Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Holly

"We're sorry, but all representatives are currently assisting?—"

"Bullshit!” I’ve seen what they consider assisting and again… bullshit. I stab the red button on my phone with way more force than necessary, resisting the urge to chuck it out the window into the swirling snow. The automated system cuts off mid-apology for what has to be the twentieth time, my signal fading in and out like my patience.

Beside me, Chance's jaw flexes. He drums his fingers against the steering wheel while his eyes narrow, fixed on the wall of white ahead of us. The storm that started as pretty, pillowy snowflakes has morphed into a full-blown whiteout.

My phone chirps, another bar of service popping up. It’s a trap. I know it’s a trap. Fate wants me to try one more time so she can smack me right in the ego—and maybe a little south of it, just to keep things spicy.

Don’t threaten me with a good time. It’s been a damn minute since I… got properly spun around and left breathless. The sit and spin was just the gateway toy.

I dial again, praying to whatever deity handles lost luggage and automated customer service lines to please, please just let me file a claim.

"Welcome to—" The mechanical voice crackles, breaks up, then dies completely.

Gee, who didn’t see that coming.

With a deep breath that does absolutely nothing to calm my rising anxiety, I fire off a text to Charlie.

Me

Storm's getting worse. Might have to stop.

Her reply is immediate…

Charlie

Just you and GI Joe?

Me

Don't start.

Charlie

Hey, maybe you'll get lucky and there'll only be one room left...

Me

Not all of us throw our cat at our brother's best friend after one night of sharing a bed.

Charlie

Best decision I ever made though

Me

Gross. In my mind, my brother has no dick. I refuse to believe otherwise.

Charlie

I hate to break it to you, but not only does he have a dick, he’s packing a in those jeans.

Me

Is that a bat? Why the hell did you drop a bat emoji?

Charlie

I couldn’t find a baseball bat so I had to improvise.

Me

OMG, staaaahhhhhpppp. We are NOT you. He can be smuggling a cannon between his legs for all I care. If we have to stop, we're handling it like adults.

Charlie

Gurrrlllll… I’ll have you know, I was very adult when I sexually harassed your brother with my mega wand.

Me

I hate you.

Charlie

Hey, I can’t help it if he gives good And what he can do with the is

Me

Good thing I need this phone to hunt down my luggage or I’d be throwing it out the window right now.

A gust of wind rocks the truck. Pure instinct has me throwing out my hands to brace myself. The one gripping the door handle—smart move. The one gripping Chance's rock-hard thigh—not so much.

"As much as I enjoy your aggressive approach to stress relief, Squirt, maybe find a different gear shift to grab." His voice drops an octave, a dangerous rumble that definitely doesn't make my stomach flip. "You’re not tall enough to ride this ride."

"Trust me, soldier boy, if I wanted to ride anything in this truck, I'd start with your ego—seems like that's the biggest thing in here."

The air between us crackles with tension, heavy and charged. Chance's jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the shadowed scruff lining his chiseled features. He takes a slow, measured breath, like he's mentally counting to ten. Or twenty.

When the truck lurches, he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like a prayer under his breath.

Knuckles white with force of his grip, he squints through the windshield.

I'm all for living dangerously, but when the speedometer starts giving me side-eye at the idea of even attempting the reduced speed limit, I know it's time to tap out.

"That's it." His voice, rough with frustration, breaks the tense silence. "We're stopping."

Relief floods me even as my stomach does a weird flip-flop thing. Not because of spending the night with GI Jackass. Absolutely not. No fluttery feelings here. Just exhaustion and frustration over my lost clothes and… everything.

At the next exit, Chance pulls into a gas station and yanks his phone from one of his eight thousand tactical pockets—seriously, who needs that many pockets—and fires off a series of texts.

The blue light from his screen catches on that jaw—the one that should come with a warning label and liability waiver. Not that I'm looking. Or cataloging the way his shit-eating grin grows with every exchange like he's collecting frequent flyer miles in the Smug Airways rewards program.

I swear, the bromance between him and my brother is as if Top Gun and Fight Club had a love child—all testosterone, no chill. They're basically soulmates joined at the hip flask, bonded by their obsession with overpriced whiskey, carving up black diamonds, and a mutual hard-on for torturing their little sisters. I swear, these two were meant to share a womb… practicing their fist bumps and secret handshakes in utero.

His phone buzzes again, and this time his deep chuckle makes me wonder what that sound would feel like vibrating along the inside of my thigh.

"What's so funny?" I manage to ask like I'm not currently imagining that voice doing very un-sisterly things to my nervous system.

"Your brother." He tilts the phone my way, and I catch a glimpse of their text chain, grateful for the distraction from my traitorous thoughts.

Me

Storm’s brutal. Stopping for the night.

Nick

Keep it PG with my sister

Me

Hey, I can only control myself Who's going to tell her to keep it PG with me? Half an hour in a confined space and she already tried to put me in fifth gear

Nick

What? The? Fuck? Does? That? Mean?

Me

Gotta go my, dude I'll let you know when we head to bed—er, find a bed. I mean, find a room.

