by Ana Huang
Farrah had been a whirlwind of activity since she found out about the new deadline: calling contractors and pushing them for quotes and start dates, sourcing materials, and searching through every website and every store in the five boroughs for the perfect pieces that would transform Blake’s apartment into his dream home.
She’d succeeded, for the most part.
The only hiccup was the vintage trunk sitting in a little shop in Syracuse, four hours from New York City. Farrah had found it on the store’s website but when she called, they informed her they didn’t ship large items. She’d have to pick it up herself.
That wouldn’t have been an issue, except Farrah hadn’t driven since she moved to New York. She sure as hell wasn’t going to brave the city streets on her own. None of her friends in the city drove either, and she’d seriously considered hiring an Uber for the eight-hour roundtrip drive before Blake called her for a progress update.
She’d mentioned her dilemma; he’d offered to rent a car and drive her, and she’d accepted.
Now, here they were, with the trunk from the shop nestled snugly in the back of their car.
“This looks promising.” Blake slowed in front of a diner on the edge of downtown Syracuse. Since it was summer, the town swarmed with tourists instead of students from its eponymous university.
Farrah spotted several out-of-town license plates in the parking lot: Vermont. New Hampshire. Pennsylvania. Fortunately, there were a few parking spaces left. All the other restaurants they’d passed had been packed.
“Fine by me. I’ll eat anything at this point.” Farrah’s stomach growled with a ferocity that could scare off a pride of lions. “Hurry, before someone takes those spots.”
Blake smirked. He pulled the Range Rover into one of the empty spots, his muscles flexing against his shirt sleeve as he turned the wheel. Even in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, he could melt the panties off a nun. “I forgot how snippy you get when you’re hungry.”
“I’m not snippy.”
So what if she was? Farrah only had a bagel and coffee for breakfast, and that’d been hours ago. When she wasn’t fed, she got a little…well, snippy.
That, plus Blake was acting weird. Not in an overt way. He’d been a perfect gentleman all day. He’d picked her up, let her choose the playlist with no complaints—not even when she played five Taylor Swift songs back to back—and didn’t blink an eye when she spilled water on her shirt.
Water. On her white shirt. And not a single comment, not even a glance. He’d merely handed her a napkin and hummed along to “Blank Space” while she dabbed at her semi-transparent top.
Which is a good thing, Farrah reminded herself. It wasn’t like she wanted any extra attention from Blake, aside from what their professional relationship entailed.
Heat rose on her cheeks when she remembered their near kiss. She’d woken up the next morning hungover and mortified. They technically hadn’t done anything, but the whole experience felt so intimate they might as well have had sex.
At least, Farrah thought so. Judging by Blake’s cool attitude, he didn’t feel the same way.
They walked in silence toward the diner. The beautiful blue skies from earlier that morning had darkened into an ominous slate grey, and Farrah smelled the earthy promise of rain in the air.
Despite the few empty parking spaces, the inside of the diner overflowed with patrons, and Blake and Farrah waited thirty minutes before the hostess showed them to a table. By the time they received their food—well over an hour after they’d parked—Farrah was ready to snap someone’s head off.
“Jesus.” Blake’s jaw dropped as Farrah tore into her chicken sandwich with a gusto she usually reserved for Anthropologie sales and Henry Cavill. “You’d give some of my college teammates a run for their money. And these are three-hundred-pound linebackers we’re talking about.”
Farrah washed down her food with a healthy gulp of her chocolate milkshake. “I’m hungry.”
“I can tell.” One of Blake’s dimples peeked out before it disappeared, and her stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.
They lapsed into silence.
Farrah was beginning to think aliens had kidnapped the real Blake and replaced him with a robot version of himself. He was never this quiet. She felt like she was in the backseat of an Uber with a driver who didn’t particularly care to converse with his customers.
“I didn’t do this for the money, by the way.” Farrah tried to fill the silence.
Blake arched a questioning eyebrow.
