Page 79 of The Right Kind of Wrong

Blake held her breath, waiting to see how Monroe would respond. Finally, Monroe rolled her shoulders, seemingly deciding something. “It won’t change anything. I promise.”

And that was enough for Blake. It had to be.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Monroe was a lying liar.

Unfortunately, Maisie hadn’t gotten that memo. She also wasn’t concerned with Monroe’s internal woes. Especially not as they related to Blake.

Who . . . had kissed her. In her beat-up old truck as Texas poured rain all around them.

What the hell had that been about?

Conceptually, she understood. Sort of.

Blake was attracted to Monroe—per Blake’s own admission—and as a result, she’d kissed her.

Simple as that. Right?

Right!?

Except that it had been three days since the aforementioned kiss, and Monroe was nowhere closer to putting it neatly in a box that allowed her to act like a functional human.

It also hadn’t helped that, thinking back, she’d instigated the situation as much as Blake. Who’d looked at Monroe with so much desire that there had been nothing for Monroe to do but encourage her to stare. And Monroe hadn’t shied away from Blake’s overt attention, which was rare for her.

She’d welcomed it, even. Had craved it. Had wanted to bask in the look in Blake’s eyes for as long as she possibly could.

She wasn’t exactly sure what that had been about either, along with her flirting and teasing, even after the kiss!

She’d hoped she could buy herself a little bit of breathing room to figure out what to do, but Thursday had come, and Maisie had excitedly asked Blake at dance class when the drive-in was going to happen now that she wasn’t sick.

And wouldn’t you know it? Sweet-as-pie Blake Bettencourt had said that she was free this weekend.

How lucky for the Lockhart women!

So now Monroe was wandering around her house on Saturday afternoon, trying not to look like as much of a lunatic as she felt.

She’d already deep cleaned, and for the first time since she’d moved in, the house was spotless. Maisie had been fed an impressive three-course lunch complete with a salad, chicken enchiladas, and a mini apple pie that Monroe had garnished with a lattice, painstakingly woven by hand.

Call her Martha fucking Stewart because she’d been up at the crack of dawn, making everything like her life depended on it.

And it was because . . ..

Well . . .

Okay, so it was because she couldn’t get that goddamn kiss out of her mind.

In her defense, though, it had been an incredible kiss.

Which wasn’t really great considering that she’d been the one to tell Blake it couldn’t happen again.

But it couldn’t happen again.

Even though it had definitely been the highlight of Monroe’s year, if not longer.

Because Blake knew how to kiss. Knew how to kiss Monroe, especially.

She was soft but hungry, like she’d have slowly consumed Monroe if she’d been given the chance. The thought sent a wave of arousal through Monroe even now, which she tried her best to keep control, and she thrust her hand out toward the living room wall to brace herself.