off Angela's dark hair like stars caught in a sable net.

"My family's sailing the Caribbean right now," Angela revealed suddenly, her tone casual but her words weighted with significance. "Didn't even bother inviting me. My parents are both scientists, and they can't fathom why I'd waste my brain making toys."

"So we're a pair, aren't we? Your parents don't respect what you do with your mind. Mine couldn't handle what I did with my body."

"Yeah," she said, lacing her gloved fingers through his.

Holden felt the warmth of it seep into him, chasing away the winter chill. Together, they walked on, two kindred spirits navigating the paradox of a season dedicated to togetherness while surrounded by their own solitary battles. But tonight, maybe, just maybe, they wouldn't have to fight alone.

Ten minutes later, Holden pushed open the door to his loft. "Welcome to my humble abode," he said, the words tinged with a self-deprecating humor that belied the stylish interior.

Angela stepped over the threshold, her gaze sweeping across the expanse of the living room, where plush sofas beckoned invitingly. The walls were adorned with abstract art, bold strokes of color that danced in the muted light filtering through the windows. A well-worn guitar rested against an armchair, strings gleaming like silent promises.

"Cozy," she remarked, one eyebrow arching playfully.

"Best part of being disowned is getting to choose your own furniture," Holden quipped, leading her further into the space. "No hand-me-downs."

The kitchen was a study in organized chaos, pots and pans hanging from a rack above an island teeming with an assortment of spices and herbs. He opened the fridge, revealing shelves stocked with an impressive array of craft beers and takeout containers.

"Culinary skills may not be my forte," he admitted, "but I do know my way around a microwave."

He guided her toward the bedroom. The door swung open to reveal a large bed, its covers tousled as if they had just been abandoned. Pillows lay strewn about, suggesting nights of restless dreaming or fevered passion. It was a personal sanctuary, a place where Holden's facade could crumble away, leaving only raw desire and vulnerability.

"Seems sturdy." Angela brushed her fingers along the soft fabric of the comforter.

"Tested and approved."

"You bring a lot of women here?" She winced. "Sorry, I didn't?—"

"No, I don't. I like my solitude. But I have shot many scenes on this brand of mattress."

They retreated back to the warmth of the living room, where Holden flicked on the television, the screen springing to life with the vibrant hues of a classic holiday movie. He nestled onto the couch, patting the cushion beside him. "Join me?"

Angela slipped under the blanket he offered, tucking her legs beneath her. The couch became their shared cocoon as they laughed at the on-screen antics of the holiday film, the sound mingling with the faint hum of the city beyond the walls. Holden reached for the bowl of popcorn, kernels tumbling over the brim as he offered it to her.

"Science has yet to explain why holiday movies are so much better with popcorn," he said, popping a handful into his mouth.

"Maybe it's the butter-to-salt ratio," Angela suggested, her tone deadpan as she took a piece.

"Or maybe"—Holden leaned closer, his breath ghosting her ear—"it's all about who you're sharing it with."

Holden was no stranger to staged romance. This felt different—authentic and unscripted. As the movie played out its predictable happy ending, he turned toward her, feeling the pull of something more potent than scripted drama.

"Angela," he murmured, his voice a low timbre.

Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a question lingering in their depths. In that heated gaze, Holden found his cue. Leaning in, he captured her lips with his, the kiss a spark that ignited a fire far more consuming than the one before them.

Her breath hitched, breaking their kiss, and she pulled back just enough to whisper, "This doesn't feel scientific."

"Let's take a small break from science and just have pleasure."