“The road trip,” she clarified. “I found the trunk on the store’s website and it seemed so perfect for your living room. All the other trunks I found were off. Weird color, wrong size, ugly details. I didn’t specifically choose an item that couldn’t be shipped so I could bill you more hours.”
His laugh boomed against the chatter in the diner. “It’s okay. I didn’t think you were trying to swindle me.”
That was it. No teasing. No banter. Just, “it’s okay.”
Frustration coiled in Farrah’s gut. Why? She had no idea. This was what she wanted. A relationship in which they were designer and client, nothing more.
So why did she feel so uneasy?
“Well, thank you for driving me. I know you must be busy, so I appreciate you taking the time.”
“No problem.”
Farrah grit her teeth. She wanted to shake Blake until more words tumbled out of him because he was freaking her out.
Their waitress, a Rachel Bilson lookalike with a toothy smile, swooped in. “How’s the food? Can I get you anything else?” She directed her question at Blake. Farrah might as well be invisible.
Blake’s dimples showed up in their full glory. “The food’s great.” He glanced at Farrah. “Do you need anything?”
“No.”
He appeared unfazed by her curt response. “We’re all good, thanks.” He upped the wattage of his smile, and Farrah swore the waitress nearly melted into a puddle at his feet.
As the other woman tottered away on shaky legs, Farrah drained her milkshake with one long, hard slurp. The straw rattled angrily at the bottom of her empty glass.
“Do you want another milkshake? I can call her back,” Blake offered, still so annoyingly, irritatingly polite.
“No, thanks.” The way Rachel Bilson 2.0 eyed Blake, like he was a juicy steak and she hadn’t eaten in months, rankled Farrah more than it should have.
She took a deep breath. She and Blake had cleared the air about his ex-girlfriend at the lounge, and now it was time to address the other elephant in the room. “Look, about the other night. We were drunk and got carried away. I mean, we didn’t do anything, but…” Farrah trailed off, trying to arrange her thoughts into a coherent sentence. “What I’m saying is, I left because, uh, I had to wake up early the next morning.” Lame. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression about my feelings for you. Not that I have feelings for you.”
Ugh. Why was she so bad at this?
“It’s forgotten. Don’t worry about it. Like you said, we were drunk. I don’t think you’re in love with me or anything.” Blake went back to eating his burger, a little more aggressively than before.
Farrah gaped at him in disbelief. She’d spent three weeks agonizing over that night only for him to brush it off like it meant nothing. Like they hadn’t almost kissed, and his arousal hadn’t pressed against her thigh, so hard it could’ve drilled a hole through his zipper.
Need slashed through her at the memory, even as she resisted the urge to hurl the rest of her food in Blake’s face.
“We should head back soon.” Farrah gripped her necklace, the anchor to her swirling thoughts. She needed alone time with her vibrating bedside buddy, stat. “It’s a long drive back to the city.”
“Are you talking about New York City?” Their waitress popped up again.
Jesus. Didn’t she have other customers to serve?
“Yes.” Farrah tried not to hol
d the way the other woman ogled Blake against her, but what if Farrah were his girlfriend? Would the waitress still ogle him like that? Didn’t seem smart. “Can we get the check, please?
“Sure thing, but I’d advise against driving back in this weather.” The waitress clucked her tongue, not taking her eyes off Blake. “It’s crazy out there.”
Farrah stared out the window. Between the noise in the diner and her inner turmoil over Blake, she’d missed the near-apocalyptic scene outside. The gray skies had escalated into a harsh downpour worthy of hurricane season. Angry bolts of lightning streaked through the sky, chased by the furious roars of thunder, and the rain fell so fast and heavy she couldn’t see their car parked right in front of the diner.
“There’s a severe storm warning until tomorrow. You’ll have to hunker down in town,” their waitress chirped, like they were discussing a picnic instead of a rainstorm. “There’s a nice B&B just down the road. Their owner dropped by earlier and mentioned one of their guests canceled last minute, so they should have a room open. I can call them if you’d like.” She whisked their plates off the table.
