Page 56 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Honestly, it wasn’t weird that Monroe was looking at her. The weird part was how Blake felt about it. There was a little thrill running through her at being stared at so unabashedly.

And even if her instinct was to cover herself, she stayed still.

Maybe there was a part of her, in some deep place she didn’t often give voice to, that was a little bit overwhelmed at the way Monroe’s eyes had scanned her body, like someone would do if they were checking her out.

Was that what Monroe was doing?

No. She’d just gone so long without friendship or companionship that she was mistaking genuine interest for something that caused her to feel a little breathless.

Even in her fall from grace, attention—by men, of course—was still not an uncommon occurrence.

There was attention from men who came in to have their cars serviced. Men out and about in town. Men driving by, if she was walking down the block somewhere.

It was always men, and they always looked at her like they already owned her, in a leery, possessive way that girls too often grew to accept because of how fucking often it happened.

She hadn’t felt that way with Monroe’s eyes on her, and she missed them now that Monroe had looked away, toward where Maisie and Denny were playing.

Monroe sounded a little breathless herself—maybe Blake was just imagining that—when she said, her head tilted toward the truck now, “I hope you’re not doing all of this extra work for us.”

Blake told herself that she was all turned around because, for once, she didn’t feel leered at or judged.

Slowly, she shook her head, feeling out of sorts.

What were they talking about?

Right . . . the truck.

She leaned to the side and patted the roof. “Your carriage awaits.”

Monroe seemed drawn to that movement, too, as she tracked the way that Blake’s arm extended and her abs lengthened along her torso.

Blake didn’t know where the confidence—the brazenness, really—came from when she sat up on her knees. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the edge of the truck. “Monroe Lockhart, are you checking me out?”

This caused the blush that had been ghosting along Monroe’s chest because of the heat to ignite. It wrapped its way up her neck and created splotches across her cheeks. Monroe bit her lip, clearly thinking her words through. “I feel like there’s no right answer here.”

“Then go with the honest one,” Blake pressed, feeling a little wild. The way Monroe’s gaze had so fixedly studied her only seconds ago was still giving her a rush.

She wanted that look back, the same one she assumed Monroe used when she was absorbed in a piece of art.

“Blake,” Monroe whined, and whether or not she wanted to admit it, the aggrieved, frustrated tone was really doing something for Blake.

It was all so, so strange, the way her pulse was pounding in her ears as she considered pushing things. Pushing Monroe to admit to whether or not she’d been checking her out.

Did Blake want that?

Before she could figure it out, Monroe rolled her lips, deciding something for herself. Lifting a brow, she stared Blake down. “I love that you think I have room for any other thoughts than keeping an over-sugared five-year-old alive.”

Yeah . . . that made sense.

Blake deflated a little, a fact that she wanted desperately to hide from Monroe. She quickly shimmied out of the truck bed so that she was standing up, too.

Something that felt a lot like relief mingled with disappointment swelled through her, now that there was more space between them.

Blake picked up the hose again to spray down the soapy interior. “You may want to step back. I can’t promise that you won’t be in the splash zone, and I have to get this finished soon so that it’ll be dry before we leave.”

The truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted from Monroe, especially as Monroe continued giving her a confused, slightly suspicious stare, like she could hear all the rambling thoughts inside Blake’s head.

Still, she finally took a few steps back, which made it easier for Blake to breathe more freely.