Page 28 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Still, Blake waited to learn the direction Monroe wanted to take her small but significant—to her, at least—admission in.

Shockingly, Monroe’s lips broke into a smile, her eyes bright. “I’m trying to picture you as a mechanic, wearing one of those suits. That’s what you all wear, right?”

And, sure, it was an innocuous comment. The exact type that she’d been looking for overall.

But . . .

Monroe thinking about her in any way made her feel strangely exposed, and she crossed her legs. Monroe’s eyes, fairly, were drawn by the movement, her focus settling on Blake’s already summer-tanned legs before drifting upward, taking her in.

Imagining Blake wearing a full jumpsuit, sliding under cars, wiping sweat off her brow the same way the guys at the shop did.

Nothing about that should have caused the nervousness that was skittering through Blake’s veins—at its core, it was actually hilarious to think about—and yet it was like the canopy they’d found themselves under had suddenly been pulled back, exposing her to the bright, late afternoon sun.

Needing something to quell the heat enveloping the deck, she pressed her beer bottle against the inside of her wrist. Haltingly, she answered, “Actually, I do the accounting.” She then corrected herself: “Though I’m not sure you can really call it that.”

Monroe took a long sip of beer as her gaze tracked up to Blake’s face. Her neck was lengthened, and she pushed her hair away from her shoulder, like she was trying to get air. Once the smooth skin of her clavicle was exposed, she placed the beer against it like an ice pack.

Monroe’s earlier smile was gone, replaced with a thoughtful, probing look, still rolling the beer bottle against her neck. “Why can’t you really call it that?”

Light drops of sweat beaded down Blake’s back, pooling in the hollow between her dimples. She hadn’t had someone’s full attention in what felt like forever, and it was making her thoughts jumbled and messy inside her mind.

“It’s so hot here lately,” she said distractedly, fanning her hand near her cheeks, as if that would alleviate the issue.

“Sometimes I wonder if this town is a portal to Hell,” Monroe answered, a flush like a vine wrapping around her neck and snaking up to her pink cheeks.

At least Blake wasn’t the only one suffering from the weather. It wasn’t even July yet, but already, there was no escape from the oppressive swelter that seemed to follow her everywhere.

“Is that because of the heat or the people?” Blake teased lightly as Monroe continued to roll the beer bottle indulgently against her skin, like it was the only thing keeping her from melting into a puddle on the deck.

It was something Blake wanted for herself, she realized.

Not the beer, obviously. She had one of her own.

But . . . the ease with which Monroe seemed to exist. The ability to do or say whatever she was thinking at any given moment, without fear that it would be scrutinized to the high heavens.

Monroe tilted her head to the side, her intense eyes on Blake again. “You never answered my question.”

Blake tried to think back, coming up empty. “Which one?”

“Why you can’t call what you do accounting? At Gumby’s,” Monroe supplied, bringing them back to task.

Blake’s response was, initially, more of a groan than anything, but all of her defenses felt a lot softer than they usually were. Maybe it was the heat. Or maybe it was Monroe’s calm assuredness. Blake wanted to lean into it, just to stay on the receiving end of that soft, determined tone.

She was needy for connection, she realized. Needy to stop feeling like she was alone with her mind, every day a task in perseverance just to exist.

But she’d have to give to get. That included the messy, ugly parts that she wanted to pretend didn’t exist. Including being the first one to admit the mistakes she wished she could change, even if it was an exercise in futility. “I was an accounting major in college, but I didn’t graduate. I left before my senior year.”

Everyone in town knew that, so it wasn’t exactly a secret. Even if, in retrospect, she realized how goddamn stupid she’d been, thinking her future with Noah was unshakably solid.

Monroe bit at the inside of her cheek, like she was considering not asking: “Why didn’t you finish school?”

Now, Blake finally had the good sense to be embarrassed. Her current life was reactionary, but still, she took pride in doing the best that she could.

But the last decade?

It was stupid choice after stupid choice that had allowed her to become so dependent on Noah. So incredibly obtuse to the power she’d been putting in his hands.

But she’d been Blake Bettencourt at twenty-one. On the cusp of becoming Blake Duvall. She’d always done what was expected of her, and marrying Noah had just been another step down a pathway that she hadn’t known could be any different.