Dread settled in the pit of Farrah’s stomach. The last thing she wanted was to spend a night here with Blake—not when he was acting so weird, and not when her body was a live wire waiting to explode. He was like the chocolate milkshake she’d ordered—delicious and nice to look at, but oh-so-bad for her.
Unfortunately, the waitress was right. It was too dangerous to drive back to the city.
A loud boom of thunder rocked the diner, underscoring the need to stay put in town for the night.
Farrah forced a smile. “Thank you. That would be great.”
Across the table, Blake turned ashen. “I can’t drive in this rain.”
“It’s ok. We’ll check into the B&B.” This day was not turning out the way Farrah had expected. “Hopefully, the storm passes before morning.”
“No.” Blake gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned whiter than his face. “I mean I can’t drive in this rain. We have to wait it out here.”
“What?” Farrah laughed. “We can’t wait this out here. The storm doesn’t look like it’s going to pass anytime soon.”
“Farrah, I mean it.” He bit out each word like they were poison-coated pills. “I’m not driving in this rain.”
Farrah had never seen Blake so shaken. The sight of his turbulent eyes and trembling shoulders awakened a part of her that was infinite times more dangerous than her body’s craving for him. It was the part that wanted to dig into his darkest secrets, extract the bloodied bullets, and nurse him back to health, even if saving him meant losing herself.
It’s not your job to piece him back together.
“I’ll drive,” Farrah said softly. She could handle the rain. They weren’t going far. “Okay?”
Blake’s jaw clenched. After a few seconds, he jerked out a nod.
The waitress returned with their check, confirmation there was one room left at the B&B, and a piece of paper that Farrah was sure contained her phone number, which Rachel Bilson 2.0 slipped to Blake.
He didn’t notice. His head bowed, all traces of sunny, irreverent Blake gone. In its place was a darker, brooding version of himself that had Farrah’s heart aching and wondering what, exactly, had happened to him in the time they were apart.
Chapter Fourteen
“For God’s sake, Joy, I said I’ll try. Look, I have to go. I’m with someone.” A pause, then a grudging, “Love you too. Talk to you later.”
Farrah tried to focus on her Kindle app and not eavesdrop on Blake’s conversation.
She failed. Miserably.
A second later, Blake stepped out of the bathroom, wearing sweatpants and...nothing else. An orange Syracuse T-shirt sat balled in his fist instead of covering his sculpted chest and six-pack abs. His sweatpants rode low on his hips, eliciting wicked fantasies about what would happen if they inched down just a bit.
Farrah gulped. She pulled the covers up to her chest, hyperaware of her hard nipples pressing against the thin fabric of her own T-shirt, which was so large she wore it as a dress.
She and Blake arrived at the B&B with no incident but had gotten soaked during their run from the car to the inn. Since neither had planned for an overnight trip, they didn’t have a change of outfits. Fortunately, the owners were kind enough to lend them clothes for the night. Unfortunately, Farrah’s bra was tumbling in a washer somewhere along with the rest of her clothes instead of hiding her obvious and unwanted reaction to the man standing in front of her.
“Is everything ok?” The question came out breathier than she would’ve liked. Farrah cleared her throat. “You look upset.”
“I’m all right. Family stuff.” Blake tossed the shirt onto the chair in the corner. “Shirt’s too small,” he explained. “Hope you don’t mind.” Apology and a hint of mischief crept into his expression, one that said he knew what the sight of his bare chest did to her and what he’d find if he pulled the covers off her and shoved her panties aside.
Farrah’s thighs clenched. Her mind spun in a million directions, all of them counterproductive to her emotional and, soon, physical well-being. Whatever the female version of blue balls was, she had it. Bad.
“Is it your dad?” She silently applauded her attempt at maintaining a normal conversation when all she wanted to do was run into the bathroom and relieve the ache between her legs.
Blake rubbed his jaw. “Sorta. I was talking to my sister. My dad’s fiftieth birthday is in August, and she wants me to fly back to Austin for the party.”
“That doesn’t sound so terrible.” Farrah’s brows drew together. Blake didn’t have the best relationship with his father, but… “He can’t still be mad at you for quitting football.”
