Chapter Three - Hollis
637 Words
I should’ve known the universe wouldn’t let me ease back into this quietly.
The conference room is already half full when I arrive—staffers, coordinators, a couple of players who clearly lost a bet. I slip into an empty chair near the end of the table and open my notebook, grounding myself in bullet points and timelines.
Work mode.
Safe mode.
The chair across from me scrapes back.
Rowan Beckett sits.
Of course he does.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He leans back instead, long legs stretched out, forearms resting on the table like he belongs here—which, unfortunately, he does. Relaxed. Casual.
Like my pulse didn’t just trip over itself.
“Alright,” the team liaison says, clapping her hands. “Holiday events. Let’s make this painless.”
Rowan’s mouth twitches. “No promises.”
A few people laugh. I don’t.
I keep my eyes on my notes, on the careful handwriting I’ve already smudged once. On anything except the memory nudging at the edges of my mind.
A hallway.
Too late.
Music bleeding through walls.
One kiss.
I swallow and force myself back into the present.
“So,” Rowan says a few minutes in, finally looking at me. “Guess we’re working together.”
I lift my gaze slowly. Meet his eyes. Hold them.
“Looks like it.”
Something passes between us—recognition, maybe. Or acknowledgement. Like we both know this isn’t coincidence.
He leans forward slightly, voice dropping just enough to feel deliberate. “You always did have terrible timing.”
I stiffen. “You’re imagining things.”
His smile is slow. Knowing. Dangerous. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing.”
The liaison launches into dates and logistics, but my focus fractures. Rowan listens—really listens—asking questions, offering suggestions that are annoyingly useful. He’s not playing dumb. He’s not playing anything.
That somehow feels worse.
Halfway through, he slides a folder across the table toward me.
Our fingers brush.
Barely.
It shouldn’t feel like anything.
It feels like a warning.
I pull my hand back first, jaw tight, and make a note I don’t need to make just to give myself something to do.
Don’t.
When the meeting finally adjourns, chairs scrape and people stand, the room buzzing with side conversations. I gather my things quickly, intent on a clean exit.
“Hollis,” Rowan says.
I pause. Don’t turn around.
“We good?” he asks.
The question is quiet. Careful.
I laugh softly, without humor. “Were we ever?”
Silence stretches.
Then—so low I’m not sure anyone else could hear it—he says, “That night didn’t mean nothing.”
My breath catches. Immediate. Traitorous.
I turn then, meeting his gaze head-on. “It meant enough for us not to do it again.”
His eyes darken. “Or enough that we knew better.”
I step closer before I can stop myself—close enough to feel the heat of him, far enough not to touch.
“Some lines exist for a reason,” I say.
“And some exist,” he replies, voice roughening just slightly, “to be crossed once.”
Once.
The word lands heavier than it should.
I step back, reclaiming air, composure, control. “Don’t.”
Rowan nods slowly, like he’s agreeing to something that costs him. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”
I walk away before either of us forgets why this is a bad idea.
But as I reach the hallway, one truth settles sharp and undeniable:
We didn’t stop because we didn’t want to.
We stopped because we understood exactly what it would cost.
And some mistakes?
You don’t make them because you’re careless.
You make them because, for one reckless moment, they feel inevitable.
- Writer
