For a second, I almost tell her how goddamn often I think about her. But keeping her at arm’s length is what I’m skilled at, so I keep talking like an asshole.
“I’m just annoyed, okay? I didn’t want to spend the rest of my night watching you fake laugh with some bartender.”
“Who says it was fake laughter?”
“That kid has never told a funny joke in his life, Blake.”
“Oh, because you’re hilarious? Cracking jokes left and right? You’ve been a jerk fifty percent of the day.”
“And you’ve been a distraction,” I shoot back. “Flirting. Teasing. Showing off your tits. I’m trying to write.”
“Oh my God, you are such an arrogant asshole. Did you ever think that what I do has nothing to do with you? Maybe I actually don’t want tan lines? Maybe I want to talk to the cute bartender? And I was barely even flirting with him! I was just being friendly.”
“Friendly,” I repeat mockingly. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“What the hell is your problem?” Blake demands.
I don’t know, I want to groan.
Instead, I double down.
“My problem is that you’re desperate for attention from any guy who’ll give you five seconds. And now that your boyfriend finally did what everyone saw coming, you’re flirting with everyone to make yourself feel better.”
Her jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
I plow on, because I’m too reckless and riled up to stop. “You’re not trying to be friendly. You’re trying to be wanted.”
Blake doesn’t say anything for several beats. But behind her look of disbelief, I glimpse that familiar darkness. A storm of hurt.
Finally, she marches to the passenger side of the Jeep. “Unlock it,” she snaps at me.
The ride home is fraught with tension. Blake’s arms are crossed tight to her chest, her body language advising me to keep my mouth shut. For once, I do.
I focus on the curve of the road winding around the lake while Blake fixes her gaze out the window and gives me the silent treatment. By the time we get back to the house, the silence is suffocating, closing around my windpipe. She jumps out of the Jeep, her sundress swirlingaround her legs.
I follow her to the porch and pretend I’m not watching the way her hair catches in the moonlight. I might be obsessed with her hair. Not sure when it happened, but here we are.
“Good night,” she mutters in the front hall and heads for the stairs.
I go to the kitchen, wondering whether to grab a beer and my guitar and sit outside or just punch myself in the face for how badly I’ve screwed up today.
I choose option number three: go upstairs and try to sleep for once in my life.
I step into the second-floor hallway just as Blake emerges from the hall bathroom, because like an asshole, I stole her room with the en suite.
She’s in her pajamas, though I use the term loosely. It’s nothing but a tiny pair of shorts and a white tank top that I can see right through. Her face is scrubbed clean, pink and shiny with her freckles on full display. Her hair is loose and cascading down her back.
Somehow, she’s even more dangerous like this. Without the sexy, slutty sundress or the mascara and lip gloss. Bare and effortless. The kind of beautiful that makes you forget how to breathe.
“Shouldn’t you put on something warmer?” I ask like an idiot. “It gets cold at night.”
“Always telling me what to wear, huh, Wyatt?” Her voice is surly.
“No, that’s not what I mean. You’ll just get…cold.” Jesus.Shut the hell up, I tell myself.
“I’m fine,” she mutters, then turns on her heel.
She’s done with the conversation.