“Who the hell knows.” Blake leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms over his chest. “I told him why I quit, you know. After I returned home from Shanghai. He all but called me a pussy for worrying about CTE. Said the threat of a concussion was better than failing as a businessman. He was so sure my sports bar wouldn’t make it.”
Farrah’s heart twisted at the bitterness coating his voice. She’d had a tumultuous relationship with her own father when he was alive, but for all his faults, he’d never made her feel less than. “But it did. It’s one of the most successful sports bar chains in the country. You built an entire empire in just a few years.”
Blake flashed a sardonic smile. “Yes, and do you know how many of my bar openings he’s been to? Zero. Not even the inaugural in Austin. My mom was there, and my sister, but not him. Said he wasn’t feeling well, but we came home to him drinking beer and watching football.”
In that moment, Farrah saw Blake not as a heartbreaker, but as someone whose own heart had been broken so many times by those closest to him.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
She curled her fingers around the comforter, willing herself not to hug him and pour into him some of the light that seeped out every time he brought up his father.
So many reasons I shouldn’t.
“You know what the most fucked-up part is?” Blake’s eyes brewed with a storm that made the one raging outside look like a gentle summer rain. “All I ever wanted was to make my dad proud. Even in the moments when I resented him, even when I mailed copies of my Forbes and New York Times features to him out of spite, hoping to get a rise out of him, I wanted him to look at me and say, ‘Son, I’m proud of you.’ He never did, and probably never will, yet I still hope.” His humorless laugh scraped against Farrah’s chest. “Isn’t that pathetic?”
Screw it.
Farrah swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked over to Blake until they stood mere inches apart. She placed a hand on his arm, afraid to embrace him fully but unable to stop herself from giving him this basic act of comfort. “It’s not pathetic. It’s human. Maybe your dad is proud of you and just doesn’t know how to express it.”
“It’s a few words. Shoul
d be simple enough.”
“Sometimes the simplest words are the hardest to stay.”
A small smile touched Blake’s lips. A real one this time. “You always saw the best in people. Even the ones that are broken.”
The hairs on Farrah’s skin prickled. Something hung in the air between them, so thick and heavy she tasted its tangy sweetness on her tongue.
The truth was, everyone was broken. People weren’t shells, hard and glossy like the statues you found in museums. They were messy mosaics, compromised of glittering pieces of love and jagged shards of heartbreak. The lucky ones found someone whose broken edges fit perfectly with theirs, like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. Two imperfects, holding each other up in the storm. And it would feel so safe, so right that they’d get addicted to the illusion of completeness, forgetting that one wrong move could throw them out of sync, and the other’s jaggedness would slice them so deep they’d bleed from the inside out.
“It’s better to go through life wearing rose-colored glasses than searching for demons.”
A boom of thunder rattled the windows, swallowing Farrah’s words, but Blake appeared to have heard them perfectly.
“Classic Farrah.” His fingers grazed her cheek, a featherlight touch followed by the blossoming of goosebumps on her skin and pooling of moisture between her legs.
Blake’s gaze dropped to where her nipples puckered painfully against her shirt, and the indifferent, robotic Blake from earlier that day disappeared. In its place stood raw, wicked lust, the kind that had zero compunction about ripping your clothes off, bending you over, and fucking you until you shattered into a thousand pieces of ecstasy.
Farrah bit back a whimper.
Blake’s sweatpants did as good a job of hiding his arousal as her shirt did hers—which was to say, not at all. She could see his erection through the gray fabric, long and thick and hard. Her core throbbed in response, aching to be filled, and Farrah realized, with all the certainty in the world, that she needed to see this through.
All this time, she’d resisted what she wanted, afraid one concession would lead to another, and another, until they toppled like dominoes and created a path back to where she didn’t want Blake to go. But here was the thing about resistance: the harder you try to pull away, the harder the object you’re resisting sucks you in. It was a clash of wills, and the person who was willing to forfeit a battle was often the one who won the war.