by Layla Hagen
When Blake pushes the door to the apartment open some twenty minutes later, I’m prepared to see a cleaner version of the same apartment, but instead I’m flummoxed. The southern wall has a new coat of paint, in the exact shade I’ve told him. And my dream bookshelf is exactly where I want it too.
I turn around. “Blake—”
“Stop right there.”
“What?”
“Sounds like you’re about to admonish me.”
I chuckle. “Not at all. Thank you for the paint and the bookcase. Let me know the costs, and I’ll reimburse you.”
“No need.”
“Ah, see, but then I have to admonish you. You can’t—”
“No arguing.” His tone is strong, and his body language can only be described as intense. Never in my life have I equated intense with sexy, but Blake makes it sexy. I have a hunch he can make anything seem sexy as all get-out.
“I see. I’ll have to put this on my list of things I still need to negotiate with you, which includes rent. For now, thank you. You really shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I wanted to do this for you. I was going to order what you said for the balcony too, but I’d rather you help me pick them. I’m not good with furniture.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Let’s bring in your stuff.”
There are two flights of stairs and no elevator here, so my skateboard isn’t of any use. Having Blake help me has its perks. Chiefly, the irresistible manly sounds he’s making while we carry the furniture. Several times I have to stave off the urge to ask him to move something just for the sake of it so I could hear more of those sounds.
We join forces when we’re down to the planks to my bed because damn, those things are heavy.
“Okay, you grab that end,” Blake instructs while we survey the load, side by side. “I’ll take this one. Shout if it gets too heavy and we’ll stop on the way.”
“Can we take a small break first?”
“Sure.”
Before I get the chance to say anything else, my phone beeps. I pull it from my back pocket. Predictably, it’s a message from Quentin.
“Wait, I have to text back. It’s my boss who doesn’t understand boundaries or weekends.”
“How did you end up working in television?”
“Luck.”
Blake tilts his head, shifting into a presumably more comfortable position against the van and shielding his face from the sun by holding up a hand.
“Mind expanding on that a bit? I’ve known you for two years, but there’s so much I don’t know about you. I’m at a distinct disadvantage. You know much more about me. Come to think of it, given your close friendship with my sisters, you probably know a lot more about me than I’d like you to.”
I smile coyly to escape having to either confirm or deny his suspicions. Yes, Pippa and Summer do talk a lot, and I love fishing information out of them. We’re a match made in heaven. Blake is looking at me with genuine interest.
“Once I turned eighteen, I was out of the group home. Needed to pay for food and rent, so I took any job that came my way. Had zero skills, so I started at the bottom with waitressing and cleaning. That lasted a couple of years. I got a bit desperate because I wanted to move on to better paying jobs but didn’t know how. College was out of the question.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t have the grades, extracurriculars, or the money. I took a few classes at a community college, but that was it.”
I took bookkeeping and data organization, basic computer programming and, on a whim, children’s book illustration. That last one turned out to be an unexpected gem. “Then I got very lucky, and one of the companies I was doing cleaning for needed a back-office assistant for the week. The one they had was sick, so I helped them for a while. Then they offered me a job. A few years later, I met Nate. His assistant had just ditched him, so he asked me if I’d like to work with him. See? Luck.”
“And a lot of hard work.”
“I only get lucky when I work very hard.”
“Hats off to you for working your way up. Be proud of it.”
“I am.”
“Do you like your job?”
“Yeah. I don’t love it, but the point of a job is to pay bills, and it does that just fine.”
“Very practical.”
Yep, that’s me. Practical could be my middle name. Ain’t nobody got time for dreams.
“Should we finish carrying these inside?” I point to the bed planks, and he nods.
We take them inside, and then we both breathe with relief.
“Thank you.” I look at the unopened boxes and still-disassembled furniture, whipping up a plan. “I’ll get started right away with setting up the bed and the couch.”
“I’ll help you.”
“I can handle this.”
“I know. But you don’t have to. You have me. Use me,” he offers.
Ah, what an image that conjures. Blake on his back on my couch. I’d start with those arms, tracing the contour of his bicep, then lifting his shirt, applying the same treatment to the ridges of his six-pack (I have not seen them yet, but I have a wild imagination).
What is it with me today? I’ve been near him before.
“Okay. Thank you. When do you open the bar?”
“Four o’clock, but I need to be down at three for a meeting. Plenty of time.”
We get to work right away, and I’m surprised by Blake’s assembly skills. Between the two of us, this will look like home in no time.
“How did you decide to go into the bar business? Why not join your siblings at Bennett Enterprises?”
“I wanted to. I majored in finance in college, so I figured I’d work with Logan.”
“Logan is the CFO, right?”
He nods. “I spent a couple of months there, but it wasn’t panning out. Everyone treated me like their younger party brother. Hard to do your job when you constantly have to convince people to take you seriously.”
“That I can relate to. People at work sometimes think I’m a joke because I’m so….” I wave my hand in the air, trying to find the right word.
“Exuberant?”
“Yes.”
“Us weirdos must stick together. Anyway, striking out on my own seemed like the better decision.”
