Page 101 of The Promises We Were Never Meant To Keep

And everyone seems to think we’d make a wonderful pair, if only I could give him a chance.

I clear my throat. My eyes flick to Holt, who is now leaning against the coffee station, arms folded, eyes pinned on me.

Why can’t he just go away?

“Um—you want to take me out?”

“I do.”

“This Saturday?” I touch the tip of my ball point to the Saturday in question on my calendar.

“Yeah, Faye. This Saturday.” Tanner’s grin stretches. He really is handsome.

“Um—” I bob my head. “I’ll have to ask my mom to watch the kids.”

“You do that.” He taps his knuckle on my desk before taking a step back. “Let me know, yeah?”

I nod. “I will.”

Having made it to the door, Tanner waves. “See you later, Faye.”

I wince when I croak, “Bye.” So, I give him a finger-wave.

The door cuts off his deep laugh as it falls closed.

My eyes snap to Holt. “Why are you still here?”

He kicks off the counter, his movements lethal as he nears my desk. He doesn’t stop on the far side of my desk like would be appropriate. He rounds my desk, drops one big hand to the back of my swivel chair, and takes advantage of the ease with which it swivels when he spins me to face him.

My breath gets stuck in my lungs when he drops his hands to the arm rests and leans in far too close for comfort. I can taste the icy mint of his breath as he says low, “You must have forgotten in the excitement of your date.” He bites out the last word. “But for the next five months, I run this place. That’s why I’m here.”

His eyes drift slowly over my face before dropping to my heaving breasts and sliding back up to my eyes. His are dark pools of stormy danger I can’t help but slide into, even knowing I might be lost forever.

They definitely don’t make me feel blasé, the way I so often feel under Tanner’s gaze.

In Holt’s gaze—trapped in the fire of his glare—I feel like a woman again. Alive again. Like not all of me died with Tate. Like there’s something that still wants to live. To breathe. To feel.

This is so wrong. So complicated.

He pushes off my chair, and I flinch at the roughness of the movement. At the loss of him so close.

I’m a mess.

“Pour your syrup into a to-go mug and pack up.” Holt moves to the front door, flipping the open sign to closed. He locks the door and starts for the back.

“What are we doing?” I find my voice, even though I have no hope of walking on my knocking knees just yet.

“You’re coming with me to the Cuthill’s. Got a call about a complete gut job but she’s not sure she has a vision. You’re going to give her one.”

“Um…”

He twists at the mouth of the hall to pin me with those pit-less eyes. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“I’ll gather my samples.” The words sound far hoarser than I like. Something flickers in the deep of his eyes. Something I can’t begin to decode.

“You’ve got ten minutes.” He turns and walks away.

I slump in my chair because what the heck was that?