Me: I’m happy just to see Kelvin McCoy!
Holt: … with me. You’re happy to see Kelvin McCoy with me. Right?
Me: Yes, with you. But Kelvin McCoy!
Holt: I heard he’s a dick in real life.
Me: Don’t ruin my vision.
Holt: Be ready at eight.
Me: I will. Thank you!
Holt: You’re very welcome.
I grab my computer and race to the shower.
Twenty-Four
Blaire
Berridge Stadium is boisterous.
Throngs of people are packed into the baseball stadium. Chords of music play intermittently over the speakers set up on either side of the stage in the outfield. A giant screen, black for the time being, is stretched out behind the platform that Kelvin McCoy will take in a matter of minutes.
Holt leads me down the aisle toward a baseball field that’s been turned into a country music concert. I dodge elbows from inebriated attendees and dirty looks from women who see Holt first, only to realize that I’m right behind him.
He looks and smells incredible. How a man can look this good after working for twelve hours—or more—is beyond me.
His ass fills out the back of his tan dress pants. Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of his blue and white striped shirt. The collar is undone, and his tie is missing, and I can’t imagine how women get any work done around him all day.
I’m watching him and not where I’m going when a foot juts out in front of me from the side. The edge of my heel catches on it, and I plummet forward.
“Ah,” I squeak as I slam into Holt’s back.
He turns, surprised, and quickly wraps one arm around me.
I look up to find him searching the area around me.
“What happened?” he asks. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
His eyes find mine, and he grins. “Well, pay attention before I get into a fight.”
My skin burns with the intensity of his gaze. It’s almost electric tonight.
Our conversation on the way over was friendly and fun. He gave me crap about my love for Kelvin McCoy and Beau McCrae, a country music singer who’d just finished his set. I teased him about being jealous. Despite the airy banter, something was different.
I felt it. I think Holt did too.
My brain told me it was because I put it into the universe that I would consider something more serious with him. I’m seeing things I want to see. But then he brushes his hand against mine or dips his fingers into the small of my back, and I swear I feel an intimacy to his touch that I haven’t felt before.
“Don’t get into a fight until after we watch Kelvin McCoy,” I tell him. “I don’t want to be thrown out of here too soon.”
His grin turns mischievous. “What do you like about him so much?”
It’s a simple question that has an easy answer. But it’s hard to think about anyone else while my body is pressed into Holt’s. Despite being in a stadium full of people, it feels like just the two of us.
I bite my lip. “His voice is dreamy.”
Holt rolls his eyes. “He sounds like a cocky teenager.”
I slap his chest and ignore the way it doesn’t give. It only makes it worse that I know how spectacular it is undressed.
“Let’s get to our seats before you miss the show,” he says.
He sets me back on both of my feet. But before he turns around, he grabs my hand.
My eyes flip to his. He looks as surprised as I feel.
“Just so you don’t fall again,” he mumbles.
“Right.”
His hand is large and warm. His grip is sturdy and reliable, just like I know him to be.
Don’t get swept up in this.
I ignore the legions of music fans on either side of the walkway. I block out the way my hand tingles from being tucked into Holt’s. I do my best to activate my guard and not read too much into anything—but it’s difficult.
It feels so natural.
Holt shows a uniformed man our tickets before we descend the last few steps. The man nods as I pass.
We stop at the bottom row. The only people closer to the stage are the people standing on the field.
“Oh, wow,” I say. “How did you get these tickets? They’re fantastic.”
He drops my hand and runs his through his hair. “Connections, I guess.”
“You must have some good connections.”
“You could say that.” He looks over my shoulder. “Whatever is said tonight, please understand I have no control over them.”
I furrow my brow. “What? Who? What are you talking about?”
I’m not sure if he’s going to laugh or wince. Either way, he slips by me and into the row of seats. I follow along and sit in the empty seat next to him.
“We didn’t think you were coming,” a familiar voice says from the other side of him.
I peer down the aisle.
The man I met at the Landrys’ the first night I met Holt—Oliver, I think it was, sits beside Holt. A young woman with gorgeous blond hair is seated next to him. Two men who are variations of Holt and Oliver smile back at me from the other side of the girl. An older man and woman sit at the end. The woman looks regal in an approachable way with her large pieces of jewelry and plain black T-shirt. The man is dressed like Holt and has the same warm smile.