“Why bars?” I continue my interrogation as we move to the bedroom, assembling the bed.
“I had contacts in the scene. Since I couldn’t escape my reputation, I decided to use it to my advantage.”
“Smart. You were a tabloid darling a few years ago.” Not since I befriended the family, but I pulled up his history online. All for research, of course, when the network featured his and Alice’s restaurants on Delicious Dining the first time. They’d wanted to know if Blake’s past would turn viewers off. But the search history hadn’t brought up anything scandalous, merely portrayed a man who liked parties and women, and even that was old news.
“I’m not that man anymore.”
“Hey! I’m not judging,” I assure him, nudging him with my shoulder.
“It was time I got my head out of my ass. Anyway, working, building something, feels right. It was time to make the Bennett name proud. And I get to work with Alice, which is a bonus. Between you and me, I think the best thing that happened to Alice was that she moved away and I took over operations. She was working twelve to fifteen hours a day, that little workaholic.”
Female solidarity is one of my cardinal rules, and I deeply admire Alice—she could take the world by storm if she put her mind to it, but I’m with Blake on this one. She was overworking herself.
Sighing, I remember my own family. They passed away in a car crash. I lost them so long ago, that sometimes when I try to reach back to a memory, I realize it’s gone. I don’t want to forget them.
We keep talking about everything under the sun while we assemble furniture, and I take snapshots of the apartment, wanting to document every stage
of the move. After we’re done, I scroll through the pics, and my jaw hangs. Blake appears in almost every picture. I don’t remember consciously doing so—clearly my subconscious is trying to prove a point. And I have to give it to Blake, he’d make an excellent model.
Guilt gnaws at me, but what do I do? Do I put the phone down? No, sir, I do not. Instead, I snap a new pic of Blake, who is currently checking whether the screws fastening the legs to the top of my dining table are tight enough. It is, in my humble opinion, the best shot yet.
His bicep is flexed, and the contours of his muscles are delicious eye candy. Great, not only am I a shameless Peeping Tom, but I also harbor dirty thoughts for a man who is not for me. I am the worst. The worst.
He’s a Bennett, for the love of God, and I’m determined for them to be a constant in my life. That means no crossing boundaries with Blake. He’s not the man for me anyway.
“All done,” Blake says seconds later, straightening up and startling me. “At least I think so.” His eyes sweep across the room as if checking whether anything is unfinished.
“Yeah, all done. I just have to unpack my boxes.”
“Speaking of boxes, I just have one mailbox. I can put a second one for you.”
“No need, I won’t put this address anywhere. I already gave Penny’s address at work. The emergency plan was to camp on her couch for a few days until I found a better place. No sense redoing the paperwork since I’m moving into my condo in three months max.”
“Okay.”
Come to think of it, it’s far better for my work file to display Penny’s address. I wouldn’t put it past Quentin to check where my address is and realize I’m living next to Blake.
“Do you want water?”
He nods, and after I take two glasses out of the box labeled kitchenware, we both walk to the kitchen.
Handing him a glass full of water, I say, “I’d thank you again, but I sound like a broken record even to my own ears. I’ll make it up to you, promise. Delicious dinner coming your way after I settle in.”
“Looking forward to it.” He gives me a wolfish smile and a wiggle of his eyebrows, and my body reacts instantly: rushed breath, weak knees, racing heart. Check, check, check.
While Blake helps himself to a second glass of water, I carry one of the boxes labeled bed linens to my bedroom. When I return, Blake is hovering dangerously close to an unlabeled box. As surreptitiously as possible, I lift it, intending to carry it to my bedroom as well. Several mishaps occur before I’m even halfway there. A strange sound cracks through the air. I can’t place it, but a few seconds later, two loud bangs—metal on wood—follow. Two batteries fell from the box, but how is that possible?
The cracking sound returns and I realize what’s going on: the bottom of the box is giving out. No, no, no. Not this box. Panic shoots through me as Blake seems to realize this too and hurries my way.
“Here, let me help—”
“No need.” I run to the bedroom, two more metallic bangs following me. With a relieved breath, I set the box on the floor. Straightening up, I’m startled to find Blake right next to me, holding out his hand, the four batteries in his palm.
“Why in such a hurry to get that box out of the way? What do you have inside, battery-operated friends?”
My cheeks flush, and I can’t form a comeback. Blake, who was probably only joking, looks from one cheek to the other, then to the batteries in his palm, finally lowering his gaze to my box. My mouth turns dry as dust, and I think I could melt butter on my cheeks right now. I swear the air between us charges. Suddenly, the room is too small, and there is not enough air. Hastily, I reach out to take the batteries. Our fingers touch, and holy hotness. The skin-on-skin contact is so charged, it sends my senses into a tailspin. My eyes meet his, and there is no mistaking the intensity of his gaze—or the heat in it.
Why, oh why didn’t I pack my vibrator in my suitcase? This was an accident waiting to happen.
“You’re killing me, Clara,” he says, my name almost a groan. “The wall between our bedrooms has no phonic isolation.”