Nick

Dead man texting

Me

Relax. We're not you guys. We can handle one night without shoving Tab A into Slot B.

Nick

is not slot B

Me

Hey, maybe she likes it in Slot C. I wouldn't want to presume…

Nick

Whatever you shove in her Slot C, I shove in yours. Remember that.

Me

I wonder if Holly’s more of girl or maybe she’s Olympic level

Me

Go big or go home, am I right?

Nick

Now, what the hell do those emojis mean?

Me

Go ask my sister, Old Man. She can help you with the lingo. I recommend a sedative first And maybe a medic standing by with a defibrillator.

"And there it is—" The words slip out before I can stop them. "Another guy who thinks slamming straight into fifth means he knows his way around a stick."

The darkness in the truck can't hide the way his jaw ticks. It's the same tell he's had since we were kids, the one that says I'm getting under his skin.

"Bold of you to assume I don't know my way around every gear in this truck, Squirt."

His voice hits me low in my belly, a direct strike that absolutely does not make me picture exactly how well he might know his way around things. I squeeze my thighs together and focus on the phone, because that's safer than acknowledging whatever just sparked between us.

I snort, falling back on the attitude that's gotten me through a lifetime of being underestimated. "Please. We are so not them."

"Exactly." His agreement comes too fast, too hard, like he's trying to outrun whatever's brewing between us. "We're…"

"Adults," I supply helpfully, definitely not watching the way his fingers drum against the leather of the steering wheel or how his forearms flex with each subtle movement. Nope. Not at all.

"Mature," he adds with a nod that holds about as much truth as my manifestation underwear's promise to make me 'fearless.'

Throwing the truck in gear, he eases back onto the road where the snow falls in unpredictable sheets with the precision of a drunk dart player.

"Yeah, super mature." My fingers dig into the edge of my seat as the bed of the truck fishtails in slow motion before catching grip again. "That's why you're sending my brother eggplant emojis and debating my sexual preferences. For someone who claims they're staying out of my slots, you sure had a lot to say about them."

The words fly out before I can stop them. Chance's grip on the wheel tightens, his jaw doing that telltale tick that says I've gotten under his skin.

"Besides," I continue, unable to resist poking the bear. “Anyone who sticks with the Tab A into Slot B routine is clearly working with training wheels. The real fun starts when you—never mind, I wouldn't expect GI Joe to know what to do with a girl who's into more than missionary anyway."

"Don't.” The raw edge in his tone is a verbal shot of adrenaline straight to my bloodstream, sending a pulse of heat exactly where I don’t need it, making me squirm in my seat.

The narrowed side he aims at my lap tells me he definitely saw it. “Just… don't go there, Squirt."

The VACANCY sign at Wildwood Motor Lodge pulses through the snow in a steady red rhythm. The horseshoe-shaped building sprawls before us in all its vintage glory—the kind of place with exterior doors and metal keys, travel influencers would take selfies in front of and hashtag "authentic Americana."

If my mother knew I was about to stay at a motel where the doors open to the actual outdoors instead of climate-controlled hallways with crystal chandeliers, she'd need her prescription upped. A win-win. Sometimes being the family disappointment has its perks.

Chance pulls into a spot near the office, the heavy snow already starting to coat his windshield. "Stay here. I'll check us in."

"I'm perfectly capable of?—"

"Of breaking your neck in those heels on the ice? Yeah, I know." He's already opening his door, letting in a blast of frigid air. "Just… stay put, Squirt. For once in your life, let someone else handle it."

I cross my arms and slump back in my seat, absolutely not watching the way his shoulders bunch under his jacket as he trudges through the deepening snow.

The Army might have trained him to bark orders, but I stopped playing soldier the day my training bra got upgraded. Too bad my hormones never got the discharge papers, because they're still very much enlisted in whatever this is.

Ten minutes later, I’m bouncing on his damn shoulder again as he trudges through ankle-deep snow to room 112, the last one on the end. A rusty number hangs crooked on a door that's seen better decades. The key Chance holds has an actual metal tag attached—not a magnetic card in sight.

Some clanking and three muttered curses later, the door finally swings open with an ominous creak. Craning my neck, my gaze lands on the bed.

One bed.

Of course, there's only one bed. A queen-size monstrosity covered in a floral print so aggressively retro it would make Austin Powers question his taste level.

"Well," I say into the loaded silence. "This is…"

"Mature?" Chance supplies helpfully, echoing our earlier conversation before he unceremoniously tosses me onto the center of the bed.

I'm going to kill Charlie for jinxing us with her one-room prophecy. "Adult," I correct him. "We're adults. We can handle this."

"Keep telling yourself that, Squirt." He chuckles low as he heads for the door.

I push up onto my palms to face him, ready to unleash my sharp tongue, but the words die in my throat. Because Chance fills the doorway like every rom-com fantasy come to life, snowflakes melting in his hair, looking at me with an intensity that makes me forget why I ever thought sharing a room was a good idea.

Like maybe we're not as mature about this as we're pretending to be.

And maybe I don't want to be.