Page 90 of The Right Kind of Wrong

How the hell she was supposed to stay in close proximity with Blake—and survive—after what had just happened was anyone’s guess.

She could feel Blake’s eyes on her. Tracking her while she flipped the marinated steak on the grill.

But Blake wasn’t saying anything. She was just standing near Monroe, silently raking her eyes down Monroe’s body, like she was just as much a piece of meat as the steaks Monroe was cooking.

And Monroe didn’t mind it, she was realizing.

Not one bit, actually.

Which was a problem for a lot of reasons, the biggest one being how the idea of being watched so closely made her heart hammer in her chest.

Sylvia had always focused on Monroe’s art, far more than on Monroe herself. And sure, she should have realized how problematic—fucked-up, even—that was earlier in their relationship, but she’d been young and far more naive.

Blake only seemed to want her, which was a whole new experience for Monroe, one that she was trying to come to terms with.

The very definition of building the plane while she was flying it.

Because Blake was here. In her space and wreaking havoc on her nervous system just by standing a foot away, not even saying or doing anything.

She had to admit that it was fun, though, to have something—someone—like Blake pulling her focus.

Her life, she realized dimly, had been wholly devoid of that for much longer than her return to Cypress Falls.

Blake moved nearer. Monroe imagined that she could feel Blake’s lithe body pressing against hers, but she knew that there was enough space between them that Maisie wouldn’t question things if she saw them.

“See?” Blake murmured, close to Monroe’s ear. “Things are normal. Right?”

Monroe shivered as the husky tone worked its way down her spine. She shot Blake a simpering smile, sighing instead of leaning back against the contact that she craved. “Sure. So normal,” she bit out when Blake’s hand came to rest on her hip so that she could lean forward and look at the grill.

Blake maddeningly kept her hand there. “The steak looks good.”

How had she never realized what a little shit-starter Blake was? Maybe because normally Blake wasn’t this . . . playful. Teasing. Flirty. Coaxing.

Whatever word flitted through Monroe’s mind was secondary to the knowledge that she was in for a very long evening of pretending that Blake hadn’t just been straddling her on the sofa.

Monroe blew out a breath. She glanced over at Maisie, who was, thankfully, playing on the far side of the yard. She’d climb up the rock climbing wall before sliding back down and repeating the process.

She’d expected that Maisie would be tired after her playdate, but it was looking like some sugar had been involved, which was going to lead to an inevitable crash later.

Blake’s hand held still where it was, her fingertips pressed against Monroe’s skin, just under the hem of her tank top.

“Blake,” Monroe said in a pained whisper.

Blake held her hand steady. “You’re just so . . .”

Monroe didn’t have time to push; she needed to get the steak off the grill to rest. Quickly, she plucked the skirt steak—which smelled incredible, by the way—onto a plate set atop the side of the grill.

When it had been safely deposited and she didn’t have to worry about it burning, she shut the grill top and turned around, facing Blake.

Monroe lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “So what?”

Blake’s cheeks were pink, and she bit at her bottom lip. Monroe found it frustratingly attractive. “I mean, since we’re not pretending like the kissing didn’t happen anymore . . .”

Monroe rolled her eyes, even if there was no seriousness behind the look. “Correct. We are not pretending the kissing didn’t happen anymore. I think it’s pretty clear that ship has sailed.”

A smile spread across Blake’s face, blinding like the sun coming out after a summer storm. “I just like touching you.”

Blake’s words shot straight to Monroe’s clit, thinking about just how many places Blake’s touch would feel incredible. “I—” She cleared her throat. “Yeah. I like it, too.”