Page 91 of The Right Kind of Wrong

They were standing in front of the grill, which faced the yard. It obstructed their bodies from Maisie’s view, but Monroe was still conscious of what her niece could possibly see. “Maisie,” she yelled from the deck, “I’m taking the steak inside. Make good choices.”

“Okay,” was what she got in response, stretched into a long, multisyllabic word the way that Maisie said it.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, but yell if you need anything.” Monroe picked up the plate and headed inside, with Blake on her tail.

Nothing was going to happen—it couldn’t—but this was the first time they’d been alone since Camila, Maisie’s friend’s mom, had brought Maisie to the door an hour ago, providing a much-needed if excruciating disruption to what had been happening in the living room.

Which had been what, exactly?

At minimum, a really good makeout session on the sofa. Monroe still remembered, vividly, how Blake had pushed down against her, hips rolling in slow, methodical circles that had driven Monroe to the brink of insanity in only seconds.

But if Maisie hadn’t come home? How far would things have gone?

They’d kissed, for the first time, a week ago, and Monroe had done her best to put it out of her mind. Now, the floodgates were open, and all she could think about was having the chance to do it again.

She put the plate down and turned around, leaning against the solid counter for stability.

Blake was right there. She put her arms around Monroe, lightly draping them over Monroe’s hips before moving them slowly, so that her hands were resting on the edges of Monroe’s ass. “You have the best ass,” she said reverently. “I was watching it all the way in here.”

Heat rolled through Monroe. Truly, how was she supposed to survive when Blake said things like that? So earnest and honest and fucking sexy beyond belief?

She tipped her head back. Blake moved one of her hands up to Monroe’s chest, and with her fingers, she ran an exploratory finger across Monroe’s collarbone, like she was tracing a pattern.

And then, as quickly as it had started, it was over. Blake stepped back, creating a chasm between them that felt a lot bigger than the few inches of space; after all, she was still close enough that Monroe could reach out and touch her.

At least Blake looked affected, too. Her eyes were lidded, her lips parted. Monroe watched her take a long, shaky inhale before she said, “I promised that I would be Friend Blake right now.” She nodded, as much to herself as Monroe, adding, “And I can be.”

Sure, that was what Monroe wanted, too. Definitely. It was the smart option, at the very least.

She nodded. “Right. Maisie’s just outside.”

Blake ran her hands down her shorts, steadying herself before straightening her own shirt. She walked over to the far end of the counter, where a cutting board and produce had already been set out, though she looked over her shoulder as she said, “Do you want to go check on Maisie? I can start prepping the toppings for the tacos.”

Monroe pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ignore the desire flickering through her, sending shots straight to her core. “Yeah. That sounds good.”

She’d been planning to just walk outside and check on Maisie like Blake had suggested. Scout’s honor.

Maybe she’d never know what possessed her, but it was like she couldn’t move past Blake and out the door without physically touching her.

Which was how she ended up crossing the room right after Blake and spinning her around. She cupped Blake’s jaw lightly, her mouth open in surprise when Monroe captured her lips in a quick kiss, ending it before Blake even had the chance to respond.

“What was that for?” Blake asked, looking a little dazed afterward.

“Because I wanted to.” Monroe felt the simple truth of it in her bones. She slid the screen door open and stepped outside, shooting Blake one last look before she disappeared.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

It was Saturday morning, and Blake was running herself ragged in the studio, trying to dance off the frenetic energy that had taken up residence inside of her.

The studio didn’t have classes on Saturdays during the summer, which Blake was grateful for today.

When the latest song on her playlist ended, she stilled. Her chest was heaving, the movement visible in the sports bra she was wearing without a shirt.

She picked up a towel from a nearby chair and wiped the sweat off her brow, staring at herself in the mirror.

It was hard to believe that, largely, she still looked like the same person she had been a few months ago. A year ago, even. Her dark hair was only a few inches longer since she hadn’t gotten a haircut, and maybe she was more tan now, but she was always fair-skinned, even in the warmer months.

Everything was different, and yet, if she passed someone on the street, they’d never know.