It takes me a second to realize what he means, and I blush even more violently. Then I drum my fingers against my thigh, plotting my revenge. He could have been a gentleman about this and pretended nothing happened, but instead he put me on the spot. Well, well, this just begs me to turn the tables on him. After all, he did say he likes being challenged.
“Don’t worry, I have pillows. They’re a good enough buffer.”
He exhales sharply, his eyes zeroing in on my lips. “Sweetness, if pillows are enough it means your battery buddy isn’t doing a great job.” Advancing slowly, Blake pushes a strand of hair away from my face. The contact zings through me, an almost imperceptible shudder traveling throughout my body. Hold that thought!
Blake’s lips curl up in a smile...yeah, my shudder was everything but imperceptible to him. Instead of taking his hand back, he moves it down to my earlobe, tracing the contour of my jaw. OhmyGod. It’s all I can do not to press my thighs together. An ache’s formed between them, so sudden and so intense that I don’t know what to do with myself. How can his proximity affect me so much?
A smarter woman would back down, but I’m determined to go toe-to-toe with him. Some small part of me wants to know if I affect him as much as he affects me.
“Oh, it’s doing a great job. I just need the right inspiration.” Wiggling my eyebrows, I add, “I have an excellent imagination. And I’m not afraid to use it.”
Blake breathes out on another sharp exhale, and this time he’s so close to me that the rush of hot air lands just above my upper lip. My pulse jackhammers, and I bite into my lower one, painfully aware that the ache low in my body has intensified. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple dipping in his throat. Up close, I can see the beginning of a five-o’clock shadow on his chiseled features. How would it feel against my fingers, my lips? Oh God, everything about Blake is too masculine. Too potent. Too much.
My pulse ratchets up even more. Distance. I need distance. Ever so carefully, I tiptoe around him, just as his phone chimes.
“Have to go downstairs to the bar.”
“Right. Thanks for all your help.”
He quirks up a corner of his mouth. “My pleasure.”
Ah, no! How can he pack so much sensuality into one word? No fair. Not at all.
“See you around, Clara.” Taking my hand, he brings it to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a feather light touch. The gesture would ordinarily be gentlemanly, but sometime between him realizing what’s in my unlabeled box and me trying to outwit him, he lit a fuse inside me. Feeling his lips on my skin is torture. The rhythm of my pulse is now at an all-time high, and a wild pounding is in my ears. Which is why, when he brings his mouth to my ear the next second, I almost don’t catch his words. Almost.
“You’ll forgive me if I won’t try too hard not to listen, Clara.”
With a smile and a wink, he leaves my apartment. It takes me almost an entire minute to calm down, and I swallow a few times until the rush of blood in my ears subsides somewhat. The rhythm of my pulse is almost normal, but then I hear three knocks from the other side of the shared wall in the bedroom and it ratchets back up, even wilder than before.
CHAPTER FIVE
Clara
“Mmmm...delicious.”
I’m elbow deep in preparing my “thank you” dinner for Blake.
I called Jenna, his mom, to check what Blake’s favorite dish is. From the numerous Bennett meals I attended, I gauged that it would be either spaghetti arrabbiata or pork chops, but I wanted to double-check, just in case. Jenna confirmed my guesses, which is when I realized I pay far more attention to Blake than I thought. I haven’t memorized anyone else’s favorite dishes.
Shortly after six, I hear footsteps in the corridor, and then Blake’s door opens and closes. Ten minutes later, I’m done with dinner. My palms have started to sweat, which is ridiculous. Just as I finish setting the table, there is a knock at
my door. I open right away.
“Hello, Clara.”
His hair is mussed, and his skin has a thin sheet of moisture—he probably just popped out of the shower.
“Come on in.”
He steps in, running his hand through his damp hair, sending sprinkles of water everywhere. A few land on my shoulder, and I shiver lightly. His T-shirt sticks to him slightly, as if the skin is still damp.
“Wow, this place is barely recognizable.”
“I wouldn’t say that, but it looks lived in.” Since moving in a week ago, I put up decorations and ordered twinkle lights, which arrived two days ago. I hung them around the window and have lit them up for this occasion. It’s cloudy outside, and they make a nice contrast, casting a warm glow over the living room.
“Sit down. I’ll bring dinner right out.”
As I dash from the living room to the kitchen, I feel his gaze following me. When I serve the dishes, his entire expression brightens.
“This is my favorite food.”
I nod proudly. “Called your mom to make sure.”
“You did all this for me?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re amazing.”
We dig in, making easy conversation over dinner. After we eat, he inspects the changes I’ve made.
He approaches the bookshelf with a frown. “You have three sets of the Harry Potter books...why?”
“They mean a lot to me,” I say simply. “Besides, each set has different covers.”
“Different covers,” Blake mumbles to himself, as if that isn’t a good enough a reason to own different editions.
“If you tell me you aren’t a fan of the series, I might seriously reconsider our friendship,” I warn jokingly.
“I saw the movies, but I’m not a big reader.”
“Ugh, stop right there.”