Smoking Holt

ISBN 978-0-9891577-2-8

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Rebound Copyright © 2013 Sabrina York

Edited by
Monica Britt

Cover design by Wicked Smart Designs

Electronic book publication August 2013

Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

The publisher does not have any control over, and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

This book is dedicated t
o
Desiree Holt, Gina Lamm and Alexandra Cros
s
. When you read the book, you’ll know why, if you don’t already.

Acknowledgements

First of all, thanks to my amazing beta readers, Charmaine Arredondo, Carmen Cook, Shelly Estes and Hollie Reith. My deepest appreciation to Wicked Smart Designs for a rocking cover, and to Monica Britt for helping me whip this novella into shape.

Thank you so much to my dear
writerly friends for your support: Avery Aster, Sidney Bristol, Cerise de Land, Delilah Devlin, Tina Donahue, Kate Hill, Desiree Holt, Gina Lamm and Kate Richards. And to Crystal Biby, Dee Thomas, Angie Lane, Laurie Peterson, Regina Ross and Ronlyn Howe, I adore you.

To all my friends in the Greater Seattle Romance Writers of America, Passionate Ink and Rose City Romance Writers groups, thank you for all your support and encouragement.

It was raining. The patter of the raindrops pounded a relentless tattoo on the umbrella over her head, but Bella didn’t care.

It suited her mood.

The night was dark, damp. She could hear the restless crash of the waves on the beach, but couldn’t see anything beyond the veil of mist. Thunder rumbled in the distance, as though the gods wanted to grumble a complaint about the way life was turning out, but lacked the inspiration to give it full force.

Yeah. The weather suited her mood perfectly.
Hunkering deeper into the patio chair, she took another deep draw on her cigarette.

She hated the taste, the smell, the burn in her throat
, but there was a deep satisfaction in the action. Watching the embers flare. Seeing the paper darken and curl and then waft away in a drift of smoke. As though she could burn away all the petty annoyances, all the disappointments, all the failures of her life.

No one knew she still smoked—not her sister Kristi, not her mom, none of her friends. That was part of the thrill, she supposed.

Her secret rebellion.

She reached for the tumbler of whisk
ey—her not-so-secret rebellion—and tipped it back. Then filled it again. A warm glow infused her as the spirit slid smoothly into her veins.

God, she needed this.

Time to herself. Time to smoke and drink with no one watching or judging or, for fuck’s sake, nagging.

She’d come to the beach house she shared with her friends two days early—breaking the rules and not signing in on their online calendar. Because, fuck it. She needed to get away.
So after a dismal meeting with her distributor, picking up some new sample items, she headed straight for the ferry, a dark cloud of doom swirling around her.

Her business was struggling
; bills were piling up. Her love life was miserable. That last date with Jeremy had been a disaster of shit-storm proportions. And to top it all off, everything seemed to be going just swimmingly for Kristi.

Bella had no right to be jealous of her older sister
, who had finally connected with the man of her dreams—the guy she’d been in love with since fucking college. But damn it, it pissed her off. Everything always seemed to work out for Kristi. All she had to do was show up, flash that bright smile and the universe laid everything right at her feet.

Bella had to work, slave, fight for everything. Every goddamn little thing.

Kristi’s coffee bar was thriving. Somehow she and Lucy had done everything right, setting up shop in Montlake, the heart of computer nerd country and a short hop from the bustling University of Washington. On a bad day there were lines out the door. Bella’s boutique was lucky to get ten customers a day. Granted, she had a more select clientele, but if she didn’t find a way to drive more customers to her business, it was going to have to close. And then what would she do?

Go sling Americanos for her sister?

How mortifying would that be?

And how awful would it be to let Abel and
Mirriam go? Mirriam had two kids. She needed this job. And she was damn good at it.

Bella scrubbed her eyes with the heel of her palm, as though that could make her
seething thoughts settle. But they didn’t. Couldn’t.

Like a heat seeking missile, they settled on the other
frustration burning a hole in her gut. Her love life.

She snorted. Love life. Right.

