Blake blinks down at me. I wonder if it’s subconscious the way he moves his finger along my soft jawline to tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, or if it’s done on purpose. Either way, I’m putty in his capable hands.
“He likesyou, though.”
“No shit, Captain Obvious. Have you seen me?” I try for a cocky grin to diffuse the myriads of stifling tensions building around us. I vote maybe we should just fuck it out and see if that fixes things? But I’m not quite sure Blake is of the same opinion. At least, not yet. He’s attracted to me, that much is obvious, otherwise we wouldn’t have slept together twice, and his eyes wouldn’t be roaming around my tight crop top and short clad figure right now.
But I think he’s struggling with the lack of structure that I bring to the table. I’m not exactly somebody who knows what they’re doing with their life, in fact, I don’t have a single fucking clue. I’m winging it each and every day and praying that it all works out in the end.
Blake, however... if I had to put a bet on it, I’d say he thrives on structure, rules and boundaries. It’s why he got so annoyed when I showed up late to our appointment, bounding into his life unexpectedly. And why he was so irritated at having missed a single signature upon his new apartment lease. He likes things to be perfect, clear cut from start to finish.
I don’t know what he wants out of life, but I’d say adoesn’t-have-her-shit together, unorganised, hot mess of a woman – i.e. me – isn’t it.
I refuse to shrink beneath his hands, but the realisation is starting to set in that maybe showing up here wasn’t the best idea.
“I’ve got twenty-twenty eyesight, Calla. Of course I’ve seen you. You make it too difficult to look away.”
What the fuck does that mean?
Before I can ask Blake to expand on that tidbit a little more, he’s moving away, ripping open the door to his fridge.
“Beer?”
“Please.”
I watch as Blake grabs two glass bottles from the shelf, unscrewing one of the lids and handing it to me. I dump my gym bag by the door and take it, trailing behind Blake as he sits upon his worn looking sofa.
“I think the issue is that Thomas McAvoy is having the same problem.”
“Hm?” I tear my eyes away from the stack of brown cardboard boxes piled high, each labelled with a scrawl of black marker, taking up space beside Blake’s TV.
“I said, I think Thomas is having the same problem. He can’t stay away from you.”
I fake a quiet huff of a laugh through my nose and swallow down a mouthful of ice-cold hops. “Tell me about it.”
“Why don’t you just tell him to fuck off?”
I shake my head and smile, although I know it falls a little flat. “It isn’t as easy as that.”
Blake quirks a brow. “Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“You could report him.”
I take a larger mouthful this time. “As if they’d believe me over him. I’d be fired on the spot.”
“Is that such a bad thing?”
I shoot Blake a glare, but he doesn’t shrug away. “Yes. I like my job… and the money. Plus, if I left it would be like letting Thomas win and over my dead body am I willing to allow that to happen.”
“So, what’re you going to do?”
I pop my shoulders and wipe away a cool bead of condensation sliding down the neck of my beer bottle. “I’m not quite sure yet.”
“Do you think he’d back off if someone else was in the picture?”
“Oh, for sure.” I bob my head in agreement.
“There you go, then.”
