“You’re fine.” I wave him off, patting his upper thigh in reassurance and then making the quick decision to simply leave my hand where it is. “These things happen.”
“It won’t happen again,” Blake promises. “I got held back at work and then—”
“One Peroni and one cosmopolitan.” I press my glossy lips together as the bar staff returns. Can’t Blake and I just be left alone for one minute so we can talk? “That’ll be £23.65.”
Blake taps his card upon the reader before I can, shaking his head when asked if he’d like his receipt.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say. After all, I am a feminist.
Which is also why I completely don’t judge the sparkly, golden warmth rushing through me at the knowledge of being cared for. I’m allowed to sit at both ends of the spectrum – being independent whilst also enjoying being treated and cared for, by my partner.
Blake takes a pull of his beer, the bob of his Adam’s apple distracting me more than I care to admit out loud. “This is a date, isn’t it?”
“Mhm.”
There’s that golden feeling again, like a shower of sparks, flowing through my veins at my admission of this being a date.
“Then I’m paying, Calla.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” He takes another drag, swiping away thecondensation gathering at the neck of the bottle. “When we’re together; I pay, and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
God, that bossy teacher voice of his…
I shift in my seat in an attempt to alleviate the ache growing between my thighs, but I don’t get very far before Blake is placing his own palm on my upper leg, keeping me close to me. My nipples bead up against the thin material of my top. I imagine they look pretty obvious with my lack of bra and it’s not as if I can blame it on the cold – Asado’s feels like a fucking greenhouse.
“How about fifty-fifty.”
Blake raises a brow. “Fifty-fifty what?”
“You pay,” I bring my cocktail to my lips, speaking against the rim, “and I’ll find other ways to pay you back for treating me.”
Blake’s grip tightens, his eyes dipping down to tits. I see the moment he notices my nipples when his jaw ticks.
“Calla,” he warns, voice dropping an octave or two.
I take a sip and giggle. Being with Blake makes me feel so fucking free – even more than usual.
“I’ll leave you to think on that. So,” I knock my knee with his, “you were kept behind at work?”
“Not so muchkeptbehind. One of the boys I coach, he’s been having a little bit of trouble at home, so we were talking about it.”
My heart clenches.
“That’s very sweet of you to stay back and talk to him. Is he alright?”
“I think so. I think he just needed someone outside of the family to talk too, you know? Somewhere he can express his thoughts and feelings without being dismissed.”
“I do indeed.” I nod. “My mother’s a school counsellor soI grew up hyperaware of my emotions and feelings. She calls it my superpower. Although, it doesn’t feel sosuperwhen I overanalyse others without their permission.”
At that Blake gives me a small laugh and I swear I float to cloud nine at the sound.
“Well, I give you all of my permission to psychoanalyse me as much as you’d like, Miss Becker.”
I hum. “So far you’re proving a hard nut to crack.”
“Really?”
