Page 77 of Flirting with 40

It sure as hell got mine too.

Me?

What the hell is that shit all about?

I don’t have time to figure it out. Blakely is standing in front of me with parted lips and wounded eyes, and fuck if I hate that I put it there but still want her to call me on it and own every damn thing I’ve said.

“You heard me,” I provoke.

“I did, and all I hear is arrogance.”

“Well, someone has to say it.”

“You don’t get to speak for me,” she says and jabs a finger against my chest to emphasize her words.

“Then you better start doing it for yourself because your silence is your own worst enemy.”

“Stop talking.”

“Not a chance in hell. You need to hear this.”

“Get out.” Her body vibrates with frustration not very different from the kind I feel. Only hers is because she doesn’t want to hear it, and mine is because I finally want her to see what an incredible person she is. The woman Paul never allowed a light to shine on. “Please. Just go.”

A tear slides down her cheek, but she blinks back the rest before another one falls.

Christ.

“Fine,” I say with my hands up. “I’ll give you your space, but only after I say what I need to say.”

“Save your breath,” she mutters.

“I don’t know what you see when you look in the mirror, Blakely, but it definitely isn’t the same thing I see when I look at you. You fight me on wearing a bathing suit to go in the lake, you religiously put all those lotions on what you call your crow’s feet at night, and you wonder why you don’t measure up to the flighty people you work with. You make excuses why you can’t, why it’s better to bide your time than rock the boat, and then you wonder why they look at you differently.”

“Slade—”

“My turn, Blakely. That’s twice now you’ve come back from a meeting with tears in your eyes, so this is my turn.” I hold my finger up to stop her. “Do you want to know what I see when I look at you? That bathing suit you argued over putting on yesterday because you thought you were fat or looked bad or whatever the hell reason you had? You put it on and looked in the mirror and cringed. You want to know what I saw? I saw your curves. The ones I want to map one by one with my hands. They’re sexy and beautiful and—”

“Slade—”

“I don’t see the lines around your eyes that you crack jokes about. I see evidence of laughing and living, and damn it, I want to know the story behind each and every one of them. You’re so damn hung up on your age, Blakely, but when I look at you? I just see you.”

She shakes her head to reject my words, but I nod to contradict her.

“I’ve heard you talk to your coworkers and have seen you betray yourself almost every time. You downplay your knowledge so you don’t step on toes. You know the answer to every question Heather throws out at you, but you’re petrified to know too much or be too smart because you’ll piss her off. Well, fuck her, Blakely. Goddamn own who you are. Be the woman you are.” Rage eats at me. The kind that stems from wanting to help someone but knowing you can’t do it for them. All you can do is show them the road and hope they fucking drive on it.

“It’s your doubt that kills you, and I’ve sat here and wondered why. Why do you not think you deserve this? The respect? The promotion? The laughter? The admiration? I’ve told myself Paul’s to blame for all of this, for wearing you down and killing your self-esteem. It’s easier than thinking you are choosing to be this person . . . but he can’t be your excuse all the time. You’re the one who has to look in the mirror every day, and until you can like who you face, until you see the same woman I admire looking back at you, you’re going to struggle at your job and you’ll definitely struggle with accepting the fact that I like you, Blakely Foxx.” I take a deep breath and step back as her eyes flash up and meet mine. “I like you, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it because this isn’t like me. I stick and then move. I don’t form attachments . . . but there’s something about you that begs me to figure you out. There’s something in me that’s telling me you’re worth it even if getting you to see it is a pain in my ass.”

I’m not sure if she’s as shocked as I am that I just said that, but there’s a hitch in her breath and her shoulders shudder as if she’s holding back a sob.

I feel like the asshole.

“This is on you.” My voice is low, barely audible. “You want the promotion? Then take it. You want to tell Heather off? Then tell her. You want me? Then love the new Blakely first because that’s who I want to laugh with. Not the one you think all these people want you to be—whoever that is. Just the you from the beach bonfire who was willing to dig her toes into the sand and howl at the moon. Just the you who hates the outdoors and drinks whiskey at a bar after a long day at work and tells off men who try to talk to her. Just the you who is willing to go along with crazy schemes like the one I concocted because I feared I wouldn’t get a second glance otherwise. That’s who I’d pick every time. Hands down. Just you.”

There’s hurt and denial and a myriad of other emotions I’ve drummed up swirling in those eyes of hers, but she needs to figure this shit out.

I don’t give her a chance to respond because I’ve said too much. I’ve called her on the carpet when I have no fucking right to.

Without another word, I slam the tiny door behind me and jog down the steps, needing to clear my own head.