A couple of dates with a guy, who only wanted to “tap that” as he put it, did not a love life make. She should have known Jeremy was a douche nozzle. He had all the hallmark tags. Hell, he waved red flags like a semaphore expert.

But she was no expert in reading the signs. Clearly.

She’d allowed him to flirt with her, then woo her and then finally seduce her.

She’d thought there’d been something there
, a flicker of attraction at least. Turned out it was only a notch on a bedpost—a bedpost scarred with other notches.

And on top of all of that, despite her determined vegan dieting, she’d gained another pound. Honestly. One bacon bender
had wiped away all her hard work. Like a sandcastle obliterated by a tsunami. Of bacon.

Kristi could eat like there was no tomorrow and still somehow seemed to be curvy, not plump. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair at all.

Bella stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. Not that she was chain smoking. She wasn’t. She just knew once everyone else showed up for the weekend, she’d be back to chewing nicotine gum. It was now or never.

The
house would be full this weekend, if everyone who signed in showed up. There would be no opportunity to sneak off for a smoke.

Why that made a sizzle of
exasperation curl through her gut, she didn’t know. It had nothing to do with the fact
he
was coming. Hell, she didn’t even
think
about Holt Lamm anymore. She had purged him from her mind completely. Completely.

And s
he wasn’t addicted.

Smoking was a rebellion, not a habit.

She could quit anytime she wanted to.

She just didn’t want to.

But she didn’t want anyone else to know. And didn’t want to think on why. Surely she didn’t care what they thought of her.

Bella Cross
was a freaking rebel. Everyone knew it. Her tattoos and piercings screamed it. She was the daughter of a minister. She owned a sex shoppe. Surely that illustrated her bone-deep mutinous nature.

Tipping back
her second drink, she poured another, ignoring the wobble of her hand. It was her intention to get shit-faced tonight. Maybe then she could forget about—

No! She wasn’t thinking about him. She wasn’t.

God damn Holt anyway. Why did he have to be so fucking good looking? He was tall and muscular and solid. His hair and eyes were dark, his hair long and wild—just the way she liked it. And he simmered with repressed sexuality.

Well, maybe not so repressed.

Yeah. That was what pissed her off. The fact that he fucked anything in a skirt—tied it down and fucked it—but he wouldn’t even look at her sideways. He never flirted with her. Not the way he flirted with Emily. And Kaitlin. And—for fuck’s sake—Kristi.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.

Everyone wanted Kristi. Every guy she’d ever even liked or dated or slept with just really wanted Kristi.

Shit.

She should just give up on men and become a nun.

Could nuns run sex
shoppes?

Well hell. What did it matter? In six months she’d be broke. Her little
shoppe would close.

She could be a nun then.

Probably better smoke all she could now.

She was in the process of lighting another cigarette—preparing for impending nunnery—when a light flared behind her.

Crap!
No one was supposed to be here until Friday!

Bella whipped around and glared into the living room behind her. And her heart
froze in her throat. A tall, dark form emerged from the shadows in the hall. Irritation—and something else entirely—crawled through her belly.

As though she had conjured him from her dismal ruminations, Holt
Lamm had arrived on Tryst Island.

He saw her
and his steps slowed. He dropped his duffel onto a chair and headed for the slider.

Bella glanced at the cigarette
she held. The pack on the table. The saucer filled with butts. Oh, sure, she could scramble and try to hide it all, but she would fail. And, according to the whiskey swimming through her veins, she didn’t give a shit if he knew or not.

She was a fucking rebel. And if he didn’t like it, he could go fuck himself.

Hell, he was probably the only person on the planet—aside from herself—he hadn’t fucked.

She snorted at her own inebriated humor.

That was half the fun of being drunk—your thoughts seem clever for once.

The door slid open and Holt stepped out onto the deck. Bella turned
to study the gloomy marine layer and sucked in another draw on her cigarette, deliberately ignoring him.

Which was stupid.

But necessary.

He sat in the patio chair by her side and shook the raindrops from his head.

She didn’t look. Didn’t need to. She knew what his long locks looked like wet. And dry. And pulled back. And flowing freely. She’d memorized every aspect of his being.